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Chapter Text

Cassian never would have imagined he'd have this life, but he likes it. He actually chose it. And he continues to choose it again and again every month on the new moon. For seven years he has chosen this lifestyle.

He moved back in with Rhysand. He never would have imagined he would choose Rhysand, but once he was away, and once he had many other experiences, he found he was constantly missing something. He tried to find Doms who would replace Rhysand, but none could match up to the Real Rhysand.

So one drunken night where Cassian felt particularly untethered, he reached for the enchanted parchment Rhysand had slipped to him at the High Lords summit and wrote that he missed him. Rhysand replied in kind, and the conversation began. Cassian told him how he felt, what he hated, what he missed, and what he wished he could have. Rhysand listened and lent a sympathetic ear.

Then The Agreement started to develop, one where they discussed what boundaries would be expected if they were ever to share their lives together again. The Agreement evolved and started to feel more and more tempting to Cassian. If they were together, The Agreement would last only one month at a time, new moon to new moon, upon which they would have a discussion as equals about any modifications to The Agreement that would apply for the next moon cycle.

The Agreement system has worked for seven years. Cassian is free to leave Rhysand without notice at any time for any reason, but would have to endure a punishment in order to return. He's never left without notice. He gets pre-negotiated vacation time when he wants it, and hasn't yet felt pushed enough to leave without notice.

Cassian has been living this relatively stress free life for years. Rhysand handles everything, and he worries over nothing. Until Amarantha's presence in Prythian became more and more ever present. Rhysand's stress levels have increased and seep into their personal dynamic. Now Cassian worries about Amarantha, too. Rhysand is afraid. Cassian is growing afraid.

Rhysand was invited to a dinner with all the High Lords to celebrate the trade treaties with Hybern and peace between the lands. Rhysand was suspicious. This would be the first time all the High Lords gathered since the summit to free Cassian. What was even more suspicious was that Amarantha specifically invited Cassian.

Cassian no longer publicly appeared casually at Rhysand's side. He only appeared for Court business in Illyria and in the throne room at the Hewn City. He especially didn't travel to other courts at Rhysand's side -- Cassian traveled for vacation, sure, they just didn't travel together. The nature of their relationship was held primarily in private.

Amarantha always had a sick fascination with what Rhysand had done to Cassian. Her demand to have Cassian present at the dinner just furthered the suspicion that Amarantha had sick intentions.

After long discussions, they decided to attend the dinner together. Rhysand planned to break into Amarantha's mind, force her to profess her evil intentions to the attending High Lords, and then shatter her mind. Amarantha's guard may be lower if Rhysand appears to acquiesce to her request and bring Cassian along.

Besides. Rhysand is the most powerful High Lord in living memory. He can defend Cassian from any harm while at the dinner. Right?

Rhysand and Cassian winnow into a receiving area to attend this dinner Amarantha has invited them to. Rhysand wears his finery and a black crown, while Cassian wears only a pair of leather pants and bare feet, as is his traditional outfit when appearing as Rhysand's companion. They are greeted by a pair of red skinned escorts dressed more like soldiers. The soldier-like escorts lead them to a drawing room where other High Lords and their retinue are gathering.

Rhysand and Cassian enter the room and they're immediately looked at suspiciously. A lot happened in their effort to free Cassian from Rhysand, and they are understandably upset to see them back together. Rhysand strides forward like he owns the place and grabs a glass of wine from a tray. He gazes out at the gathered people with a bored expression. Cassian sticks to a typical heeling position to Rhysand's left and a step behind.

Rhysand casually strolls through the room and no one pulls him into conversation. However, Cassian is shocked when High Lord Thalion of the Day Court approaches him and drawls, "Certainly didn't expect to see you here. With him." He jerks his head towards Rhysand who continues his stroll away and through the room.

Cassian nods, "I didn't expect to be here. Amarantha specifically invited me."

Thalion raises an eyebrow, "Suspicious." Cassian simply nods.

Thalion takes a sip of his wine then smirks, "One of these days you'll have to tell me how you guys got back together. But I hear it's consensual these past few years?"

Cassian nods, "Yes, we have an Agreement, and we update The Agreement every new moon."

Thalion nods thoughtfully, "I hope it's working out and that you're happy."

Cassian sighs and rubs the back of his neck, "I went through a really rough time after I was freed. My experience with Rhysand changed me. Or... unlocked something in me. Or... made me understand myself better. I don't know, it's hard to explain. It's hard for me to understand," he sighs heavily, "I just know I'm happier with a Dom, and I'm happier when Rhysand is that Dom."

Thalion places a comforting hand on Cassian's shoulder, "What's important is that you're happy, and what's even more important is that you can change your mind."

"I am, and I can," Cassian looks up sheepishly, "I am free to walk away right this moment if I wanted to. I choose to be here with him."

Thalion summons a piece of parchment from the pocket between worlds and hands it to Cassian, "Here, take this. If you ever feel trapped you can write to me and I'll help."

Cassian accepts the parchment and blushes profusely, "Thank you. I appreciate you looking out for me. I appreciate your kindness. You're a good High Lord." Cassian folds up the parchment and sticks it in the waistband of his pants.

"You've got pants now," Thalion smirks.

Cassian huffs, "Yeah, one of the changes that's part of our Agreement."

High Lord Eris approaches to join the conversation, "Well if it isn't the catalyst that gave me my position. A pleasure to see you, Cassian."

Cassian has been blushing so much his skin is starting to burn, "It is nice to know my experiences were able to instigate good in the world."

"Getting rid of Beron was a lot of good," Eris smirks.

"Well well! If it isn't Autumn's savior!" Lucian walks up and slaps Cassian on the back. Oh gods, if I get any more attention I think I'll just die of embarrassment.

Cassian smiles meekly at Lucien.

"Look who's become the center of the party," drawls Rhysand as he strolls up. Everyone's eyes narrow at him.

"Rhysand," Eris says dripping with distain.

"It was nice talking to you, Cassian," Thalion says smiling at Cassian, then looks at Rhysand and drops the smile before turning to walk away.

Eris just clasps Lucien on the shoulder and guides him away.

Cassian walks up to be shoulder to shoulder with Rhysand and whispers, "Thank you."

Rhysand caresses a finger down Cassian's cheek, "Anything for you."

Chiming can be heard at the entrance to the drawing room that captures everyone's attention. "Dinner is ready," a lesser fae with grey skin announces.

All the guests file out the door with murmuring voices and sounds of footsteps. They walk through the dim hallways of the underground palace and are lead to large double doors that open to a grand room.

There are three tables seating 14 people each. The head at the far side of the center table has a large opulently carved chair.

"The seating is assigned. Please look for your name tag and sit at your assigned seats," announces the grey skinned male.

The guests gather in and mill about the tables looking for their names. It's quickly discovered that all of the High Lords and their partners are seated in the center table.

Rhysand and Cassian look for their names and find only Rhysand's name -- to the left of the opulent chair at the end of the center table. They then notice the cushion next to Rhysand's chair. There, resting on top of the cushion, is the tag with Cassian's name written on it. Cassian groans and rolls his eyes. Their Agreement had prohibited his kneeling at the table in front of others.

How do you want to handle this? drifts Rhysand's voice in Cassian's mind.

It's okay. We're here to take down Amarantha. I'll just suck it up and deal with it. I've done it before, I can do it again. Cassian sighs.

Rhysand peers at him sympathetically. Let me know if you're struggling. We can get up and leave if we need to, okay?

Cassian smiles at Rhysand. Thanks for understanding.

Cassian and Rhysand remain standing until everyone else has seated. Then Cassian takes a deep breath and kneels on the cushion. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. But he still flashes back to such severe humiliating moments at the beginning of his time with Rhysand. His stomach begins to roil as the memories flow through him rapidly.

Rhysand takes his seat and finds himself across from High Lord Tamlin. "Tamlin," Rhysand drawls.

"Rhysand," Tamlin says with a hint of a growl in his voice.

Loud clicking of high heeled shoes echo through the room, cutting through the murmuring of voices. It draws everyone's attention to the double doors where Amarantha is walking towards them in resplendent finery and glittering red shoes.

She walks to the far end of the room and stands in front of the opulent chair at the center table. She gives an attentive smile to Cassian before raising her eyes to cast her gaze across all who have attended.

"Thank you all for attending my dinner," Amarantha starts with a wide smile, "I would like to propose a toast. Please raise your glasses," she takes her glass and raises it in the air. Everyone else does the same.

"To peace between Hybern and Prythian!" she tips her glass up and then brings it down to her lips to take a deep drink. All the guests follow suit to tip their glasses and drink in near unison.

Gasps can be heard across the center table. A blast of fire shoots down the table and smacks into Amarantha's shield. The blast blows off the shield and into Cassian knocking him back on the floor, burning the entire right side of his body.

Rhysand falls to his chair with his eyes closed and fingers pressed tightly to his temples. Tamlin partially transforms into a beast and claws futility at Amarantha's shield. He gradually reverts back into his high fae form as the seconds tick by.

A wave of water follows the blast of fire and splashes off her shield soaking Cassian, Rhysand and Tamlin in the process. Large icicles pelt down above Amarantha shattering on her shield and pelting the same three in shards of ice, slicing their skin.

The magical attacks cease and all that is left is Tamlin pounding his fists against Amarantha's shield in his high fae form. Everyone is standing, except Cassian sprawled on the floor and Rhysand slumped in his chair. The rest of the High Lords are panting, exhausted. Drained.

A smile snakes across Amarantha's red ruby lips. She lifts her glass and announces, "I propose a new toast! To your new Queen!"

No one moves. "I told you to toast to your new Queen!" she exclaims petulantly.

Everyone's eyes shift and look at each other. "Fine," she says then flicks her hand and the head of the Lady of the Summer Court tumbles off her shoulders and her body collapses to the ground. High Lord Nostrus screams and falls to the floor.

Quickly panic rolls through the room and the sound of shuffled dinner ware and falling glasses from nervous hands echo through the room. Voices begin to call out, "To the Queen!"

"That's better," she says and gracefully sits in her opulent chair.

"I want each of the High Lords to pledge themselves and their courts to me, your Queen."

The High Lords eye each other.

"Starting with dear Tamlin," she turns to face him. He sits down in his chair and crosses his arms, refusing to look at her.

Amarantha sighs and raises a hand. As she does, Lucien raises from the ground, his hands scrabbling at his neck. He raises higher and higher in the air, his feet kicking dinner ware off the table.

Tamlin stands abruptly, "Let him go!"

"Pledge," she merely says.

Tamlin glances at Lucien and takes a few heavy breathes, "I pledge myself and my court to you, my Queen." Lucien falls to the floor and Tamlin immediately falls to his side to tend to him.

One by one the High Lords make their pledges. Nostrus makes his through sobs while holding his wife's body. Rhysand is last. He pushes back his chair and kneels with his head bowed, "I pledge myself and my Court to you, my Queen."

"Oh my," Amarantha purrs, "I saved the best for last, apparently," she reaches over and runs a nail down Rhysand's cheek.

She looks over and snaps her fingers and says, "Get a healer for dear Cassian here. We can't let Rhysand's little pet come to harm, now can we?"

Cassian hasn't moved from where the blast sent him sprawling. He's in a lot of pain with extensive burns down the right side of his body, plus he's covered in small slices across the entire front of his body.

He doesn't know why any of this is happening. He keeps calling out to Rhysand's mind but isn't getting a response. He doesn't understand why Rhysand isn't talking to him. He's always been so responsive, so attentive. Why isn't he trying to take care of him? Why is he just sitting there? Ignoring him? None of this makes sense. But all he can do right now is pant and breathe through the agony of the cuts and burns.

"I had planned to finish our dinner, but Eris here has burned up everything on the table," she tsks. She flicks her hand and Eris flies across the room and is plastered against the wall.

Eris thrashes his head left and right, then he stops and tries to gasp out, "I'm sorry... My Queen... I'm sorry..." He abruptly falls to the floor.

"Crawl to me," she demands.

Eris gathers himself on his hands and knees and crawls across the long space over to the side of Amarantha's chair.

"Apologize and kiss my hand," she lowers her hand to him.

"I apologize, my Queen," he takes her hand and kisses it.

"You shall kneel here for the rest of dinner."

Eris' eyes rapidly scan around in thought, but he finds no choices. He sits up into a kneeling position at her side.

Amarantha flicks a wrist and the center table clears of all food and table ware. She snaps her fingers and calls out, "Bring new dinner plates to this table."

Someone finally kneels down next to Cassian and he can feel the relief of healing magic flow over his burns. Amarantha turns to the healer and says, "Do give him the best of care. He's just a poor pet, after all. He shouldn't be suffering."

The healer turns and snaps and points before returning to healing Cassian. A second person arrives and kneels on the other side of Cassian and he feels a second flow of healing magic over his body. He sighs in relief. The slices along his skin are closing and the burns are receding.

Amarantha snaps out a hand and snags Eris' chin in her nails, "Look what your lashing out did to this poor pet."

"Apologies... Apologies, my Queen," Eris utters out desperately.

A line of servants file into the room and place new dinner plates, cups and utensils for each guest at the center table.

"Nostrus, join us at the table," she commands.

A servant picks up Nostrus' wife's head and starts to pull on her body. He yells out, "No!" and scrambles to hold onto her body tightly.

Suddenly, Nostrus is rising off the floor and he is scrabbling at his neck just like Lucien had been earlier. His feet rise off the floor a few inches and then he just as suddenly falls and lands on wobbly legs.

"Sit at the table, Nostrus," Amarantha demands.

Nostrus sits and pulls his chair up to the table with tears streaming down his face.

Amarantha gives a wide blood red smile to her gathered guests. "Eat. Enjoy my hospitality," she says as she sweeps a hand out in front of her invitingly.

The sounds of cutlery being moved and gingerly tapping against plates fills the silence. No one speaks. No one dares move a muscle other than what is required to eat.

The two healers finish with Cassian and scamper away. He sits up with a groan and a hiss. His skin is still raw and angry like a terrible sunburn. The hair on the right side of his head is half singed off. He sits himself up and returns to kneeling on the cushion.

Rhysand cuts up and eats several bites of food. "Are you not going to feed your pet, Rhysand?" Amarantha questions.

"Yes, my Queen," he replies coolly with a bored expression. He cuts off a piece of food and offers it on a fork to Cassian. Cassian sucks the food off the fork with a subtly confused expression. What the fuck is going on? Why are the High Lords not doing anything? Why did they just suddenly pledge themselves to this fae? And why the fuck is Rhysand not answering me?!

Amarantha then cuts up a piece of food, spears it on her fork and brings it to Eris' lips. He has a bored blank expression on his face. He pauses a moment, not even breathing, but then opens his mouth and sucks the food off the fork. He chews slowly and swallows.

Rhysand and Amarantha feed their respective individuals as they eat.

The quiet lays heavy in the room. There is only the light clinking of utensils against the ceramic plates. There isn't even a whisper as everyone keeps their heads down gazing at their own plates.

"You never did finish that book, Rhysand," Amarantha says as she runs a nail down his arm to his hand.

Rhysand appears bored as he says, "I had decided not to finish it, my Queen."

"Why is that?"

"The nature of my relationship with Cassian changed. It no longer seems appropriate," he keeps his eyes on his plate as he cuts his food.

"What changed? I know the other High Lords freed him, but he eventually came back. What is different now?"

"It's a consensual relationship now. We have an Agreement that we abide by and update regularly."

"Your work was clearly quite successful if he willingly came back to you," she eyes Tamlin up and down then turns back to Rhysand, "You must tell me all your secrets, Rhysand."

Rhysand dips his head, "I am at your service, my Queen."

Amarantha's smile grows slowly and wide across her face, "I shall like to see a demonstration."

Rhysand inclines his head in acknowledgement.

Quiet spreads across the room again when Amarantha suddenly says nonchalantly, "Perhaps tonight."

Rhysand inclines his head again and says, "Yes, my Queen."

Cassian's stomach begins to churn. He doesn't like the sound of that at all.

Gradually the soft clicking of utensils ends as people finish their food and stare solomnly at their plates. Silence then reigns supreme allowing soft sniffles to echo uncomfortably through the room.

Amarantha stands, "Thank you all for attending dinner. Please stand and you will each be retrieved shortly to be escorted back to your rooms. The High Lords will be attending a breakfast meeting with me in the morning, and the rest of you will have breakfast delivered to your rooms. Further instructions will be provided after the High Lords meeting."

She turns to Eris, "Go join your Lady," she waves at him with disgust. Eris hops up, bows, and strides confidently to Morrigan.

She places a proprietary hand on Tamlin's arm, "Tamlin, You'll be joining me for a private meeting before heading to your room." Tamlin and Lucien eye each other. Lucien gives a curt nod and steps away. Amarantha hooks an arm around Tamlin's arm and leads them out a back hallway.

Red skinned fae who look more like soldiers than escorts start approaching people to escort them to their rooms. Cassian is wildly concerned about everything. They were supposed to be returning home tonight.

Rhysand is standing with a proprietary hand on Cassian's head while he remains kneeling. Eventually one of the soldier escorts approach them and instruct them to follow to their room. "Heel," Rhysand says without looking back at Cassian. He stands and follows behind.

They are lead down hallways as dim as the Hewn City. They arrive at a door and the guard escort opens it and ushers them inside. "You'll be fetched in the morning, High Lord. Be ready," he says gruffly then shuts the door. There is a loud ominous click of the door locking.

Rhysand spins to face Cassian and pulls him into a tight hug. They have never hugged before. It's just not what they do. They don't hug or kiss, it's their unspoken boundary.

The hug doesn't last long because Cassian hisses from having his burnt skin squeezed harshly. Rhysand jumps away, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry!" Rhysand also doesn't apologize so easily. He frantically looks Cassian over, "Are you okay?" He runs a hand down the side of Cassian's head that is burnt and hairs break off and fall as he does, "Your hair..."

"They healed me, I'm okay. It's just sore. What the fuck is happening, Rhysand?" Cassian presses.

Rhysand turns to pace, nearly panting, and running both hands through his hair, "She stole our powers. We're powerless," he looks up at Cassian in an expression of shocked grief, "I'm powerless."

Cassian's jaw drops. That's why he hasn't been talking to him in his mind. He can't. His powers are gone. And they're trapped.

"Rhys," they hear in a low voice. They spin to see where it came from and see Azriel stepping out of the shadows.

Rhysand marches up to him in a fury, "I specifically told you NOT to come, Az!" Rhysand snags Azriel by the arm and drags him into the bathroom. Cassian follows.

"I didn't hear that, Rhys. All I heard was 'Amarantha stole all our powers' and then you were garbled. Of course I came with a message like that," says Azriel calmly.

Rhysand runs his hands through his hair, "It is absolutely imperative that you and your shadowsinging abilities stay hidden until this is over. From everyone, absolutely everyone. I wiped everyone's memory of your existence."

"You did... what?" Azriel says, clearly struggling now to maintain his emotionless demeanor.

"Amarantha cannot know that you exist, therefore no one can know you exist," Rhysand grabs him by the shoulders and looks him right in the eye, "You must stay a secret. Amarantha cannot get her hands on you. She will use you and all of Prythian will lose hope."

Then Rhysand pulls Azriel into a tight hug and Azriel stumbles into it. "Your life is at risk, too. And I just wouldn't be able to stand it if anything happened to you. We've been friends since we were kids, Az. I can't lose you," he pulls back to look Azriel in the eyes, "You must keep hidden, do you understand?"

Azriel nods, "I understand."

"Do not come here again," orders Rhysand.

"Rhys, why don't we just leave? I can easily take you out of here," points out Azriel.

"We need to protect The City. I locked it down, and locked Amren inside and wiped everyone's memory of her, too," Rhysand pushes against Azriel's shoulder, "I would have locked you inside as well, if you weren't so insistent to stay in your Hewn City apartment," chastises Rhysand.

"How does you staying protect The City?" asks Azriel.

"She's going to pillage all of Prythian. I need to keep her eyes off the Night Court. She cannot discover The City. So, I'm staying. I'll keep her distracted," Rhysand explains.

Azriel ruffles his wings, "Okay. Whatever you think is best."

Azriel waits a beat then continues, "I'm going to leave a shadow with each of you. I'll keep tabs on you. If you need help just call out for me and my shadows will get my attention."

Rhysand nods, "Understood. But it will be dire circumstances if I'll call for you. Do not come unless I call you. Do not presume, okay? Wait for me to specifically call you."

Azriel nods, "Understood."

"Now go, they're coming to collect us soon and I don't want to risk them finding you here," Rhysand orders.

Azriel gives a curt nod, "Good luck, Rhysand. Cassian," then he steps back into the shadows and disappears.

Rhysand tugs on Cassian's arm and pulls him in so he can lay a smacking kiss on his forehead. "I was so worried when you got hurt. I am so sorry I couldn't be there for you. It's my responsibility to care for you, and I failed you. I am so sorry."

"I'm really confused and don't understand what is going on, but," Cassian looks straight into Rhysand's eyes, "I know you did as much as you could for me. I know you care and protect me to the best of your abilities."

"Thank you, Cass," Rhysand says quietly. Sadly.

"I failed so miserably tonight," Rhysand is back to pacing and combing his hand through his hair, "I was so busy trying to break through her mental shields that it didn't occur to me that the wine was enchanted," he stops pacing and looks up at the ceiling, "Gods, I was so fucking stupid."

There's a knock on the room's door and the door opens. Rhysand's expression turns blank and he strides confidently out of the bathroom and into the other room. Cassian tentatively approaches and peers from the bathroom into the other room.

"You've been summoned. Come," a soldier escort says.

Rhysand nods and walks out the door. Then the soldier escort points at Cassian, "You, too." Cassian steps forward and follows after Rhysand.

The soldier escort leads them through the many turns of the dim hallways until they reach an apparent wing of the underground palace which has a suite of opulently decorated rooms. They're lead into the bedroom with a grand four-poster bed on one side and two chairs in front of a hearth on the other side. Amarantha is sitting in one of the chairs.

Amarantha looks over at them, "Ah, Rhysand. Do sit, please," and she gestures to the chair opposite her. "Yes, my Queen," Rhysand says as he strides over confidently and sits.

Cassian has no idea what to do. He stands near the door awkwardly. He direly misses the mind-to-mind communication he has had with Rhysand. Amarantha looks at Cassian, then shifts her eyes back to Rhysand, then back to Cassian. Rhysand gets what she wants.

"Cassian, come. Sit here," he gestures to the side of his legs furthest from Amarantha. Cassian sits on the floor leaning against both the chair and Rhysand's leg.

"I do hope Cassian was healed adequately," Amarantha says dripping with faux sympathy.

"Yes," Rhysand says blankly, "He says he has soreness, but compared to the state he was in originally, the healers did an impressive job."

Amarantha nods, "That's good to hear. It's a shame your pet got hurt at all. He's just an innocent." Rhysand nods in acknowledgement.

"Rhysand," she levels him with her gaze, "I called you here this evening to discuss your secrets on how to successfully break someone."

"How may I be of service, my Queen?" Rhysand says as if nothing is wrong at all.

"Stop being coy," Amarantha snaps, "You've been dancing around the subject all these years. Tell me how you do it."

Rhysand inclines his head, "Apologies, my Queen. I'll try to be more forthcoming," he leans back in his chair and places an ankle on the opposite knee, "The key to breaking someone is stripping them of their sense of dignity. This needs to be tailor designed to the individual being broken."

"Painful torture has generally been successful to break someone because of the stripping of dignity, not because of the pain itself," Rhysand continues to explain, "The pain eventually becomes so overwhelming that the individual loses control over their bodily functions which in turns strips them of dignity."

Amarantha hums, "And how did you strip Cassian of his dignity?"

Rhysand looks down at Cassian and shifts uncomfortably, betraying his emotions.

"Is there a problem?" she asks with impatience."

"I promised Cassian I wouldn't divulge the details."

Amarantha sits back, "So much for stripping him of his dignity," she sneers, "He still apparently wants to keep some."

"Things changed when the nature of our relationship turned consensual," Rhysand picks some lint off his knee.

"I see, well," she glides a nail down the arm of her chair, "I am your Queen. Secrets needn't be kept from me. Secrets shall not be kept from your Queen."

Rhysand looks down at the back of Cassian's head and says nothing. Amarantha's ministrations on the arm of her chair stop and her nails start to dig into the fabric betraying her anger. Cassian looks up at Rhysand and sees the questioning look on his face. It warms Cassian's heart that Rhysand is asking his permission to speak. He softens and looks adoringly up at Rhysand and nods his head.

Rhysand looks back up at Amarantha and says coolly, "Sexual torture. I used sex, pleasure, pain, exhaustion, and humiliation to strip him of dignity."

Amarantha gets a glint in her eye, "Do continue," she rolls her wrist to encourage him.

"Pain would have bolstered his sense of dignity. So I used sexual humiliation to great effect. I combined it with exhaustion and provided a pathway he could take to relieve the exhaustion. He wanted to recuperate his energy so he could better fight to escape. I opened a pathway for him that if he submitted to humiliation, then he could recuperate his energy."

"You enabled him to try to escape?" she asks incredulously.

"Not quite. The hope of escape was used as a carrot to lead him towards the path that would strip him of dignity with every step he took. In order to keep him under control and obedient, he had to make the choice himself to sacrifice dignity in order to get closer to the carrot of escape," explains Rhysand.

"Are you purposely trying to obfuscate things? This isn't making things any clearer," Amarantha comments with a sneer.

"Apologies, my Queen, I have no intention of being unclear," Rhysand tries to say with as open and honest expression he can muster.

"How about a demonstration?"

"My Queen?" Rhysand inquires.

"The moment that Cassian was in your possession, what was the first thing you did?"

"I strung him up by his arms to the ceiling so he could only just barely stand on his feet."

Suddenly, Rhysand's wrists snap together and raise up in the air dragging him up and out of the chair then is dragged back to the center of the room. His arms are pulled taut upwards allowing him just the ability to stand without raising his heels.

"Like this?" Amarantha coos as she stands and approaches Rhysand. Cassian is flabbergasted, remaining where he sits on the floor with eyes as wide as saucers.

Rhysand swallows and attempts to maintain his composure, "Yes, my Queen, just like this."

She places a nail on Rhysand's chest and slowly circles his body while dragging her nail around.

"Does this interest you, my Queen," he says in a low sultry voice.

She hums, "It interests me greatly." She circles around to face him, "What did you do next to Cassian?"

"I stripped him of his clothes." She takes her nail and magically slices down the front of Rhysand's clothes. She slices down the sleeves and pant legs then shoves the ruined articles of clothing off his skin and to the floor. She reaches down and slices through his boots and kicks them off his feet. Rhysand is hanging by his arms completely naked.

Amarantha takes a moment to admire his form. "Is there anything you see that you like, my Queen?" he asks in a low voice.

She hums in satisfaction. "And then what happened?" she purrs in his ear.

"I put a cock cage on him," Rhysand says calmly.

She hums, "I do not have one," she turns to Cassian, "Do you still wear yours, dear Cassian? Could we borrow it?"

Cassian clears his throat, "I do still wear one, but it can only be removed on the new moon."

"What a strange restriction..."

"We have an Agreement that we renegotiate every new moon. I choose every new moon to have the cock cage magically locked until the next new moon."

"How unfortunate, Rhysand," she drags her nails gently down his growing cock.

"I am sorry to disappoint, my Queen," he says in a low deep voice, "How may I make it up to you?"

She wraps her hand around his cock and strokes gently. He closes his eyes and tips his head back as if he is enjoying it. His cock gradually grows to attention.

"Perhaps it's better without the cock cage," she says softly to Rhysand. He hums in affirmation, "It feels better, certainly," he confirms lustfully.

She draws close and runs her nose along his jaw and to his ear, "What did you do to him next?" she whispers.

He takes a few breaths before answering, "I fucked him," back in a whisper in her ear.

She hums in understanding. She runs a nail up the back of Rhysand's thigh, up the cleft of his ass and over the rim of his hole, "You fucked him here?" she whispers.

"Yes," he breathes.

She gently presses the tip of her nail into Rhysand's hole. He hisses and screws his eyes shut. "I don't have a cock, Rhysand. And you've caged the other cock in this room. What ever shall we do?"

Rhysand pants shallowly, "I'm not sure, my Queen. What would you like to do to me?"

She looks him dead in the eyes, "I want your dignity stripped."

"Strip away, my Queen," he coos.

"So obedient. So generous," she says. Then suddenly she grabs his cock and squeezes tight. He hisses and throws his head back. "I don't believe a word of it."

She releases her grip and gently strokes his cock, "But I do believe I can get you there." His head falls forward and he pants openly.

She raises a hand and looks at her nails, "My hands are just not for penetration play," she turns and strolls towards Cassian. She crouches and picks up his hand and examines it, "These fingers, on the other hand, are quite appropriate for penetration play."

She holds his hand tight while she stands dragging him to his feet with her. She pulls his hand as she walks them both over to Rhysand's hanging body.

"I want you to fuck him. With your fingers," she demands.

Cassian's heart rattles in his rib cage. He's never touched Rhysand that way before. He has an idea of how to do it based on what Rhysand does to him, but, this is a whole new experience.

And it's not like Rhysand wants Cassian to fuck him with his fingers. He doesn't want to be fucked at all, that's a guarantee. This is crossing so many lines. This is too much, too far.

Cassian looks up at Rhysand wishing for some advice. Rhysand locks eyes with him and simply nods. 'Go ahead,' that nod is expressing, 'You have my permission.' Amarantha is insane. She killed a Lady of a court with a flick of her wrist. Her head just rolled on the floor. What would she do if Cassian didn't listen? Didn't obey her?

"Cassian dear, don't be shy," she presses against him to usher him closer to Rhysand.

Cassian swallows and clears his throat, "I need some oil."

"Oil? Whatever for?" she asks, surprised.

"The anus, it needs oil in order to be fucked," he says meekly.

"Did he use oil on you that first time?"

"Yes," he croaks.

She rolls her eyes and marches into the bathroom. They can hear drawers and cabinets opening and closing. She comes back out and tosses Cassian a bottle, "Will this do? I use it on my hair."

Cassian inspects it. It looks like a regular bottle of simple oil. He opens it and smells it. It doesn't smell like it has any additives. "Yes, it looks to be appropriate," Cassian says softly.

Amarantha gestures to Rhysand, "Go on, then," she demands of Cassian.

Cassian takes a deep breath and approaches Rhysand. He looks up into his violet eyes and Rhysand returns a sympathetic gaze. He seems to feel more bad for me than himself, Cassian thinks.

He circles behind Rhysand. He gently uses one hand to spread open his cleft and the other hand to pour the oil. He works the oil into Rhysand's hole gently. He can feel his hole is tight. What can he do to help Rhysand relax? Would caressing him relax him or disgust him? He doesn't know what to do and Rhysand can't talk to him directly into his mind.

Godsdamnit. He prefers life with a Dom because he hates this shit. He hates making decisions. He hates this anxiety. He hates the uncertainty. He likes being the good soldier and doing as he is told to do.

He continues to gently massage Rhysand's hole and it's still so tight. Cassian's panic is rising. What the fuck is he going to do? What the fuck should he do? He takes a deep breath and holds it. Then he exhales and holds it. That's what Rhysand always told him to do to calm him down.

Rhysand always comforted him right from day one, so maybe Rhysand will like to be comforted. Cassian takes a deep breath then snakes his free hand around to hold Rhysand's chest. He then whispers into his ear, "Relax, Rhysand. I've got you," then grazes his nose behind Rhysand's ear.

Rhysand expells a long breath and Cassian can feel his hole loosen a bit. Maybe this was the right decision. Maybe this is what Rhysand needs.

Cassian kisses along Rhysand's shoulder then gently presses a single finger into his hole. It's tight, so he goes very slowly. He's never been affectionate back to Rhysand. It's always gone one way, Rhysand lavishes Cassian with affection and Cassian only accepts it. He's never actually kissed Rhysand's skin before. But maybe Rhysand likes to have affection poured on him, too.

Cassian licks up the edge of Rhysand's ear and Rhysand shudders and relaxes a little further. Cassian's finger is fully inside now and he slowly begins to thrust.

Cassian's hand on Rhysand's chest drifts over to a nipple and circles it. Rhysand's breath hitches. He plays with the nub while gently exploring inside Rhysand's hole. He's trying to find The Spot, something that will hopefully make Rhysand feel good. Cassian feels a small bump and Rhysand sucks in a breath.

Cassian plays with a nipple, nibbles his teeth along Rhysand's neck and shoulder, and gently pulls on the rim of his hole to try to loosen it further. Rhysand's cock is high at attention and dripping precum.

Cassian looks up beyond Rhysand's shoulder and sees Amarantha has turned her chair to face them and is sitting there watching attentively. He looks away trying to forget she's there.

Cassian gently tries to press in a second finger. It's tight again, but with gentle firmness it gradually slides in. Rhysand's chin drops to his chest and he pants. Cassian thrusts the two fingers and he swipes over The Good Spot causing Rhysand to thrust his hips in response.

"You're doing so well," Cassian whispers in his ear, "You're almost there. I've got you."

Cassian languidly thrusts his two fingers in Rhysand's hole. When it feels looser, he gently scissors his fingers and Rhysand's head tips back and he gasps. He thrusts his hips so Cassian hopes it feels alright.

Cassian gently presses in the third finger. "You're almost there. You're doing great. I've got you," Cassian whispers. He runs his free hand up and down Rhysand's torso.

Rhysand is getting looser with the three fingers. Cassian picks up his pace. Rhysand's chin falls back to his chest and he pants deeply.

Cassian finds The Special Spot and focuses on it. Rhysand groans lowly but long. He thrusts his hips. Cassian guesses if he just keeps this pace going with this angle that it might be enough for Rhysand to cum.

Cassian nibbles down Rhysand's ear and earns a moan. They get into a rhythm of thrusting fingers, thrusting hips, and panting groans. "Cum for me, Rhysand. I've got you. Relax, let go, and cum for me. I'll catch you," Cassian purrs into his ear.

Rhysand thrusts a few more times then throws his head back and moans as his body convulses and his cock spits seed high into the air. Cassian keeps going to help ride Rhysand through all the waves. Rhysand's legs collapse beneath him and he hangs loosely from his wrists. His head falls forward and he pants.

Amarantha claps her hands, "What a great demonstration." She stands and strolls towards the limp Rhysand. Cassian holds him tight and gently removes his fingers. "I have you," Cassian whispers into the back of his neck.

Amarantha places one nail under Rhysand's chin and he lolls his head upwards as her nail pushes against him. "Is that what you did to Cassian that first day?"

Rhysand swallows, "Yes, my Queen."

Amarantha turns and walks away and Rhysand is suddenly torn out of Cassian's grip and dragged across the room again. He's dragged to the bed and up and over on top of it, his wrists slamming up against the headboard. His wrists separate spreading his arms wide and pinned to the headboard.

Amarantha casually strolls over to the bed and begins to untie her dress. "That demonstration was... stimulating. I'd like to have a bit of a taste myself," she says with a lustful gaze across Rhysand's nude form. She finishes untying her dress and lets it fall to the floor. She's wearing nothing underneath. She stands naked before them both.

She crawls across the bed towards Rhysand and he coos, "Whatever my Queen desires. I've pledged myself to you."

"So willing," she purrs.

She straddles Rhysand and takes his cock in her hand, stroking it a few times. She then releases it and positions herself so his cock can glide between her folds already soaked in her slick. She grinds against his cock keeping an intense stare into Rhysand's eyes. He stares right back and thrusts a few times where appropriate and earns moans from Amarantha.

She leans forward and positions his cock at her entrance. She slides down slowly over his cock and fully seats him inside of herself. He bucks and she groans in response.

"How's it feel to be inside your Queen. So close to her. So intimate," she coos as she scrapes her nails down Rhysand's chest.

"You are divine, my Queen," he bucks again receiving another groan.

She grinds with his cock inside of her, closing her eyes and milking her pleasure from him. She stops and turns to Cassian, "Come and help, Cassian dear."

He approaches the bed and clears his throat, "What would you like me to do?"

"Straddle Rhysand behind me. Give my breasts the attention they need."

Cassian gives a curt nod and crawls onto the bed and positions himself behind her over Rhysand's legs. His actions are shy, tentative. He doesn't want to touch her. She reaches back and takes his arms and brings them in front of her encouraging him to cup her breasts. He holds them. He hasn't touched breasts in seven years. He remembers the softness and weight of breasts, but hers are cold.

She places her hands above Cassian's hands and has him squeeze her breasts. "You know what to do, Cassian dear, you know how to please a female," she says softly.

Cassian flashes back to his life before Rhysand when he prided himself on pleasing females. He remembers a time when he was in a position similar to this, behind a female and trying to elicit as much pleasure from her breasts as he could grant her.

He closes his eyes and puts himself back in time to that moment. He lightly massages her breasts then gently pinches her nipples and rolls them between his fingers. Amarantha moans and tips her head back to rest against Cassian's shoulder as she grinds Rhysand's cock. Cassian pinches a nipple hard earning a gasp then gently circles the sensitive nub. Amarantha moans approvingly and begins a languid bounce on Rhysand's cock.

She takes one of Cassian's hands and brings it down to her folds. He knows what she wants. He runs his fingers through her wetness to lubricate his fingers then finds her bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs. He circles the nerves and Amarantha writhes in his arms and grinds against Rhysand.

She leans her back against Cassian's chest and glides herself up and down Rhysand's cock. Cassian gently rolls her nerve bundle between his fingers and she gasps and thrusts more fervently. Rhysand thrusts his hips in time with Amarantha to drive his cock deeper and harder into her.

Amarantha seems to be close, she seems lost in chasing her pleasure. She writhes and bucks and moans with abandon. She suddenly gasps out, "Don't you dare fucking stop, either of you." Shortly after her body wracks in convulsions and Cassian instinctively holds her tight to his chest to keep her aloft as she rides her pleasure. Rhysand continues bucking his hips to drive himself deep inside her with an expression of dire concentration on his face. She slowly stops writhing and becomes limp in Cassian's arms. Rhysand eases back the power of his thrusts but continues at an easier pace.

Amarantha hums, "That's enough," she says softly through deep breaths. Rhysand stills his hips.

She rests her head back on Cassian's shoulder and just breathes in contentment. Cassian merely holds her, having no idea what else to do. He looks into Rhysand's violet eyes and finds Rhysand is looking right back into his. Rhysand is wearing an expression of lustful contentment but Cassian can see beyond that mask. He's pained. Cassian's heart cracks open for him.

Amarantha caresses her fingers along Cassian's arm, "You're the only one who hasn't cum yet," she says softly. He returns the soft voice near her ear and says, "It's alright. I don't need to."

Amarantha turns in his arms to face him with a serious expression, "Yes, you do." Cassian gulps.

She extracts herself from Cassian's arms and slides off Rhysand's cock. She lays down next to Rhysand and runs her nails across his chest. "Since you have that cock cage on, you're going to have to ride the only other cock available in this room."

Cassian breathes heavily. He's done this before, but not often. Rhysand is the one always in control. He's the one who knows how to make him cum. And Rhysand keeps him so satisfied Cassian hasn't even learned how to masturbate properly through his hole.

Cassian slides off the bed and picks up the bottle of oil from where he had dropped it to the floor. He gently tosses it on the bed next to Rhysand then proceeds to untie his pants.

He starts to lower his pants and then feels the parchment Thalion had given him scrape along his skin. He freezes a moment thinking how he can keep the parchment hidden. He readjusts his grip to pinch the parchment under his thumb and then carefully lowers his pants all the way to his ankles so he can tuck the parchment in the folds of his pants.

He carefully steps out of his pants and crawls onto the bed to straddle Rhysand. He looks into his violet eyes and Rhysand nods almost imperceptibly. Cassian's heart is breaking for him. Rhysand always tries to defend Cassian, and here he is powerless to return the same for Rhysand. His body is being used and there's nothing Cassian can do to help.

Cassian reaches a hand behind him and begins to work his anal plug free. He closes his eyes and tries to relax. He tries to imagine they're back home in the House of Wind and they're just having some fun together. He relaxes and pulls on the plug and his breath hitches as the flare pops out. He carefully pulls it all the way out.

Cassian now doesn't know what to do with it. Rhysand always pops it into the pocket between realms, but he's powerless. Cassian looks around and decides to just place it on the bed. He lowers it down to the bed covers slowly just in case Amarantha objects. She says nothing.

Cassian takes the oil and drizzles it on Rhysand's cock. Amarantha tsks and Cassian freezes still. "The reliance on oil," she shakes her head, "An asshole is no replacement for a real wet pussy."

Cassian nods slowly, then grasps Rhysand's cock to cover it entirely in the oil. Rhysand looks him in the eyes. It looks like he's trying to get lost in Cassian's eyes. Cassian had used that coping mechanism before, staring into the eyes and getting lost in them when closing his eyes and disassociating wasn't an option. Cassian decides to keep his eyes locked on Rhysand's to allow Rhysand the opportunity to get lost in his eyes.

Cassian shifts forward to straddle Rhysand's abdomen. He positions Rhysand's cock at his hole and pushes it in. This has been effortless for years. Rhysand had successfully stretched out his hole so they could start fucking without prep. Cassian still wears the anal plug to keep him loose and make it more straightforward to fuck whenever they want.

Cassian slides down Rhysand's cock and fully seats Rhysand inside himself. He still stares back into Rhysand's eyes who stares back with growing intensity. Cassian glides himself up and down Rhysand's cock.

Cassian is too overwhelmed by Amarantha to feel any pleasure. He's numb. He's scared. He shifts his angle in hopes that rubbing Rhysand's cock against his p-spot will spark some pleasurable feelings.

Cassian shifts and searches for pleasure while Amarantha gazes at him with lust filled hooded eyes and grazes her nails up and down Rhysand's chest and abdomen. Cassian finds a spot that sends a spark of pleasure echoing through his body. But it's muted. He's not into it. Not with Amarantha staring at him.

Cassian doubles down on his focus to stare into Rhysand's eyes. He refuses to close his eyes and leave Rhysand alone. He tries to get lost in those violet eyes, too. He tries to remember all the pleasure and bliss he has felt over the years while staring deeply into those eyes.

The trick works and pleasure blooms unmuted in Cassian's core. His lips part and he breathes deeper. Cassian lifts himself to glide up and down Rhysand's cock. He grows warmer as the pleasure spreads throughout his body. Rhysand starts to thrust to meet with Cassian to drive himself up deeper and harder. Cassian lets a hum of satisfaction leave his lips.

Cassian stares into Rhysand's violet eyes and begins to bounce on his cock. Rhysand thrusts up to meet him. "Good boy, Cassian, you're such a good boy," Rhysand coos. The sound of those words has Cassian's tension rapidly melt away. The outside world starts to disappear. It's just him and Rhysand doing what they do best, fucking each other senseless.

Cassian lets go his worries. He lets go his concerns. He loses himself in Rhysand's violet eyes and just feels. Feels the pleasure reverberating throughout his body. He pants and his eye lids grow heavy.

"Cum for me, Cassian," Rhysand purrs. Just a couple more deep thrusts from Rhysand and Cassian shatters. He moans loudly and his body writhes as he grinds himself hard into Rhysand's cock. Rhysand thrusts up hard and deep to ride him through his orgasm.

Cassian's grinding slows to a languid pace. He resists the urge to close his eyes and continues to remain locked onto those violet eyes. He recaptures his breath and returns to normal breathing.

Cassian's cum drips down Rhysand's lower abdomen. Amarantha dips a nail into the seed and pulls a trail of it up Rhysand's torso. "What a show," she purrs.

She sits up and gingerly picks up the anal plug by the base, "You need this don't you, Cassian." He nods. "Lean forward then, I'll put it back."

Cassian's breath hitches. The last thing he wants is this frightening female with talon-sharp nails near his ass. She places a hand on his back and presses him forward, and forward, until Rhysand's cock pops out of him from the angle and he is mere inches from Rhysand's face, sharing breath.

They continue to look into each other's eyes. Rhysand's expression has turned to pure sympathy. Cassian grimaces as Amarantha presses the anal plug into him. She isn't too fast, but isn't going slow, either. Plus she didn't put more oil on it. It's uncomfortable, but he can handle it. And thank the gods, her nails did not touch his sensitive hole.

Once she's done she admires her work a moment then slides off the bed. "Thank you for the demonstration," she says as she strolls towards the bathroom, "You may go back to your room. The guards outside the door will escort you," she pauses at the bathroom door and looks back at them, "Cassian, you can put your pants back on, but Rhysand, I have no replacement clothes to offer you. You'll just have to return to your room as you are."

"Yes, my Queen," he answers. His arms suddenly collapse off the headboard.

"I'll see you tomorrow night to continue the demonstration," she says just before she slips into the bathroom.

Cassian rolls off of Rhysand, and Rhysand sits up and slides off the bed. He gestures at Cassian's pants, and Cassian hops over to them to put them on. He carefully pinches the parchment under his thumb so he can pull it back up with his pants and have it securely pressed under his waistband and against his hip.

Rhysand jerks his head towards the door and heads over there himself. He opens the door and the guards turn to face him. They gaze up and down at his nude form and snicker.

"The Queen would like you to escort us back to our room," Rhysand says confidently, as if he isn't nude with his crotch dripping with cum and slick, and oil streaking down the back of his thighs.

The guards escort them out of Amarantha's private wing and down the many dim hallways to their room. Rhysand walks with a courtier's confidence and bored expression. Fortunately, the only individuals they pass on their journey are other red skinned guards, who each take a moment to snicker and laugh at Rhysand.

The soldier escort opens their door and ushers them inside before closing the door and the loud click of the door locking seems to boom in the silence. They're trapped in their gilded cage.

Rhysand stumbles back into the door and uncermoniously slides down to the floor. His knees are propped up with an elbow on one knee and his hand buried into his brow. He's taking slow deep breaths and holding between each inhale and exhale. He must be trying to avoid a panic attack, Cassian thinks.

Cassian sinks down to the floor at Rhysand's feet and softly utters, "Rhysand..." as he places a hopefully comforting hand on his leg.

"I'm sorry," Rhysand croaks, "I'm sorry I can't help you right now. I just... I need a moment. I'm sorry."

"Rhysand," Cassian says sympathetically as his heart breaks even more for him, "I'm not asking anything from you. I'm here to see if I can help you."

Rhysand stills, his breath stops. He lowers his hand and peeks up at Cassian from above it. "It's not your job to help me," he says in a grave tone.

Cassian shakes his head, "We need to put The Agreement aside. We're in a life and death situation right now. We need to work together. As equals."

Rhysand lowers his hand from his face completely and his lips part. "I promised," he says in a strangled whisper, "I promised to take care of you."

"You did. And you've been doing a great job," he takes Rhysand's hand and squeezes, "But right now it's time for us to work together, and help each other. Equally."

"I need some time," Rhysand says as he stands up, "I need... I need to get cleaned up," he stumbles a bit as he starts towards the bathroom. He goes inside and closes the door, followed by a click. He locked the door. Rhysand never locks the door.

Cassian sighs and paces around the room. This is a fucked up situation. And Azriel probably just watched the entire thing through the shadows he left with them. He remembers the parchment in his pants that Thalion gave him. He takes it out and opens it up, and there in the top left corner are the words 'Are you alright?'.

He sits at the desk and pulls out the writing tools. He dips the pen in ink and then writes back 'We are alive. Are you OK?'.

Thalion writes back. At the end of the conversation the parchment reads as follows:

-------------------------

Are you alright?

We are alive. Are you OK?

We've been locked in our rooms since dinner. We overheard she planned to meet with you after dinner.

She did.

What happened?

We

survived.

She wants to meet with us again tomorrow night.

What is she doing to you?

She wants to learn how Rhysand broke me. She demanded a

demonstration.

Fuck. Are you OK?

The demonstration wasn't on me.

She wanted it on Rhysand.

Maybe this is his penance for what he did to you.

No one deserves what he did to me.

You're a kinder fae than I am, Cassian.

Eris also has an enchanted parchment from me. I can't make any more parchments, though. But at least the three of us can coordinate.

We are going to need Rhysand's cunning to beat her.

I understand.

I'll write to you later. Good night.

Good night.

-------------------------

He folds up the paper. He needs to put it somewhere safe. He can't carry it on him since Amarantha could strip him naked. He searches around the room. He decides that under the rear foot of the wardrobe may be the most secure place for it.

He realizes he hasn't heard a thing from Rhysand in the bathroom. He goes over to the door and tries the knob just in case. Nope, it's locked. He knocks softly, "Rhysand? Are you okay?"

Silence.

"Rhysand, please answer me."

Silence.

"Can you make some sort of noise so I know you're alive?"

Silence.

"I'm getting worried. I'm going to break the door down, okay? Just make some sort of noise, any noise at all if you don't want me to break the door down."

Silence.

Cassian takes a deep breath and steps back. He snaps a kick to the latch and the door pops open with some wood splinters from the jam falling to the floor.

Cassian carefully steps into the bathroom. Rhysand is on the floor right next to the door. He hadn't gotten far at all before sinking to the floor and curling up into a tight ball. Rhysand is staring glassy eyed looking at nothing.

Cassian kneels by him and runs his hand through Rhysand's hair. No reaction. "I'm going to clean you up, okay?" No response.

Cassian stands and looks through the cabinets. He finds some small cloths and pulls them out. He turns the sink on and runs the water until it's hot then soaks the cloths.

He returns to kneeling beside Rhysand. "I'm going to first wipe down your thighs and cleft, okay?" No response. Cassian reaches behind Rhysand and wipes up the oil from him. Rhysand is limp and pliable allowing Cassian to shift his leg so he can be thoroughly cleaned.

"Next I need to clean your crotch. I need you to roll over so I can get there."

"Why?" Rhysand whispers.

"We need to get you cleaned up before going to sleep."

"No... Why are you helping me?"

"We're in this together," Cassian says firmly while pushing on his hip so Rhysand will turn onto his back. Rhysand allows his body to be pushed over. Cassian takes a fresh hot cloth and wipes up the slick from the front of his thighs and now-flaccid cock, then wipes his seed from Rhysand's skin.

"Okay, all done. Let's get you up and into bed." He stands then bends over to take Rhysand's hands into his own and lifts his limp arms up. Rhysand remains limp and pliant for a moment before sitting up and allowing Cassian to help him to stand.

Cassian ushers him into the other room and to the bed. Rhysand pulls back the covers and crawls under them then immediately curls up tight into a ball again.

Cassian gets into the other side of the bed under the covers and scooches over to be right next to Rhysand. Cassian runs his fingers through Rhysand's hair.

"I was so evil to you," Rhysand whispers.

"Yes, you were," Cassian confirms softly.

"Why are you helping me?"

"We're in this together, Rhysand."

"I don't understand," he can barely be heard.

"It's okay," Cassian whispers into Rhysand's hair, "I've got you anyways, even if you don't understand why."

Rhysand closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath. Cassian watches as Rhysand's breath becomes deep and even betraying his sleep. He closes his eyes and dares to sleep himself as well. He's going to need his energy for tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Cassian wakes and has no idea what time it is. There are no windows in this palace under the mountain. How does anyone know when to do anything?

Rhysand isn't in the bed. He rolls out and stalks over to the bathing chamber and takes a peek inside. There's Rhysand, standing naked, in front of the counter looking at himself in the mirror. He softly pads over to him.

"Are you alright?"

He shakes his head, "I will be," he whispers. He turns his head and looks seriously at Cassian, "Stop concerning yourself about me," then turns away and walks to the tub and turns on the water.

Cassian glances around and doesn't see a shower. This palace is old, and showers are more modern. They'll have to live with the antiquated plumbing system. He leaves the bathing chamber to give Rhysand some privacy. He'll bathe after him.

He goes over to the wardrobe and takes out the parchment. He opens and scans it for any new content. Nothing new. He folds it up and puts it back under the rear leg of the wardrobe.

He goes through the wardrobe and chest of drawers and finds nothing. They're empty with a layer of dust inside.

He sits down at the table and drums his fingers. How are they going to get Rhysand's magic back? How are they going to survive Amarantha in the meantime? Rhysand is already falling apart. How can he step up and help?

Cassian hears the tub start to drain. He goes back into the bathing chamber and looks through all of the cabinets and drawers while Rhysand towels himself off. There is a good supply of differently sized towels, soap, shampoo, conditioner, and toothpaste. It's good enough to keep clean.

Rhysand heads out of the chamber with a towel wrapped around his waist. Cassian turns on the tub and gets right in. He doesn't care about the water temperature. He cleans his asshole and anal plug in the running water before plugging up the tub. He quickly washes his body while the tub is filling, then rinses off and does his hair once the tub is full. He finishes up, unplugs the tub and steps out.

He dries off and goes to put his pants back on, and oof. They smell. He had to put them on last night before he could clean himself. He didn't find anything that could mask the smell, so that leaves him with two choices.

He sticks his head out into the bedroom, "Smelly dry pants, or wet clean pants?"

He gets no response. He sees Rhysand is sitting on the edge of the bed staring at the floor. Cassian walks over and waves his pants in front of him.

Rhysand rears up and exclaims, "Gross!"

"I assume your advice would be wet clean pants over smelly dry pants," Cassian smirks.

"Oh gods, yes, Cassian, yes, wet pants is better," Rhysand gasps.

Cassian turns and purposely waves the pants under Rhysand's face again just to ear him exclaim, "Gods! That's nasty!"

Cassian walks back into the bathing chamber, happy to have gotten some sort of reaction out of Rhysand. He kneels in the tub with his pants and runs the water over them. He soaps them up and rubs against the stains on the rear of the pants. He keeps smelling and rubbing until all he can smell is soap. Then he rinses off the pants, turns off the water, and wrings as much water as he can out of the pants. He gets out of the tub and rolls the pants up with a towel then takes it back into the other room and sits on it to squeeze all the water into the towel.

Rhysand is back to merely sitting on the edge of the bed staring at the floor.

"Do you have any plans?" Cassian asks.

"The City is my first priority," Rhysand whispers. Cassian nods. "I have to do everything I can to keep her eyes off the Night Court."

"I understand," Cassian nods solemnly.

Cassian gets up and shakes the pants out of the towel. He feels the wetness and shrugs to himself. He's dealt with worse during his centuries as a soldier. He slides them on.

He walks over to Rhysand and puts his hands on his shoulders, "You have the weight of the world on your shoulders."

"I have the weight of a city on my shoulders," Rhysand says softly.

Cassian crouches down so he can look into Rhysand's eyes, "You're not alone."

"The nature of my position is to be alone," Rhysand shakes his head. He runs a finger down Cassian's face, "I know you're trying to help, but you aren't. It warms my heart that you care, but you're being more of a burden than helpful."

Cassian's heart sinks.

Rhysand clears his throat and sits up straight, "Cassian, stand in front of the fire and dry your pants off."

Cassian stands and nods. He walks over to the fire and stands in the heat. He's surprised at himself how much he feels better being told what to do. He was so worried and anxious just a moment ago, and yet now he feels calmer. He knows what to be doing with himself. He feels more secure. It feels as though Rhysand will have all the answers.

They stay in silence with the only sound being the crackling of the fire. Then suddenly the door opens and a gruff voice announces, "You've been summoned to the High Lords breakfast."

Rhysand stands and goes to the door wearing nothing but the towel wrapped around his waist. He has no clothing to wear. The red skinned soldier guffaws at the sight of Rhysand. He throws Rhysand a pair of pants, "The Queen said to wear these."

Rhysand catches the pants and inclines his head. He merely turns around, drops the towel to the floor and slides the pants on. He then heads out the door with his back straight and head held high with his classic bored expression.

The soldier points at Cassian, "You, too," he demands. Cassian blinks but then skips and whisks himself out the door.

The soldier takes them through the dim halls. Rhysand follows as if this is his palace, and Cassian is just trying to survive.

They arrive at the same room they had dinner at the night before. There is a table for 6 and the opulently carved chair is at the end. Most of the High Lords are already there and speaking softly with each other.

Rhysand approaches to look at the name cards on the table and Eris hisses at him, "What happened to you?"

Thalion puts a hand on Eris' shoulder, "She gave him a rough night. Let him be." Rhysand narrows his eyes at Thalion but then continues to look at the name tags.

Rhysand and Cassian get to the head of the table and see the cushion on the floor with Cassian's name tag. They walk around the opulent chair and see yet another cushion. And this one has the name tag for Rhysand.

Cassian rolls his eyes but Rhysand keeps his expression stoic. A muscle in his jaw just feathers almost imperceptibly.

Cassian and Rhysand stay at the head of the table while the other High Lords discuss amongst themselves.

The last High Lord arrives and a gray skinned fae announces, "Your Queen approaches. Please stand by your designated chairs."

Everyone approaches their chairs. Rhysand and Cassian look at each other one last time before they move to stand in front of their respective cushion. Sounds hush and quiet as the clacking of Amarantha's shoes billows throughout the space.

She walks up to the end of the table, dragging her nails across the back of Tamlin's shoulders when she passes by, then turns corner and rakes her nails over Rhysand's scalp as she takes her place to stand in front of the opulent chair. She gazes out at the assembled High Lords. She takes a moment to look each one in the eye.

"Sit," she orders. The chairs scrape across the floor as the High Lords move them to get seated and pull them back to the table. Rhysand and Cassian kneel down on their cushions.

Amarantha places the tips of her nails on the top of Rhysand's scalp. They press in and Rhysand schools his expression to keep his face blank. She taps her index finger against his head as she speaks.

"Next steps," she announces, "You are to pay tithe to me. Quarterly. Every 3rd new moon starting with the next new moon."

The High Lords eye each other. High Lord Oberon speaks up, "The new moon is next week."

"Yes, it is. Thank you for keeping us abreast of the calendar. I won't read into anything else you might have been implying," she narrows her eyes at him. He shifts in his seat uncomfortably.

"You are all to attend my court weekly," she continues to tap her finger on Rhysand's head.

She sighs, "There are already talks of rebellion. And it hasn't even been a whole day yet," she tsks and shakes her head.

She snaps her fingers and four males are brought out wearing light blue clothing adorned with seashells and their hands tied behind them. Nostrus' eyes grow wide. The males are guided to the end of the table and forced to kneel.

"These four were found collaborating just last night, plotting to usurp your Queen."

"Please have mercy on them, my Queen. They just lost their Lady last night. One of them is her brother. They are grief stricken and acting impulsively," Nostrus begs, "Please, have mercy."

Amarantha narrows her eyes at Nostrus, "Rebellion will not be tolerated. It will be dealt with swiftly and severely."

She turns to Rhysand. She runs her nails down his scalp and jaw to prick a nail under his chin. She forces him to look up at her. "Rhysand dear, kill the traitors."

She removes her nail and Rhysand nods. He stands gracefully and strides over to the captured fae kneeling before the table. No one gives him anything to kill with. He's forced to use his bare hands.

Rhysand gets a firm grip on the first male's head then looks up at Amarantha for final confirmation. She simply nods. He takes a deep breath then swiftly snaps the male's head in a rapid twist to break his neck. Rhysand lets go of the male's head and his body collapses to the floor.

Nostrus gasps. He's sitting at the end of the table within arms reach of these fae he desperately wishes he could save. And now one lays dead at his feet.

Rhysand steps over to the next male and grasps his head. Nostrus' breath hitches. The male and Nostrus stare at each other with intensity. Rhysand looks up for confirmation and Amarantha nods. He rapidly pulls his arms and twists the male's neck to make it break. He releases the head and the body crumples to the floor. Nostrus chokes a sob and falls back in his chair. He pants and stares at the body on the floor.

Rhysand steps to the third male and wraps his arms around his head. He looks up for confirmation.

Nostrus pops forward to look down the table at Amarantha, "Gods, please have mercy, Amarantha, please!"

"Your Queen. You shall address me as your Queen," she growls.

"I'm sorry, my Queen, I'm so sorry. Please have mercy," Nostrus begs with tears flowing down his face.

"Do it, Rhysand," she orders coldly. Rhysand whips his arms and breaks the males neck. He drops the body at his feet.

Nostrus is panting heavily, clenching and unclenching his fists helplessly. Rhysand steps behind the fourth and final male to be executed. He wraps his arms around his head and looks to Amarantha. Nostrus begs quietly, "Please," through tear soaked lips. She nods her head and Rhysand immediately whips his arms and drops the last dead body to the floor.

Nostrus sits staring at the bodies with his bottom lip quivering. Rhysand stands looking to Amarantha for orders.

She snaps her fingers, "It's time to serve breakfast," she looks to Rhysand, "Return to kneeling at my side, Rhysand dear."

Rhysand walks back to his cushion as if nothing had happened with a perfect bored courtier's expression. He kneels gracefully to the cushion and owns it as if it were his throne.

Servants come filing into the room in a line and put plates of food and cups of drink on the table for each of the guests. Each except for Rhysand and Cassian.

Those seated at the table begin to eat, except for Nostrus. He stares at his plate breathing heavily. His brother-in-law lays dead at his feet.

"Nostrus, you must eat," Amarantha reprimands. Nostrus glances at her then picks up a fork and picks at his food.

Amarantha cuts up some food, spears it on a fork and offers it to Rhysand, who sucks the food off the fork as if he were a lazy Lord being handfed by a servant. Tamlin snickers. Thalion gives Tamlin a withering glare. Tamlin scoffs in return.

"Boys, boys!" Amarantha coos, "Do behave." Thalion and Tamlin turn their faces back to their plates.

She spears another bite of food on her fork and offers it to Cassian. He is disgusted to get so close to those vicious nails, but wills himself forward without reaction and sucks the food off the fork.

"We shall have a party tonight to celebrate the beginning of my reign," she announces.

"The Night Court is missing a delegation," she turns to Rhysand, "I shall remedy that. I've already invited Keir to bring a small retinue this evening," she waves a hand, "Besides, I have much to speak with Keir about."

Cassian is surprised, but Rhysand merely nods.

They eat in silence. Amarantha shares a few bites of food with Rhysand and Cassian, but eats most of the meal herself. She had not received extra portion sizes to account for the two extra mouths to feed.

Once Amarantha finishes her meal she stands and announces, "You shall each be escorted back to your rooms. We shall have lunch all together with your delegations, and then have a party this evening."

Her shoes clack on the floor as she walks through the room and out the large double doors. The sound slowly fades away as she walks down the hallway.

The High Lords eye each other.

"I'm sorry for your loss, High Lord Nostrus," Thesan says sympathetically. The other High Lords mumble their sympathies.

Nostrus stands and kneels by the second male who was executed. He tucks his head in his lap and caresses his hair.

"Mother hold you," Nostrus begins.

"Pass through the gates..." Thesan and Thalion join in.

"... and smell that immortal land of milk and honey," all the High Lords have joined into the prayer.

"Fear no evil. Feel no pain," they all end with a moment of silence and their heads bowed.

Rhysand stands so Cassian follows suit. Rhysand walks over to him and puts a protective hand on Cassian's back.

A red skinned soldier snags Thesan's elbow and drags him out the door. Followed by Tamlin being snagged by another soldier.

A soldier walks up behind Nostrus and roughly pulls up on his arm, dragging him to his feet and causing his brother-in-law's head to fall onto the floor with a loud crack. Nostrus gasps a sob at the sound and can be seen crying as he is dragged out of the room.

A soldier comes for Rhysand and Cassian. He grabs Rhysand's elbow and drags him out of the room and Cassian obediently follows.

They are taken back to their room. The soldier opens the door and tosses Rhysand inside and Cassian skips and swiftly pops inside before growing ire from the soldier. The soldier slams the door shut and the lock loudly clicks closed.

Rhysand falls to his knees in a crack. Cassian is at his side instantly, "Rhysand, are you okay?"

Rhysand breathes deeply a few times then says, "Kneel in front of the fire. Warm your wings."

Cassian blinks at him. But then does what he was ordered to. He kneels in front of the fire so his wings can be warmed. Just the way Cassian enjoys it.

Rhysand falls forward onto his hands and breathes deeply. His head has fallen limp between his shoulders. Eventually he gathers enough strength to stand up. He stumbles to Cassian and points at him, "Stay," then continues on and stumbles into the bathing chamber. He tries to slam the door shut, but it just bangs against the broken jam and rebounds back open.

After a few moments Cassian can hear a loud wet sniffle from the bathing chamber. Cassian's heart breaks open. Rhysand is suffering and he can't do anything to help. He's been ordered to stay and kneel here. But even if he hadn't been given an order, there's nothing he can do to help Rhysand. He's been rebuffing all his attempts. Rhysand even specifically said that Cassian is being a burden with all his attempts to help. He sighs. He wishes there was something he could do.

Cassian listens to the crackling hearth as he waits. He hears more sniffling and choked sobs from the bathing chamber. But he doesn't go to him. He waits. Perhaps if he is good, if Rhysand thinks he's a good boy, then perhaps this could help Rhysand feel better.

Cassian continues to wait, and then the door to the room suddenly clicks unlocked. The door opens and in walks a blue skinned lesser fae male carrying a leather bag, followed by two red skinned soldiers.

The fae speaks in a nasally voice, "I'm here to see Rhysand. Are you Rhysand?" he narrows his eyes at Cassian, "No, you must be the other one. Your nipples are already pierced. Where is Rhysand?"

With all the grace of a high fae courtier, Rhysand strolls out of the bathing chamber. "I am Rhysand," he says in confidence. His face is dry, but his swollen nose and red rimmed eyes betray the tears that were flowing just moments ago.

"Amarantha has ordered that your nipples be pierced," the fae announces.

The fae gestures towards the chair at the table, "Take a seat at the table."

Rhysand sits with grace. The fae goes to the table and takes out his various supplies. He swabs Rhysand's nipples, makes small marks of ink on his skin, then studies the positioning a moment before deciding to continue. He takes a needle and pushes it through the skin in one inked mark and out through the other inked mark. He then leads the jewelry through the fresh hole and screws the ring shut. He repeats the same with the other nipple.

Rhysand doesn't react. Doesn't move. Only a slight feathering in the muscle of his jaw betrays how he feels.

The fae examines his work closely and from afar. He is content, so he packs up his supplies. He turns and nods to the soldiers waiting at the door. The soldiers guide the fae out of the room then close and lock the door.

Cassian turns to Rhysand, "I'm so sorry --"

"Do not speak," Rhysand interrupts. Cassian blinks in shock. He has never been ordered to not speak. He has always been encouraged to speak his mind.

Rhysand stands and goes back into the bathing chamber. Cassian can hear him slide against a wall down to the floor. Cassian's heart is bleeding for Rhysand.

Cassian continues to kneel. He'll be a good boy for Rhysand. He won't be a burden. He'll kneel here and wait silently.

The door's lock snaps open and this time a small purple lesser fae male with 4 arms and two pairs of iridescent wings carrying a bag in two of his hands comes fluttering into the room followed by a single red skinned soldier. They enter and the soldier closes the door behind him and leans back on it with his arms crossed.

"I'm here for Cassian," the fae says in a melodic voice, "Oh yes, you are Cassian. Oh dear. Oh my. Yes yes. We must fix your hair." The right side of Cassian's long hair is singed off from Eris' fire blast yesterday.

Rhysand comes to the doorway of the bathing chamber. He crosses his arms and leans on the door jam to watch.

The fae pulls a large cloth from his bag and snaps it open out in front of him and has it gently float down onto the floor. "Cassian, my dove, please bring one of those table chairs to the center of this cloth and sit in it."

Cassian looks up at Rhysand who nods for him to follow the little fae's instructions. Cassian stands, gets a chair and sits on it in the center of the cloth. The fae wastes no time and promptly flutters up into the air and skitters about Cassian's head grabbing at his hair and pulling it this way and that with multiples of his 4 hands.

"Oh my poor dove, whatever did they do to these amazing locks. Oh I will just cry! I see what you were doing here and it was just so lovely and I don't think there is anything I can do to fix this that can be anywhere near as lovely. Oh this is such a crime, such a crime to do such a thing to such beautiful hair. Who did this to you, my dove, who did this?"

Cassian blinks at the rapid onslaught of hands and words, "uhh," he utters, "High Lord Eris."

"That brute! That brute! Those firelings, always have such a temper they do. So easy to insult. So easy to spark that fire of theirs. It's like they're looking for an excuse to show off their flames. Why oh why did he do this to you, my dove, why would he destroy such beautiful hair?"

"Uhh," Cassian clears his throat, "I was collateral damage. He attacked Amarantha."

The fae's fluttering stops and he sinks to the floor in front of Cassian with a thud. "That traitor," he hisses.

The fae jumps up and flutters about Cassian's head once again, "My dove, you must have defended her, you did. So brave you are standing up for our Queen. Just why did your hair have to suffer the consequences. Oh dear. Oh my. What shall I do, what shall I do. How do I fix this."

The fae flutters down and lands on Cassian's thighs then takes Cassian's face in all four of his little hands and looks at him with deadly seriousness, "I must. Cut. Your hair," he throws his head back drawing one of his hands back to rest on his brow, "Oh! Oh! I must shorten this beautiful hair! May the gods have mercy on my soul! Cauldron save me from the crime I must commit to fix this atrocity that has been done to you! My dove! I am so sorry, my dove!"

"Um," Cassian utters, "It's alright. It'll grow back."

The fae flutters about his head yet again. "Yes yes, it will grow back. I should keep that in mind. I shall design something that will grow out well. Perhaps something shaggy on the top. It has been singed so close to the scalp on the bottom that it must be shorter there. Yes yes, let's do that, my dove, let's do that."

He flutters down to one of his bags and pulls out scissors, a comb, and another large cloth then flutters back up to Cassian. He wraps the cloth around Cassian and secures it around the neck.

"Oh I shall cry! I shall cry!" he cuts off a chunk of hair then brings it in front of Cassian's face, "Such a crime, such a loss, my dove, I am so sorry." He reaches under the cloth to take one of Cassian's hands and gingerly puts the hair in his hand, "Here you hold this. You grieve your loss properly, my dove," he gently pats Cassian's hand.

Of all the things to grieve, Cassian thinks, my hair is the least important. Rhysand chuckles softly from where he stands leaning against the doorway.

The fae continues fluttering around Cassian's head snipping hair here and there and continuing to ramble away in the never-ending stream of consciousness spilling out of his mouth.

"Oh there we go, there we go," the fae flicks Cassian's shaggy locks this way and that, "This shall do, this shall do. My dove, I think I am done. It is no where near the masterpiece of the lovely long locks you had before, but it is the best I could figure out given the extensive damage."

The fae flutters away, "Okay, dove, I'm done I'm done," he pulls the cloth off of Cassian and swiftly folds it up then puts his tools back in his bag. Cassian stands and automatically runs a hand through his hair. It feels so strange. It's shaggy on top and then fades down to be cut to the scalp on the bottom.

"Move the chair, move the chair, my dove," the little fae instructs. Cassian puts the chair back, and the fae flutters up and gently folds the cloth so all the hair is bundled up within it. He packs up everything and holds one bag each in two of his four arms.

"I shall take my leave, my dove," he flutters up and rakes one of his free hands through Cassian's hair, "You'll be alright, you'll be alright, my dove." He gently taps against Cassian's cheek then flutters over to the door with the soldier standing by it. The soldier opens the door and the two exit.

"That was..." Cassian starts.

"... quite amusing," Rhysand finishes with a smirk.

Cassian looks up at Rhysand and says while approaching him, "How are you?"

The smirk falls off Rhysand's face. "Go to your place," he orders and turns back in to disappear in the bathing chamber.

Cassian sighs and sits in front of the fire. He picks at the rug in front of him. Rhysand doesn't want his help, and he can't stop blundering and offering help. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Cassian sits in silence in front of the fire listening to it crackle. He doesn't hear much from the bathing chamber. Just some slight rustling as Rhysand moves. He continues to nervously pick at the rug while waiting.

The silence is broken by the door's lock clicking and the hinges of the door creak open as a red skinned soldier appears in the doorway. "You are summoned for lunch," he says gruffly.

Cassian looks towards the door to the bathing chamber waiting for confirmation from Rhysand before standing. Rhysand strides through the doorway, looking ever much like the courtier. His face has cleared, his eyes no longer red rimmed.

Rhysand passes him and merely says, "Cassian, heel," as he heads to exit the room. Cassian jumps up and follows, shaking out his legs and walking a little dumbly as he does so.

The soldier leads them through hallways that are growing familiar and back into the same grand room with the large double doors they've had their two prior meals already.

The table for six is still positioned in the center in front of the opulently carved chair, which is now flanked by two tables for sixteen each. What is also still positioned in the center of the room are the four dead bodies from breakfast. The only change being a sign laid upon them that says 'Traitors'.

Nostrus is standing in front of the bodies with his head bowed.

The attendees are milling about the tables looking for their assigned seats and speaking with each other. Rhysand and Cassian walk up to the opulent chair, and yes, there are cushions on either side of it with their names on it.

Thalion drifts by Rhysand and says in a low tone, "I'm sorry, Rhysand. Stay strong. We're going to need you," then drifts away. Rhysand has no reaction to the interaction.

Morrigan shoulders by Rhysand and gives Cassian a big hug as if they're old friends. They haven't seen each other since the High Lords had saved him seven years ago. Cassian awkwardly pats her back.

"Why did you get back together with him," she says in a hushed tone in his ear while still squeezing him, "He's just like his father. Not worth it," she sighs then finally backs up enough to look Cassian in the face, "And look where it's gotten you. Trapped," she looks around the room, "Here."

"Cousin," Rhysand drawls, "It is always pleasant to see you."

She peels away from Cassian, "Can't say the same about you," she sneers. She steps into Rhysand's space and shoves her finger into his chest, "You've turned into your father. When we were kids," her bottom lip quivers, "When we were kids we promised. We promised each other we would do better than our fathers."

Rhysand gently encloses Morrigan's hand with his own, "I've tried, Mor," he says softly.

"Try harder," she sneers then marches away.

"I'm sorry everyone keeps questioning your decisions," Rhysand says to Cassian in a hushed tone.

Cassian gives a curt nod, "You're easy to hate, Rhysand. And you make it even harder for anyone to see the side of you that's likeable."

A grey skinned fae's voice fills the room, "Your Queen approaches. Please stand at your designated chairs." The attendees shuffle about the room as they go to stand by their chairs. Rhysand and Cassian stand by their respective cushions, Rhysand to the right and Cassian to the left. Rhysand is next to Tamlin and Cassian next to Eris.

"Nice piercings," Tamlin smirks at Rhysand, who doesn't even react.

Amarantha comes strolling into the grand room through the large double doors, her shoes snapping with every step. She walks up through the room to her opulent chair, her footsteps the only sound as attendees practically hold their breath afraid of what could set her off.

She stands in front of her opulent chair and announces, "Thank you for attending my luncheon. Please, sit. Eat. Enjoy my hospitality." Chairs scraping along the floor echo around the room in a cacophony as everyone moves to sit simultaneously.

Everyone starts eating the meals on their plates, grown cold from the pomp and circumstance prioritizing appearance over quality. Cassian eyes Amarantha's plate and sees that it doesn't have extra portion sizes. They're going to starve if they continue to be fed this way. She gives a bite of food from her fork to both Cassian and Rhysand.

"Tamlin dear," she runs a finger down his arm, "Have you given it any more thought?"

"No," he says coolly not removing his eyes from his plate.

Amarantha's features grow stern and severe. She clutches her knife so tightly her knuckles turn white. But then she relaxes. She plasters a smile on her face, "I am a patient female. I see that you need time. I can wait." Tamlin grunts.

The High Lords eat in silence. The attendees at the other two tables speak to each other in hush tones, their murmuring fills the room.

Amarantha runs her nails through Cassian's hair, "What a travesty that has been done to your hair, Cassian dear," she shakes her head towards Eris, "Look what you've done to Cassian's hair, Eris. All because you lost your temper."

"Apologies, my Queen," Eris inclines his head.

"I've invited your brothers to the party tonight." Eris stills.

"And isn't your mother mated to Thalion's brother? I invited them, too." Eris' throat bobs as he swallows.

"I'd like to host them as my guests for awhile. You and your Lady need to return tomorrow to run your court, but you won't miss them, would you? I would like to get to know the fire brothers."

"I hope my family treats you well, my Queen," Eris says finally in a courtier's voice.

"I'm sure they will," she coos.

"Nostrus," she grabs his attention and he turns to face her nervously, "It has come to my attention that you no longer have transportation back to your Court. That is no bother to me. You are welcome to stay here until at which time someone from Summer can come and transport you." He inclines his head in acknowledgement.

"It is common courtesy to thank your Queen when she offers you her hospitality," she sighs.

"Thank you, my Queen, for your hospitality. It is generous," pipes up Nostrus.

"Rhysand dear," she coos as she runs her nails through his hair, "You'll be staying beyond tomorrow. I have much to learn from you, and you already have a steward to run your Court, so they shan't miss you at all over in the Court of Nightmares."

"I am at your service, my Queen," he says coolly.

"That you are, Rhysand dear, that you are," her nails are too sharp and her pressure too firm across his head so lacerations are getting cut into his scalp with her ministrations in his hair. Trickles of blood seep into his hair.

The sounds of cutlery tapping against porcelain fades out as people finish their meals. Amarantha has only fed Cassian and Rhysand a few bites of food, so Cassian is getting hungry. It's especially bad seeing all that food and watching people eat. And he's only denied food because he's being treated like a pet by someone oblivious or uncaring of his needs.

Amarantha stands, "We're all going to relocate for a demonstration. Please exit the room and follow the escorts in an orderly fashion."

The attendees scrape their chairs back to stand and merge into a group to leave the grand room together and make their way down the hallways while murmuring quietly to each other. Rhysand and Cassian remain kneeling a moment longer than the rest then stand. They look at Amarantha out of the corner of their eyes to see if there is any disapproval if they join the group. They carefully step away and merge into the crowd.

They walk through hallways and stairwells going down, down, down. At every intersection is a soldier allowing only one path through. They are lead through a set of regular-sized double doors and come out upon a modestly sized coliseum -- yet quite grand for having been completely hewn underground. The stage of the coliseum is open to an underground mud pit carved up with tunnels.

They're in the bottom level of seating and are encouraged to take seats. After everyone has filed in and been seated, a platform begins to lower in front of them, and seated upon it in a large chair is Amarantha.

"I would like to show you one of my pets. It's their lunchtime now, too," she announces. Her platform rotates and moves to the side so that the attendees view of the stage isn't blocked.

There is a plank extended to the middle of the stage above the mud pit. Two grey skinned lesser fae walk along the plank, the first holding a head by the hair, the second holding a body draped in a light blue gown adorned with seashells.

"You're not going to let me bury her?!" Nostrus stands and yells out at Amarantha. She flicks her hand as if waving him off and a soldier stomps over to Nostrus and punches him hard in the gut causing him to stumble back into his chair.

The two fae on the plank reach the end and both throw the parts of the Lady of Summer's body into the mud pit then walk back to leave the plank. Slurping and sucking of mud can be heard and then out rushes a giant wyrm and snakes its way over to the head and body and devours them in a pit of a mouth lined with rows upon rows of talon-like teeth. The creature is so large the diameter of its body is as wide as an average fae is tall.

The attendees gasp at the sight of this grand beast. Nostrus chokes a sob at the sight of his wife disappearing inside said beast.

A grey skinned fae appears at the plank again carrying a body. He walks to the end and unceremoniously tosses it into the mud pit before leaving. The wyrm slithers through the mud like water and the body disappears into it.

Yet another fae with yet another body walks the plank and feeds the insatiable wyrm.

When a fae with a body appears again, the wyrm is visibly restless. It swirls and slithers under the plank. Then when the fae is half way across the plank the wyrm leaps into the air and snatches the fae and dead body in all as it passes over the plank. The attendees gasp. Amarantha laughs and claps her hands. The devoured fae didn't even get a chance to scream.

Sounds can be heard at the far side of the plank indicating there is more to come. After a bit of a commotion, a clearly nervous fae is shoved out to the plank and a body thrust into his arms. He takes a tentative step forward, then another, then makes a mad dash to the end of the plank using his momentum to toss the body into the mud. He bends with his hands on his knees gasping as the wyrm swirls and gobbles up the body. The fae turns to walk back and the wyrm is seen leaping again over the plank and toppling the fae over the side.

This fae has an opportunity to scream as he falls, then screams again as the wyrm approaches. He runs through the muddy tunnels taking turns to try to twist up the wyrm. He takes another turn and slips to the ground. He frantically tries to stand but his feet won't gain purchase on the slippery mud. The wyrm catches up, the fae attempts to scramble away on all fours, but the wyrm swiftly devours him, too. His screams cut off as he sinks into the pit of a mouth that the wyrm has.

Amarantha is clapping as her platform rotates and moves to face the seated attendees once again. Her expression is bright with a blood red smile cut wide across her face. She's sitting up in her chair, excited and clapping.

"That was absolutely delightful! Better than I ever could have anticipated!" she exclaims. But her delight is met with silence and stony gazes. The squelching of the restless wyrm searching it's tunnels for more is the only sound.

"Don't you agree?" The attendees glance at each other.

"Don't you agree?" she asks firmly, her expression fallen into disappointment. The attendees nod.

"Don't. You. Agree?" she stomps her foot petulantly and peers furiously at the assembled group. Exclaims of 'yes!' and 'incredible' and 'amazing' and other such words of awe erupt from the group.

She scowls at them, "Do not let your Queen experience her joy alone ever again." Murmurs of apologies and 'no, my Queen' roll through the attendees.

She scoffs and waves her hand, "Return them to their rooms." Her platform raises and she disappears above them.

A red skinned soldier comes and gruffly demands Rhysand and Cassian follow him to their room. They're lead up, up, up stairs and through hallways. Eventually the hallways look familiar and they arrive at their door. The soldier opens it and they enter before the soldier closes and locks it.

"Go to your place," orders Rhysand as he heads into the bathing chamber.

"No, we're not doing this," growls Cassian.

Rhysand whips around, "Do not defy me."

"We're not doing this, Rhysand, you're going to talk to me," Cassian says with sympathy as he steps forward.

Rhysand gets into his space, "I. Am. Your. Dom."

Lightning fast, Cassian grabs Rhysand's shoulder, slams him into the floor, and pins him with his knee to Rhysand's back.

"Don't you remember? My Dom has to be stronger than me," Cassian says sternly into Rhysand's ear, "Without your magic, I have you beat. You are not my Dom right now."

Cassian eases off Rhysand and moves into a sitting position on the floor in front of him, "Right now, you are my friend. And my friend is hurting."

"We're not friends," Rhysand seethes as he raises to his feet and rolls his shoulder.

"Yes, we are," Cassian rises to his feet.

"No, we aren't," Rhysand turns into the bathing chamber and slams the door, which just bounces off the broken door jam.

"Yes, we are," Cassian says in a louder voice as he follows Rhysand into the bathroom.

Rhysand is leaning on the counter looking at himself in the mirror. "Get out," he seethes.

"No," Cassian approaches and reaches out to touch Rhysand, but he ducks him and backs away.

"Get out!" Rhysand yells as his back hits the wall.

"No," Cassian continues to approach. He gingerly places a hand on Rhysand's shoulder.

"Leave me alone!" Rhysand hisses and presses his hands against the wall and his face turned away from Cassian.

"No," Cassian says softly. He wraps his arms around Rhysand and hugs him firmly. "You're my friend and you're hurting," he says in a low hushed tone in Rhysand's ear. They don't hug, it's just not part of their dynamic. But Cassian believes that right now, Rhysand needs a hug.

"It's not your fault," Cassian soothes.

Rhysand's breath hitches, "Yes, it is," he whispers.

"It's not your fault," he squeezes for emphasis.

"It's all my fault."

"It's not your fault."

Tension falls away from Rhysand and he buries his face into Cassian's shoulder as he hugs him back. "It's all my fault," Rhysand sobs. His legs go loose on him and he begins to sink, so Cassian sinks down to the floor with him, never breaking the hug.

Cassian changes his grip so he's sitting astride Rhysand and holding Rhysand's head to his shoulder while tears drip from Rhysand's cheeks. "You're not alone," Cassian whispers.

"I am," he whispers back.

"I've got you."

Rhysand's breath hitches. He squeezes Cassian and curls into his side tighter.

"Even if all I am is a shoulder to cry on, I've got you Rhysand. You're not alone," he says softly into the quiet. Rhysand squeezes tightly and sobs.

Once the sobs ease and his breathing returns to normal, Rhysand speaks up in a hoarse whisper, "I killed them. Innocent fae. Right in front of Nostrus. With my bare hands. I felt the pulse of life turn off again, and again, and again."

Cassian squeezes, "It's horrible."

"They just collapsed at my feet," Rhysand's breath becomes deeper and faster, "The weight of their death right at my feet."

Rhysand's breath becomes rapid and deep. "Take slow deep breaths," advises Cassian, "You know the drill. Breathe in, hold... Breathe out, hold..." Rhysand breathes slowly, holding his breath between each inhale and exhale. "That's it," Cassian coos, "Just breathe."

"Just breathe," Cassian reiterates. He runs gentle fingers up and down Rhysand's back.

Cassian lets Rhysand settle and relax for awhile, then he says, "Let's wash the blood out of your hair, okay?"

Rhysand lifts his head and wipes his eyes, "Yeah, okay."

Cassian helps Rhysand stand and guide him to the tub. Rhysand turns the water on to warm it up, then takes off his pants and crouches by the tub waiting for the water.

Once warm enough he kneels in and bends over to stick his head under the tub's faucet. He hisses at the pain of the water running over the slices in his scalp. He grimaces as he works shampoo in his hair and rinse it out.

Rhysand stands up and Cassian is already there with a towel to hand him. "Thanks," Rhysand says softly. Cassian just smiles.

Rhysand towels off and puts his pants back on. "Go take a nap," Cassian firmly suggests, "You'll need your energy." Rhysand numbly nods and slowly walks into the other room and crawls into bed.

Now it's Cassian's turn to lean on the counter and look at himself in the mirror. We've only been here a day and he's already breaking. How long is this going to last? How long can we withstand?

He sighs and pushes off the counter. He wanders into the other room and looks around. No books. The drawers are empty. Not even a window to look out at, nor art to study. There is nothing to do here.

He sits down in front of the fire and looks at it. It flickers and waves. He huffs a laugh remembering the first time he was bored when he was Rhysand's prisoner. He kept chanting Rhysand's name over and over in his mind trying to distract him because of Rhysand's daemati powers. Rhysand just rolled with it, took it in stride.

Just imagine what Amarantha would do with daemati powers. She'd probably insist on full obedience, even in thought. Amarantha is a petulant child, he thinks as he fumbles with the edge of the rug.

He unfurls his wings and plops his back on the floor staring at the ceiling. He should take a nap, too, recuperate his energy. He stands with a groan and crawls into bed.

Rhysand has fallen asleep facing the center of the bed. Cassian lays on his side facing Rhysand. He looks at his relaxed facial features and the steady rise and fall of his breath. His own eyes grow heavy and close. He drifts away in sleep.

 

***

 

They are both woken with a start as the door opens. They simultaneously scramble off the bed and onto their feet. The soldier who stepped inside grunts at them. "You've been summoned," he says in a rough, gravely voice.

They file out of the room and are escorted through the dim hallways. Cassian realizes they are being lead into Amarantha's wing and his heart sinks. They enter her suite of rooms, and there she is, wearing an elegant white gown with a train, and white high heeled shoes, and a crystal crown. A crown that looks suspiciously like it came from High Lord Oberon.

She smiles at them as they enter, "My pets, she coos."

She saunters up to Rhysand and drags a hand down his chest, "I wanted you two to match. Do you like?" She punctuates the question by flicking a nipple ring. Rhysand isn't able to suppress the flinch.

"Yes, my Queen," he says warmly.

She gestures at them to follow her to the table, upon which are two black leather collars and two iron linked leashes. "I wanted to give you your outfits for the evening."

She picks up the first collar and snakes it around Rhysand's neck, then buckles it firmly. She takes the second and puts it on Cassian. She tightens it too tight. It hurts to swallow. Cassian can tell it's too tight on Rhysand, too.

She picks up the leashes and clips them to the front of their collars. "Lovely," she coos.

"Rhysand to my right... Cassian to my left..." she instructs and they move to comply. She holds a leash in each hand. She looks to confirm proper positioning and then begins to walk. Rhysand and Cassian have no choice but to follow.

They walk the hallways, but don't have to walk too far before they're being taken to a new room. As they near they can hear from the room, "Your Queen approaches! Make way for your Queen!"

She rounds a set of large carved double doors and enters, the click of her shoes sounding through the room. The large ornate throne is the first thing one notices about the room, it sits upon a stone dais. On either side of the room is a small crowd of people. Musicians sit in the far corner, and tables laden with food and drink line the walls.

There is quiet in the room as Amarantha walks through the center towards the throne. Her footsteps click from her shoes, and Rhysand and Cassian make faint slapping sounds from their naked feet. She steps up the dais and drapes the leashes on either arm of the throne. She turns to face the assembled fae as Rhysand and Cassian move to stand behind their respective cushions.

"Bow," she commands. Clothing rustles as everyone bends in half and lowers their gaze to the floor. Everyone except for one. One fae is bent in half but still has his eyes on Amarantha. Suddenly the curious fae is being dragged across the floor through the crowd. Another fae from across the room pops her head up from curiosity and she, too, is dragged through the crowd towards Amarantha. The two collide together in a heap at the foot of the dais.

"Rise," she commands, "Look upon those who do not follow my orders."

The assembled fae cautiously raise to standing. Gasps can be heard from either side of the room as fae recognize the two Amarantha has dragged before her.

"Curious little creatures aren't you," she says as she steps down the dais, "Just couldn't resist a peek."

She snaps her fingers, "Restrain them." Two soldiers snatch the two fae from behind and hold them tightly.

"This should reduce your curiosity," she coos as she approaches the fae on the right.

She gets close and raises the index finger on her right hand up to the fae's face. She brings her sharpened, talon-like nail to the fae's eye. The fae tries to resist. She thrashes her head, but Amarantha just grabs her chin with her free hand then drives her nail into the fae's eye. She screams and screws her eyes shut and crumples her face as blood drips down her cheek. Amarantha pries open the fae's other eye and jams her nail into that eye as well. The fae sobs tears of blood.

She approaches the other fae. He trembles and squeezes his eyes shut. She pries open his first eye and sends her nail right through it. He screams and whimpers. She pries open the last eye and lances it as well. He sobs his own tears of blood.

She turns and walks back up to her throne, then faces the crowd. Blood is splattered across her white dress. The blood virtually glows against the white canvas the dress provides.

"Seat them on the steps there," she points to the right of Rhysand, "Let them serve as a reminder for the evening."

The soldiers guide the fae to sit on the dais steps. Once released, they bury their faces into their hands, pressing their palms into their now-empty eye sockets.

"Do not cover your faces, my dears. They all must see what becomes of the overly curious." The blinded fae struggle to pull their hands from their faces. Their cheeks are covered in blood and more continues to leak out.

"Well that was stimulating!" she exclaims with a clap of her hands. She looks at the grave stricken crowd. "Right?" she says with a snarl. Promptly, the crowd erupts in sounds of agreement and claps of hands.

Amarantha slides her hands down to straighten her dress and smears blood along the way. The expression of the happy queen comes across her face and she announces, "Music!" The musicians start to play.

"Eat! Dance! Enjoy my hospitality!" she announces joyfully to the crowd. The crowd slowly intersperses and engage with each other. Murmurings of voices fill the room.

She sits on the throne and Rhysand and Cassian use that as their cue to kneel.

"Keir, come!" Amarantha calls out. A white-blonde head of hair can be seen making its way through the crowd towards the dais. Keir emerges and approaches the dais.

"Yes, my Queen," he says as he bows low and then straightens.

Amarantha places the tips of her nails onto Rhysand's scalp and presses firmly. "As you can see, Rhysand is busy with me. He will be staying here as my guest for the foreseeable future. As steward, I leave the running of the Night Court in your capable hands," she strokes her hand down Rhysand's head and rests it at his neck, "This shouldn't be too much of a disruption. He did not hold court often. He may hardly be missed."

"Yes, my Queen," Keir smiles widely, "He shall hardly be missed."

"You may go," she waves him off.

The foreseeable future? We're going to be here for the foreseeable future? Cassian's stomach churns in his guts. Gods, I hope there is a plan to stop all of this. He searches the crowd for Thalion and finds him chatting with Aíne and another male dressed the same as him. Hopefully they're coming up with a plan.

Cassian eyes people eating. Gods, I'm hungry. If Amarantha is copying everything she saw in the Hewn City, then we aren't going to be free to roam and eat. Fuck. It's been a day since I ate anything substantial.

Wait... If she's copying everything... Is she going to make us lounge against her legs? Gods, I hope not.

"There is no one dancing!" Amarantha calls out in reprimand. Promptly, many couples get together and start dancing to the music. They drift to the center of the room to ensure they are seen.

Amarantha watches the dancers for awhile, then stands and steps down the dais. The crowd parts as she walks amongst them. She approaches Tamlin and puts a hand on his shoulder and smiles widely. Tamlin rolls his eyes but takes Amarantha's hand and guides her to where couples are dancing. He puts his hand on her waist and holds her hand up and begins to lead her in dance.

Cassian glances at Rhysand from the corner of his eye. He's stone faced and still. I wish we could still talk mind-to-mind.

Amarantha keeps Tamlin occupied in dance for what seems like an age. Rhysand and Cassian are stuck kneeling at the dais. Even as his prisoner, Rhysand always looked out for Cassian. He wouldn't let him suffer too much. He'd let him sit or lay down when the kneeling got to be too much. But Amarantha is ignoring them. Rhysand was always thinking about him, always looking out for him.

Amarantha guides Tamlin to the drinks table, always keeping a hand touching him. They pick up drinks and chat. She casually drags her hand up and down his arm. She takes his hand and runs her thumb back and forth against it. She looks up at him with a sultry gaze and steps close, a thigh dangerously close to notching between his legs.

Tamlin steps back and shakes his head. Amarantha's face crumples into fury. She throws her goblet to the floor and stomps back over to the dais. She stomps up the steps, snatches the leashes and pulls on them hard sending Rhysand and Cassian toppling over. They each scramble to get closer to her.

She turns to the crowd, "The party is over. Go back to your rooms," she announces with a wave of her hand.

She yanks on the leashes again jerking Rhysand and Cassian by the necks. She stomps off and they scramble to keep up with her. She heads out a rear exit and marches through the hallways in fury. She reaches her suite of rooms.

Once she gets to the center of her receiving room she sweeps her arm with the leashes ahead of her to drag the two of them to stand in front of her. She eyes them with a scowl. But then her face softens.

"My pets," she coos as she drags a finger down Rhysand's face. "I need a... distraction," she walks up to Rhysand until their chests touch. She lazily drags a finger down his chest, "I hear you are just excellent at giving distractions."

"I am at your service, my Queen," he says with a sultry voice.

She hums in satisfaction, "That you are, my pet."

She saunters over to her bedroom and they follow as the leash demands of them. She drops the leashes when they reach the center of the room so they stop in place. Amarantha saunters away a little more then turns to face them. She unties her dress and slowly lowers it down her body attempting to look sexy. She might have been considered sexy if she wasn't a murdering sadistic bitch.

She wears nothing underneath. She walks up to Rhysand and takes the leash near the collar and walks him over to the bed. She crawls onto the bed letting the leash fall through her hand until she reaches the end. She props herself up by the pillows with her legs wide, then slowly pulls the leash forward, hand over hand down the chain links forcing Rhysand to crawl onto the bed and over to her. Between her legs.

"Show me those skills, my pet," she coos, "Please your Queen."

Rhysand kisses down her thigh and lets his hot breath blow over her core. She shivers. "I am at your service, my Queen," he coos.

He kisses the lips of her entrance then licks up the center of her lingering over her apex. He wraps his mouth over her bundle of nerves.

Awkwaaaaaard. Cassian shifts where he stands in the center of the room. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Should I watch? Should I not watch? Should I give Rhysand some semblance of privacy? Cassian decides not to watch and averts his head. But his traitorous eyes drift over to peek.

Rhysand is licking at her apex while his hand is thrusting at her entrance. She's bucking her hips. One hand is on Rhysand's head while the other is holding the leash taut pulling him forward into her. Cassian can imagine how uncomfortable that is for Rhysand considering how tight she made the collars.

She throws her head back and moans with abandon. She's thrusting into Rhysand's face and pulling the leash tight. Then she hollers out as her body writhes and convulses. She pulls on the leash with each pulse of pleasure smashing Rhysand's face into her core.

Her writhing stops and she pants. She still has a tight hold on the leash preventing Rhysand from backing away. He removes his fingers from her, but his face is still smothered into her. His hot breath blows across her core.

Without moving her head or opening her eyes she releases the leash. She waves a hand dismissively and says, "I'm done with you. Go back to your room."

Rhysand backs away and crawls off the bed. Once his back is to her he vigorously wipes his face on his arm. They quietly make their way out of the bedroom. When they reach the receiving room Cassian asks softly, "Should we leave the leashes and collars?"

"No, too risky," Rhysand cautions equally softly, "We should appear as she leaves us." Cassian nods.

They make their way out of the suite and see guards at the entrance. A guard gives a gruff grunt and jerks his chin forward to indicate they should continue on.

They make their way through the dim hallways unescorted. It feels weird to walk around freely. They pass by guards at their posts. They even pass some guests skittering about the hallways. Things are less orderly and controlled than they have been.

They reach their room and step inside. The door closes without the ominous click of the lock. They're not locked in.

Cassian immediately envelopes Rhysand in a hug. Rhysand tries to push away, but then gives in. He returns Cassian's hug and buries his face into his shoulder. Rhysand breathes deeply, holding his breath between each inhale and exhale. Over time his breaths gradually normalize.

"The only other time I've been this helpless is when I was Amarantha's prisoner in The War," Rhysand says lowly, "She's the only one who has brought me so low."

Cassian gives him a squeeze and runs soothing circles on Rhysand's back.

Rhysand backs up, "I need to bathe, I need to get this smell off me."

Cassian releases him, "Yes, of course."

Rhysand lumbers into the bathing chamber and Cassian can hear the tub's water turn on. He looks around the room. He doesn't want to go to the bed because he doesn't want to fall asleep before Rhysand. He eyes the fire. I guess it's the good 'ol fireplace again.

He sits and watches the firelight dance. Things are going to keep being ugly. Death. Gore. Rape. Humiliation. It's going to keep happening. Rhysand is powerless. I don't have my siphons. Are we capable of escaping? Or must we wait to be saved?

He remembers the parchment enchanted to share with Thalion. He crawls over to the wardrobe and gets it out from under its foot. He unfolds it and it's blank. He flips it back and forth. Blank.

He considers writing a note on it, but then guesses that Thalion made it blank for a reason. It's a waste and a risk to simply ask if help is coming. If Thalion needs their cooperation, he can write it on the parchment. He folds it back up and puts it back under the rear foot of the wardrobe. He'd only be asking for his own peace of mind, and peace of mind isn't worth the risk of getting caught.

The memory of Rhysand snapping the neck of the Summer Court fae flashes before him.

Cassian hears the tub draining of water. After a few moments, Rhysand walks out nude and goes straight to the bed. Cassian gets up, chucks his pants and also crawls into bed nude.

Rhysand immediately scoots over to be inches from Cassian. He snakes an arm and a leg around Cassian and pulls him close. He runs his hand up and down Cassian's back going lower and lower until he's massaging his ass. He runs a finger around the anal plug, then suddenly freezes.

"Fuck," Rhysand says quietly.

"What is it?"

"We don't have any oil. I always store it in the pocket realm and... well... I don't have access to it anymore."

"It's okay, we don't have to."

"I want to. I want my own distraction. I want to forget," Rhysand buries his face into Cassian's shoulder, "You used to want to get away. I want to get away now. I want to be far far away."

Cassian kisses along Rhysand's shoulder and neck. He's never done this to Rhysand. Affection always goes one way with them. Rhysand showers Cassian with affection, and Cassian merely receives. That's the way they do things.

But Rhysand is clearly affectionate. Perhaps he'd like to receive some affection. So Cassian licks up the edge of Rhysand's ear and is rewarded with a soft shiver.

Cassian snakes his hand between them and runs his fingers over Rhysand's hardened length. He gathers the precum and smears it as he gently pumps him. Rhysand's breath grows heavier and he thrusts up into Cassian's hand.

"Gods, I need this," Rhysand whispers.

"I've got you," Cassian whispers in return.

Rhysand backs his head away and cups Cassian's cheek, "I want to see you. I want to know it's you."

Cassian looks into Rhysand's violet eyes, "I've got you." Rhysand shudders.

Cassian brings his palm up to his mouth and licks it before returning it to Rhysand's cock. Rhysand wraps his legs tighter around Cassian's legs and thrusts up into his hands.

Rhysand holds his face, "You're Cassian."

"I'm Cassian, and I've got you," he reassures.

Rhysand is panting heavily and thrusting into Cassian's hands. Cassian can't do much but hold still as Rhysand fucks his hands.

"Gods," Rhysand gasps.

Rhysand thrusts harder and grunts, then his mouth falls open as his cock spurts lines of cum across Cassian's chest. Rhysand pants while staring into Cassian's eyes.

After Rhysand's breath turns to normal he starts to turn to leave the bed. Cassian stops him, "I'll go, you rest."

Rhysand looks at him in shock as he watches Cassian roll out of bed and go into the bathing chamber. Cassian grabs a cloth, wets it, and wipes down his chest then dries himself off. He returns to the bed and crawls in next to Rhysand.

Rhysand reaches out to hold Cassian's hand. He looks into Cassian's eyes and Cassian returns the gaze. Rhysand's eyes grow heavy and close.

Cassian feels he may have been actually helpful. He closes his eyes. He dreads tomorrow. He doesn't actually want to sleep. Right now, in this bed, holding Rhysand's hand, things are alright. Tomorrow, however, will bring more torment.

But he's tired and his eyes droop closed. He tries to focus on the peaceful moment of the Right Now and drifts off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Rhysand kept holding Cassian's hand throughout the night, so Cassian wakes up with his hand in Rhysand's. No windows. No sun to indicate the time. He has no idea if he's woken too early or too late or just on time. Perhaps he'll ask other people how they're coping with this.

He decides to stay in bed and make his hand available to Rhysand to hold. He stares at the little nooks and crannies of the ceiling. What Amarantha is doing to Rhysand is awful, but is this perhaps his penance?

He's still angry at how Rhysand treated him when he was first a prisoner. He hasn't forgiven. He hasn't forgotten. He's just moved on. His priority is Right Now and the future. Rhysand has been taking care of him in the way that he needs right now. He has freedom of choice again, and isn't that what is most important?

Rhysand squeezes Cassian's hand and scooches over to him. He wraps his arm and leg around him and rests his head on his shoulder.

"Thanks," Rhysand whispers.

"For what?" Cassian asks softly.

"For being here for me. I don't know what I'd do if I were alone with no allies. If I had to face Amarantha's bedroom all by myself."

Cassian caresses Rhysand's arm as his only response.

"I know you can't fix anything. I know you can't save us. You can't make the hurt go away. But being supportive of me makes the hurt easier to process."

"I'm glad I'm helpful in even a small way," Cassian says softly into the quiet.

"Thanks for fighting for me. I'm sorry for pushing you away. I don't deserve you. I don't deserve the care you are offering me. I'm supposed to care for you, to make you happy and content. But to respect what you're offering me, I'll accept. And I'll try my best to earn it."

"Thanks," Cassian whispers.

They stay still and quiet in the silence of the windowless, timeless room. Without the connection to time, it's like they could be frozen in time. Frozen in this temporary moment of calm.

Cassian stirs first, "I should make sure I wash before we get called somewhere." Rhysand lets him go and flops onto his back staring at the ceiling.

Cassian goes into the bathing chamber and does his thing: hole, plug, body, hair. He towels himself off and returns. Rhysand hasn't budged. He's lost in the marbling textures of the ceiling.

Cassian crawls back into bed, holds Rhysand's hand, and stares up into the ceiling, too. There's nothing to say. They've experienced these horrors together. They know what the other is feeling because they are feeling it, too. They stare at the ceiling together. Cassian squeezes Rhysand's hand. Rhysand squeezes back.

There is a knock on the door and it partially opens. A voice calls in, "Breakfast is served in the throne room." Then the door snicks shut.

They turn to face each other. Free access to food. Fuck. Yes. They both bolt out of bed and put on their pants.

They go out in the hallway. It feels wrong to be walking unescorted. But they aren't locked in their room anymore. They carefully make their way to the throne room. They notice some passages have guards blocking the way. Perhaps they haven't been let out of their cage, but rather their cage has gotten larger.

They reach the throne room. Against the left wall is a long table laden with food. A handful of 'guests' are already here picking at the food and putting it onto small plates.

Cassian and Rhysand are ravenous. Amarantha barely fed them yesterday. She's trying to mimic Rhysand, but doesn't know or doesn't care about the responsibilities surrounding what he does.

They dig into the food and eat quickly just in case Amarantha pops in and tears them away. Then they eat some more just in case they're starved another day again.

Tamlin strolls up to them, "You two appear hungry."

Rhysand puts on his courtiers face and doesn't deign a response.

"What's with your outfits?" They're both topless with nipple rings, shoeless, and wearing only pants.

Thalion appears and says, "Tamlin, leave them alone. She is giving them a hard time."

Tamlin rolls his eyes and scoffs, "Oh sure, a little kneeling is such a hard time. I had to dance with that cold bitch for hours last night. Then she tried to get me into her bed," he laughs, "Can you imagine the torture that would be?"

"Tamlin, don't speak about what you don't know of," presses Thalion.

Tamlin waves a hand dismissively and walks off.

"What is your angle, Thalion," Rhysand asks suspiciously, "That's twice now you've defended us."

"I need your cunning. We all will need your cunning to get out of this," Thalion faces him squarely, "She's going to try to wear you down and break you. We can't afford that. You need support in order to keep yourself together."

Rhysand narrows his eyes at him, "You hate me."

Thalion stifles a laugh, "I fucking despise you, Rhysand. You are an evil prick. But I don't let my personal opinions effect my total evaluation of you. You're smart, you're cunning, you're resourceful. We have the same exact goals: defeat her. We're allies whether I like you or not."

Rhysand wears his courtiers mask, "I see. Alright, we're allies."

Thalion nods and walks off.

"Tamlin is such a mindless brute," hisses Rhysand quietly to Cassian. He just nods in response.

Clacking of shoes stepping on the polished stone floor can be heard entering the room from the back. Everyone freezes and looks. Amarantha comes walking in wearing a simple black dress that fits her curves. She sits on the throne.

"High Lords, steward, approach."

The called upon people put down their plates and approach the throne. They stand in a line. Rhysand joins the line, but Cassian stays back by the food.

"You are free to leave with your retinue. Your first tithe is due in two days. I expect you to return to present your tithe that afternoon.

"Rhysand is remaining as my consultant and Keir is taking his place in the Night Court. Nostrus has no transportation, so he shall send a letter for his people to bring a tithe. The Vanserra brothers are remaining as my guests, as well as their mother and her mate, Helion.

"Do you have any questions?" she casts her gaze across them.

Oberon clears his throat, "How much is the requested tithe?"

A smile snakes across Amarantha's face, "As much as you can spare. I expect you to be honest with me. If you aren't, I will extract your dues straight from your towns and cities with force. Do you all understand?" They all nod solemnly.

Amarantha waves a hand, "You may go. Return in two days." She stands and exits the room out the back.

The High Lords disperse. They collect the members of their retinue and exit the throne room. The ones remaining are Cassian, Rhysand, Nostrus, Aíne, Helion, and the Vanserra brothers. They all eye each other cautiously.

Helion breaks the silence, "Please, let's speak to each other," he gestures for them to join he and Aíne.

They come together in a group. Rhysand happens to walk up behind Nostrus, and Nostrus promptly resituates himself to be further from him.

Helion looks each of them in the eye, "We have the same enemy. We're allies. We need to work together."

"This is a treasonous conversation against our Queen," Rhysand says coolly. Everyone is quiet. Rhysand continues, "Caution is advisable."

Rhysand turns and walks out the main entrance while Cassian follows.

Rhysand leads them down hallways, walking like he owns the place, but not in the direction Cassian would have thought was towards their room. At some points he even doubles back. They pass guards blocking hallways and Rhysand nods respectfully to each one of them as he passes.

Eventually Rhysand starts brazenly opening doors and looking inside. Now Cassian gets it: Rhysand is exploring. He finds empty rooms. Empty bedrooms that are just as devoid of supplies or clothing as their room. Sparsely furnished offices and drawing rooms. All with thick layers of dust.

Eventually, they find a jackpot. It is a large room filled with books. Cassian practically drools. All four walls are filled floor to ceiling with books and there are two additional bookcases on one side of the room, and two chairs and a table on the other side. Rhysand and Cassian grin at each other then dash into the room hungrily looking over the books.

They each take time scanning the bookshelves drinking in the options and figuring out the sorting system. Then they start picking books off the shelves and flipping through them. They occasionally keep a book in their arms. Cassian is looking for fiction and history. He finds two of each that seem interesting.

Cassian finds Rhysand with four books stacked on the small table and reading the fifth book. "Gods, we don't have to be so bored any more," Cassian says relieved.

Rhysand nods in understanding. "Let's head back to the room. Unfortunately, we need to make ourselves available to be found. We could piss her off if there is a delay after summoning us."

Cassian sighs and nods. They head out and Rhysand appears to be getting a handle on mapping the place out because he effortlessly leads them back to their room.

Rhysand plops his books on the table then takes one out and opens it flat on the table to read. Cassian plops his books on the chest of drawers and sits in front of the fire to read. He doesn't have to sit in front of the fire any more. It isn't his 'place' right now. But he has fond memories of reading for hours in front of the fire and wants to hold onto that sense of comfort the memories bring him.

They have quite some time to read before there is a knock on the door. It opens and a grey skinned lesser fae stands in the threshold and says, "You have been summoned."

Rhysand and Cassian exchange a look before standing and following the fae to where they've been summoned. They're lead through hallways that are growing increasingly familiar. And then Cassian can guess where they're going: Amarantha's suite. Fuck. She's going to fuck with us more. Literally.

They enter the suite and are lead straight to her bedroom. Fuck.

The fae opens the bedroom door and ushers them inside. Amarantha is sitting at her vanity brushing her hair. She stands and greets them with a wide smile when she sees them. The escort closes the door. Closes them in. Fuck.

"My pets," she coos and runs her nails across each of their faces.

She gets right up into Rhysand's space. She runs a possessive hand across his chest as she speaks, "I have quite enjoyed having you as my pet," she tugs a nipple ring, "but even a queen can't eat her cake and have it, too," she pouts as she tugs the other nipple ring.

She sighs dramatically then runs her nails down the side of his face, "I need you as my Court Consultant. And my Court Consultant can't appear like this," she runs her hand down his chest to the waistband of his pants, "as much as I like you like this." Bare chested displaying nipple rings, and wearing only pants.

She abruptly turns and walks away, "So I've had your wardrobe fetched from the Hewn City. It's being delivered to your room as we speak," she picks up a pile of black folded clothing, "I picked these for you for today," she places them on the bed next to Rhysand.

"However, I don't want you to forget who you belong to, my pet."

"I'll never forget I belong to you, my Queen," Rhysand purrs.

She grabs his chin, "Such pretty words from such a pretty mouth," she pulls down his bottom lip and he opens his mouth. She sticks in two fingers and he can't help but gag when her long nails go too far back. She brings her fingers back out and wipes them off on his chest.

She walks to her vanity and picks up a necklace with a modestly sized metal medallion as the pendant. She saunters over to Rhysand and hooks one side of the chain to one nipple ring, and attaches the other side to the other ring. Then she drops the apparently quite heavy medallion. As stoic as he tries to keep himself, Rhysand gasps and bends over a bit from the shock.

She shifts the medallion left and right, then tugs which causes Rhysand to flinch, "I think this will keep me on your mind."

"You're always on my mind, my Queen," he smiles seductively and dares to run a caress down her arm.

She hums in satisfaction, "Such pretty words," she gestures to the clothes, "Put your clothes on."

She turns to Cassian. His heart races. "Now for your outfit," she smiles.

She picks up a black leather square with two straps with buckles. Cassian is crestfallen. Rhysand rarely ever binds his arms anymore. Cassian anticipates her and folds his arms behind his back and turns his back to her.

"Oh my! He is a good boy, isn't he?" she exclaims happily. She snakes the restraint around his arms and tightens the buckles. Too tight. Cassian wiggles his fingers. Fuck. What do I do? Godsdamnit. Think think! Do I risk pissing her off? Do I risk nerve damage or worse? Fuck fuck fuck.

Cassian swallows, "Excuse me," he says bashfully.

She moves around Cassian to face his front, "Yes, Cassian dear?"

"The restraint... It's too tight," he says timidly.

She hums contentedly, "All the better, my pet," she smiles wickedly.

"My Queen," Rhysand chimes in, "He could suffer nerve damage if the restraint is too tight."

She frowns, "Why should I care?"

"If he has nerve damage he wouldn't be able to provide full... service," Rhysand advises.

Amarantha hums as she ponders. She sighs dramatically. She returns to Cassian's back and loosens the binding.

"Is that okay?" she says angrily. Cassian wiggles his fingers. It should work. "Yes, it's good. Thank you," Cassian says meekly.

"Come sit at the vanity, Cassian dear." She ushers him to sit.

She runs her nails through his shaggy hair. "I miss your long hair. I am so disappointed in Eris for wrecking that beautiful hair you had," she sighs then brushes and styles his hair with her nails.

She grabs a stick of kohl and moves in front of him. She carefully applies the kohl under Cassian's eyes.

Amarantha turns back to Rhysand who has dressed in a black tunic, black pants, and black socks. She picks up a pair of shiny black shoes and hands them to him.

As Rhysand puts on the shoes she asks, "Whatever did you do to get Cassian to cry that time when I saw you in the Hewn City."

Rhysand is quiet a moment longer than he should have been before saying, "I choked him on my cock."

"Oh really!" her eyes glitter with delight, "Well, I want Cassian dear to cry."

Fuck. Cassian's heart jumps into his throat.

Rhysand stands and runs a gentle hand down Amarantha's arm, "I would do anything for you, my Queen. But it's prohibited by The Agreement we have."

She pouts dramatically, "This 'Agreement' gets in the way of my fun," then a smile crosses her face, "This month's Agreement ends tomorrow, though. And that cock cage unlocks, doesn't it?" Rhysand nods. "I'm looking forward to releasing that cock," she purrs.

She backs away frowning again petulantly, "This Agreement, is it a bargain?"

"No, my Queen. We purposely avoided being bound by magic. We want to be bound by honor and trust."

Her eyes light up, "Then nothing is stopping you from making Cassian cry!" Cassian's heart sinks.

"My Queen, if I break the terms of the Agreement, I will be gravely damaging the relationship I have with my pet," Rhysand tries to say as respectfully as possible.

She scoffs, "He's your pet, what does it matter how he feels about you?"

"Trust in me is an important component of keeping him docile and obedient, my Queen."

"Is that so?" she saunters over to Cassian and plays with his hair, "You have not completed instructing me on the breaking process. We will continue lessons soon."

She places her hands on Cassian's shoulders then bends down to be eye level with him, cheek to cheek, and looks at him through the mirror, "Would you mind if we end The Agreement a day early? If you both agree to end it, then no trust is broken."

"I'm required to defend the agreement, my Queen," Rhysand says.

Amarantha's nails begin to dig into Cassian's shoulders. Hard. He can't help but grimace.

"My Queen," Rhysand pleads with a helpless hand reaching out to them, "You're hurting him."

"This Agreement seems to be superseding my authority as your Queen!" she exclaims angrily. Blood begins to trickle down from the nail marks in Cassian's shoulders.

Fuck, she's angry. What will she do if she's angry? Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

"It's okay!" gasps Cassian, "It's okay, we'll end The Agreement now."

Amarantha loosens her grip on Cassian's shoulders, "Do you agree, Rhysand dear?"

"Yes, my Queen. We can end The Agreement now," Rhysand concedes sadly.

She releases Cassian. "Good," she coos as she saunters up to Rhysand. She places a possessive hand on his chest, "Now, do make Cassian cry for me, Rhysand dear."

Cassian's heart is fluttering around his ribcage like a terrified bird. Banning throat fucking was the first thing written in The Agreement on day one. He hates it. He loathes it. He has nightmares about it. Dread seeps out from the core of his being.

Rhysand sits in one of the sitting chairs. He opens his pants and pushes them down a bit. There's no hardened length to pop out. He's flaccid. He takes himself in hand and strokes. Amarantha sits in the chair opposite Rhysand and watches with rapt attention.

Rhysand opens his legs wide, "Cassian, kneel between my legs," he says with mild authority.

Cassian's throat bobs as he swallows. He stands and walks to Rhysand then gingerly lowers himself to kneel between his legs.

Rhysand still isn't hard. He strokes himself. After a moment he tips his head back and closes his eyes. His cock begins to harden and grow. When finally satisfied Rhysand says lowly, "I'm going to fuck that throat of yours." Cassian whimpers.

Rhysand gets a grip on the roots of Cassian's hair. He pulls him towards his cock. We just need to get this over with, Cassian thinks to himself, I just need to cry and then we can stop. The faster I cry the better.

He allows all his emotions to unlock. He allows his dread and despair to swallow him. He can feel the pin pricks of tears as Rhysand's cock enters his mouth.

Gods oh gods oh gods oh gods. This is it. And Cassian gags on Rhysand's cock. Rhysand pushes further. A tear falls as the pure stress of it floods his system. Rhysand pushes as far as he can and Cassian's nose smooshes into Rhysand's body. Rhysand thrusts but is still prevented him from breathing. Tears fall. Cassian thrashes and kicks his legs.

Rhysand pops him off his cock with a loud gasp from Cassian. He pants heavily. Rhysand turns Cassian's head, "How is this, my Queen?" Cassian looks at her with his mouth gaping, drool spilling, and kohl streaked tears run down his face.

Amarantha considers Cassian's appearance, "More. Do it again."

Cassian whimpers as Rhysand tugs his head back over and swiftly penetrates his mouth. He thrusts up fast causing Cassian to gag followed by a sob wracking through him. Now the tears stream. Rhysand thrusts in his throat and Cassian can't breath.

Rhysand pops Cassian off is cock with a loud wet gasp followed by a snot filled inhale. Tears are continuing to fall down Cassian's face brining kohl down his cheeks. His nose is red. His cheeks flushed. His lips swollen and slick with saliva. Rhysand turns Cassian's head to face Amarantha, "Will this do, my Queen?"

She claps her hands in delight, "Oh how lovely. Just absolutely lovely. Perfect."

She stands up happily, "Let me get a good look at you two."

Cassian lumbers up into a standing position. Rhysand puts himself back in his pants and stands then refastens them. He runs his hands down his clothing to straighten everything out.

Amarantha walks up to Rhysand and flicks her nails through his hair to style it. Then she goes to Cassian and does the same.

She steps back and evaluates them. "Yes, this will do well."

She ushers them to the door while she says, "Rhysand dear, you are my Court Consultant. Go to the dining room and mingle with the rest of my inner circle. Introduce yourself and get to know everyone else. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my Queen," Rhysand says with confidence.

She ushers them out the door and shuts it. Cassian and Rhysand look to each other. Rhysand mouths 'I'm sorry'. Cassian closes his eyes and nods then jerks his head to indicate they should get going. They leave Amarantha's suite, with Rhysand acknowledging the guards with a nod.

Rhysand and Cassian go through the hallways with Cassian in heel position to the left and behind Rhysand. They reach the set of double doors that are already open to the dining hall.

They cross the threshold and the individuals gathered all turn to face them. They are all high fae, save for one unsavory looking creature. He's as large as Cassian, with grey-green leathery skin, an elongated face, dog-like nose, and large bat-like wings. He stands alone with his forked tongue slithering in and out occasionally as he surveys the group.

Rhysand places his hands in his pockets as he strolls in. No one recognizes him by sight, but some are familiar with his name, while others just the 'Court of Nightmares', and others still have never heard of Rhysand nor his court.

Amarantha appears to have a gathered the necessary people to run a court. There is the High Commander of Her Legions, and a Master of Wards and Watch for security. She has the basics covered, like a Coinmaster and Court Scribe, and even a Master of Court Affairs to manage running the palace. Plus an emissary, Spymaster, and Dungeon Master.

Not many react to Cassian, they either eye him or ignore him. One actually inquired, and was impressed Rhysand had made someone his pet.

Rhysand turns to speak with the grey bat-like individual at the far side of the room, but Amarantha can be heard approaching by the sound of her shoes echoing through the halls. Everyone steps forward closer to the entrance of the room.

Amarantha steps in wearing a midnight blue dress and a black obsidian crown that looks suspiciously like Rhysand's. Everyone bows and say, "My Queen."

She casts her eyes across the group and smiles widely, "My inner circle. My closest confidants. We are starting something great together, a unified Court of Prythian. I hope you have all had an opportunity to meet each other." The group nods. She claps her hands, "Wonderful. Let's take our seats."

Everyone heads to their chairs. Rhysand goes straight to the head of the table and much to his relief he has a chair. Unfortunately, it's directly to the left of Amarantha. Between Rhysand and Amarantha is a cushion on the floor for Cassian.

Across from Rhysand, to Amarantha's right, is the grey bat-like creature. His forked tongue flicks in and out at seemingly random intervals. His hands are large with claws. It doesn't look like using a knife and fork would be comfortable for him.

Many lithe grey lesser fae file in carrying plates and place one plate for everyone. Rhysand was given normal portion sizes despite him feeding two. Surprisingly, the bat-like creature receives a plate with a heart and liver on it. Raw.

Rhysand starts cutting his food into small portions. He feeds Cassian a bite off his fork a moment after Cassian finishes chewing the previous offer. Rhysand is definitely feeding more to Cassian than he's eating himself.

The bat-like creature picks up his food with his hands and bites out of it. He eats quickly, three bites for the heart and two bites for the liver as it slides down his throat. He licks his hands and face clean.

The rest of the table has been chatting amongst themselves, providing a faint din in the background to the conversation at the head of the table.

The creature speaks when he's done cleaning himself. His voice is unnatural, like stones scraping together with an underlayer of a wet guttural hiss. "What is this?" he gestures to Cassian.

Amarantha answers, "This is Rhysand's pet, Cassian," she runs her nails through Cassian's hair.

"Why is he here? Pets should stay in their owner's room," the creature's pupils are vertical slits and they narrow at Cassian.

"He joins me everywhere," Rhysand says coolly.

"And I enjoy his company as well, isn't that right, Cassian dear?" she runs her nails down his neck to his shoulder.

"He's a security risk," the creature hisses.

Amarantha hums in contemplation, "He has a point, Rhysand."

"He may stay in my room if it pleases you, my Queen," Rhysand suggests.

"No," she says with a frown while running her nails through his hair again, "I do enjoy his company."

"We could remove his eyes and tongue and gouge out his ears," the creature suggests unflinchingly.

Amarantha hums in contemplation. Cassian's heart jumps into his throat. His heart beats faster. He tries to show no reaction but it's getting harder to breathe.

Amarantha turns Cassian's head to face her. She runs a nail from his brow, around his eye to his cheek, "These eyes are lovely,"

She reaches down to his mouth. She presses down on his bottom lip and he opens, "Stick out your tongue, Cassian dear." He nervously complies. Is this the moment she removes my tongue? She fondles the tongue ring with the tip of a nail. She hums contemplatively, "This tongue can perform... services." Fuck. Would I prefer no tongue, or eat her out? Serious question...

She reaches up to caress the edge of Cassian's ear. He retracts his tongue and closes his mouth. "He obeys so well to orders," she sticks a nail down his ear canal and applies pressure. Cassian freezes and breaks out into a cold sweat. Then she pulls her nail out, "No. He's too much of a good boy to take his hearing."

She removes her hand from him and tension washes off Cassian's shoulders. Rhysand offers him another bite of food giving him an excuse to turn away.

She turns to the creature, "I don't wish to modify him. I like him the way he is."

The creature's wings ruffle in agitation, "I've given my advice about him. It's your final decision, my Queen."

"Duly noted, Attor. Thank you. I will keep your caution in mind," she returns back to eating her lunch.

The rest talk amongst themselves, but do not bring Amarantha or the Attor into conversation. They do try to pull Rhysand into talking, but he provides curt bored responses.

The Dungeon Master, Malric, is looking forward to working with Rhysand because of his daemati abilities. Rhysand nor Amarantha let him know she's sapped away his powers.

The Spymaster, Vaelith, wants to consult with Rhysand and learn about his techniques with his spy network. She recalls the Night Court has an excellent spy network, but can't quite remember exactly why that was. Perhaps Rhysand can fill her in.

After everyone has finished eating and they're reclining in their chairs drinking their wine, Amarantha calls an end to lunch and bids them to move on to their meeting in the throne room. Chairs scrape against the floor in a cacophony as everyone moves back their chair to stand at the same time.

Amarantha leads them through the hallways to the grand carved double doors that are already open to the throne room. The room has a modest crowd all milling about tables of food. There are high fae present, but the crowd is mostly composed of the red soldier and grey servant lesser fae. Nostrus, Aíne, Helion, and the Vanserra brothers are also present, grouped together from everyone else.

Amarantha forgoes the pomp and circumstance for this crowd and just strolls in with her inner circle in tow. Someone announces, "The Queen!" and everyone turns to bow and part from the middle of the room so she may reach her throne unimpeded.

The Attor follows her as she heads to the throne. As she sits on the throne, he stands to the right of it. "Thank you," she says regally, "My inner circle, please approach."

The crowd is quiet and faces her, no longer engaging in the meal. The inner circle approaches and stands before her in a semicircle. Rhysand has Cassian kneel next to him and keeps a protective hand on his head.

"Coinmaster, please begin," Amarantha instructs.

The Coinmaster recalls a stack of parchment from the pocket between worlds. "I have created preliminary budgets for everyone," he begins as he hands out the parchment. He looks at the top parchment then goes to a specific individual because each parchment is limited to the budget for what that individual oversees. The Coinmaster goes on his spiel discussing how their budgets show the fungible and not fungible assets made available to them, and how this is all preliminary depending upon the results of the tithe in two days. He concludes his talk and returns to his spot in the semicircle.

"High Commander," she calls to him to speak.

"The forces we have shall be ready to deploy in four days time. We are in negotiations with Hybern to increase our forces. The negotiations are looking positive since your ascension to the throne."

Amarantha nods, "Master of Wards and Watch."

"There were no breaches of security during the recent influx of guests. We're continuing to expand secure areas available in the palace. We're hoping to have the entire palace secure in three weeks."

Amarantha purses her lips, "A large number of guests shall be coming in within the week, and continuing to grow for the week after. Where shall we put them?"

"What level of accommodations do they require?"

She shrugs, "Doesn't matter."

"It doesn't matter how many are squeezed into a space?"

"Not at all," she replies coolly.

"Then we should easily be able to accommodate a large number of guests in time. I shall prioritize securing space for them."

A female speaks up, "The space can't be too crowded else we won't be able to get food to them."

Amarantha rolls her eyes then waves a hand dismissively, "Alright. Eryx, work with Saelwyn while designating space for the guests so that they can access food." The Master of Wards nods.

"Dungeon Master. Report."

"I've been working with Eryx to secure the palace dungeon. We already have three prisoners there brought in by Vaelith."

Amarantha gets a sparkle in her eye, "Oh really, now? Please, do bring them up after our meeting concludes." He nods in acknowledgement.

"Speaking of Vaelith," she turns to the other female, "Spymaster. Report."

"There is much dissatisfaction across all of Prythian."

Amarantha purses her lips.

"The three prisoners I brought in are the rebellion leadership of their area. Hopefully their loss will sow confusion in the rest," she shakes her head, "Putting down rebels and discontents will require a very strong hand, my Queen."

"I see," Amarantha taps her nail on the arm of the throne in frustration.

She sighs dramatically, then continues, "Court Scribe, how is communications?"

"I am working with Caelan to set up a line of communication with all of Prythian's courts. There has been some push back. Caelan can speak to that."

"Emissary. Report."

"Yes, although the High Lords have all pledged themselves to you, their courts still are resistant. Disrespectful at best, and hostile at worse."

"Report what you know to Vaelith and let her manage the hostile courts."

"And finally, Saelwyn dear," Amarantha smiles, "Report, my Master of Court Affairs."

"My most pressing concern is kitchen staff. With the massive influx of guests we also need a massive influx of staff in the kitchens."

"I see," Amarantha sighs, "Work with Eryx. You can recruit staff from our pool of guests."

"Any other updates I should be aware of?" Amarantha asks. No one responds.

"Alright. All of you, please make your acquaintance with Rhysand here, my Court Consultant. He is High Lord of the Night Court, otherwise known as the Court of Nightmares. I take great inspiration from him," she smiles at Rhysand, "He will be making himself available to you all to advise you on any questions you may have. Please, do not be shy, and avail yourselves to his wealth of knowledge."

She turns to Saelwyn, "He'll require an office. Please designate one for him. Large enough to have meetings with two to four people at a time." Saelwyn nods.

"Any other comments or questions?" Amarantha gazes at each individual in turn. She claps her hands and a large smile grows across her face, "Malric, please do bring in the prisoners. It's time for some fun!"

The Dungeon Master bows and turns to leave.

Amarantha dismisses the inner circle to mingle. Rhysand and Cassian head straight to the tables of food since neither got a full lunch. Cassian's arms are still bound so Rhysand feeds him by hand.

"Amarantha didn't say anything to Malric when he said he wanted to use your powers. Think she'll give them back?" Cassian says subtly in a low voice.

"Don't discuss things in the open," Rhysand says under his hand.

Malric returns to the room with 5 fae in tow, a high fae and two lesser fae each with their hands bound behind them, bookended by red skinned soldiers. Malric presents the prisoners to Amarantha.

"I hear you are dissatisfied with me," Amarantha sneers.

A trembling lesser fae shouts, "I don't know you!" he looks around, "I don't know this place!" he looks back up to her and pleads, "I don't know what's happening!"

"I don't like liars," Amarantha snaps, "Cut off his tongue," she gestures to the Attor.

The Attor steps down off the dais and approaches the trembling fae who cowers, "No! I'm not lying! I'm not lying!"

The Attor grabs the lesser fae's smaller head in his large hand and shoves the index finger of his other hand into the fae's mouth. The fae screams and falls to his knees, and the Attor bends over with him. He scoops the tongue from the fae's mouth and eats it. The fae is bent forward, blood draining from his mouth as he continues to scream.

Amarantha smiles. She seems to enjoy the music of his screams. The Attor turns and walks back up the dais to Amarantha's side. Eventually the fae stops screaming and lays his forehead on the floor with his mouth gaped open and draining blood.

"As I was saying, I hear you are dissatisfied with me and are spreading dissension throughout your villages. That will not be tolerated," she says in a serious regal tone.

"Rhysand, approach," she commands.

Rhysand puts down his plate and approaches the dais with Cassian following. "Yes, my Queen. I'm at your service," he says with a small bow.

"I want you to demonstrate to Malric your court's flaying techniques," Amarantha says casually, "Don't do the entire body. Just the right hand and forearm. They'll then be returned to their villages as a message."

Rhysand bows, "Yes, my Queen."

"Let's do the demonstration here. Malric, bring in what's required to perform the flaying," she says coolly. Malric nods his head and exits the room.

She announces to the whole room, "Rhysand here is the High Lord of the Court of Nightmares. He has much to teach us. He'll be remaining with us as my Court Consultant for the foreseeable future."

An object rolling on wheels can be heard approaching. Malric enters the room holding a bag while other grey skinned lesser fae are pushing a large table on wheels behind him. In the rear is a grey fae carrying a small table. They approach the dais and situate the large table so it is centered to the throne. The small table is set next to the large table and Malric places his bag on top of it.

Malric opens the bag and begins removing knives of various sizes. He then jerks his chin to the soldiers who escorted the prisoners. They grab the nearest prisoner -- the high fae male -- and drag him struggling to the large table.

One soldier sweeps up the prisoner's feet and they plop him down onto the table. Straps are situated all around. They strap his ankle and knees. They fold him forward, cut off the rope binding his arms behind him then slam him back against the table and bind his wrists and elbows. They secure his hips, chest, neck, and forehead. At some point the prisoner accepted his fate and stopped struggling.

Malric steps back and gestures towards the display, "Rhysand, please, do the honors."

Rhysand strolls over to the demonstration area with Cassian following. He instructs Cassian to kneel at the foot of the large table, then sets about examining the knives. The prisoner looks up at him with wide terrified eyes.

"We have a tool that is specialized for flaying," Rhysand starts calmly, "I can make a drawing of it that you can pass on to your blacksmith. But for today's demonstration, I can make due with these provided knives. They are what we used prior to inventing the flaying tool we use now."

Rhysand takes the largest knife, "It's good to start with the broad strokes and work your way down to the smaller, more delicate areas."

He unstraps the prisoner's right wrist strap, "For limbs, you want to start closer to the torso and work your way to the hand, or in the case of the legs, the foot."

Rhysand has a firm grip on the prisoner's hand and positions the tip of the knife for the first cut. Malric gets in close to analyze the angle of the cuts. Rhysand slices down the arm from the elbow to the hand. The prisoner groans and clenches his jaw, and uselessly tries to pull himself away.

"After the first slice, insert the tip like this... and push through to the other side," Rhysand demonstrates, "Then all you have to do is pull the knife down," he quickly slides the knife from the elbow to hand and the prisoner's screams bounce off the walls of the throne room.

"Then just slice off the ends," Rhysand peals off the skin, "And there you have it." He holds up the strip of skin and it drips with blood onto the floor.

"Give it to the Attor," Amarantha says as she gestures for the Attor to move forward. The Attor descends the dais, snatches the strip of skin and eats it. He then positions himself near by to continue collecting the flayed skin.

Rhysand returns his attention back to the arm he is flaying, "Then you just repeat that same process around the entire limb," he inserts the knife and pulls down to separate another strip of skin. The prisoner continues to scream, pant, and thrash. Rhysand cuts off the strip and hands it to the Attor without looking up.

Rhysand continues to strip the prisoner of skin on his right forearm and give it to the Attor to eat. He shows how to get to the underside of the arm and avoid slicing any of the veins.

Rhysand straps the wrist back to the table, the restraint digging into the freshly flayed muscle, bone, and tendons. The prisoner's screaming has died down to hoarse grunts, whines, and whimpering.

Rhysand picks up a small delicate knife. "Flaying the hand is unusual, but it can be done," he holds up the delicate knife, "It's better to use a small blade and work in small strips. The process is much the same, just smaller." He slices down the side of the back of the hand then inserts the blade and slices off a strip, which he hands to the Attor. He continues to flay the prisoner's back of the hand.

"We tend to do just one slice on the back of the fingers," Rhysand demonstrates and flays all five fingers.

Rhysand puts down the knife and picks up a cloth and wipes his hands, "Malric, would you like to give the next one a try? I'll observe."

The soldiers start to release the prisoner. He is limp and placid. Exhausted. They pull him off the table and he stands on wobbly feet. The soldiers wrench his arms behind him and bind his flayed wrist to his whole wrist. He grunts and cries in pain.

The soldiers grab a thrashing lesser fae prisoner, plop him on the table and strap him down. The flayed prisoner sinks to his knees then flops to his side on the floor.

"Although this fae has a different skin type, the process is much the same," Rhysand explains.

Malric begins the process of flaying the second prisoner while Rhysand observes and provides suggestions where appropriate. Screams again echo and reverberate off the walls in the throne room, drowning out most sounds. Malric slices off the skin and feeds it to the Attor, bit by bit, strip by strip until he's completed down to the last finger.

The soldiers pull the exhausted prisoner off the table and bind his wrists behind him. He, too, sinks to his knees and flops to his side onto the floor.

The soldiers pick up the prisoner with the freshly removed tongue. His mouth is still dripping blood. They plop his body onto the large table, he doesn't struggle nearly as much as they strap him down.

Malric sets to flaying his arm. The prisoner has wet screams and spittles of blood fly from his mouth. This prisoner struggles with the bleeding in his mouth. He thrashes his head but it won't budge. He swallows and coughs, spraying blood onto Malric's and Rhysand's faces.

Gods! He's going to drown on his blood! Cassian thinks to himself, No one is saying anything. Why isn't anyone saying anything? Surely Rhysand can see he's close to death! Should I say something? What would happen if I spoke up?

Gurgling bubbles from the prisoner's mouth and his body starts to convulse instead of thrash. His convulsions come in short bursts between stillness. And then he's just merely still. I delayed too much from indecision, and now he's dead. I should have said something.

"It is much easier to perform on the dead," Malric comments. It's the only acknowledgement to the prisoner's passing. Malric finishes flaying and feeding the skin to the Attor.

Malric picks up the cloth and wipes his hands, "Thank you for the demonstration, Rhysand. Although I knew much of it, I did gain some new insight. I am also eager to have that tool of yours made and see a demonstration with that." Rhysand merely inclines his head.

"Thank you for the demonstration, Rhysand," Amarantha says to him, then switches to an announcement tone, "Court is concluded for the day. Everyone please use this time to prepare for the revelry this evening. Wear something... sexy," she winks, then turns to Rhysand, "Cassian looks perfect as he is. Don't change a thing." Rhysand nods.

Rhysand collects Cassian and walks them to the outer edge of the assembled fae. Amarantha snaps her fingers repeatedly then orders, "Return the equipment, return the surviving prisoners to their villages, and butcher the dead one," she waves her hand dismissively at the scene before her. The soldiers take the live prisoners away, and the grey lesser fae swarm the scene to remove everything from the throne room.

Murmuring in the room grows as the crowd begins to mingle as they make their way out of the throne room. The Prythian natives are still grouped together and make no attempt to engage Rhysand. Skeptical looks are thrown his way, though.

Rhysand and Cassian slowly leave the room with the crowd. The amount of fae surrounding them decreases as fae break off down different corridors until it's just the Prythian natives walking down their shared hallway. They each peel off to enter their rooms without a word or acknowledgement.

As soon as the door shuts and closes Rhysand and Cassian into their room, Rhysand whirls on Cassian and grabs his shoulders, "I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry I did that to you."

"It wasn't you, it was her," Cassian assures him.

Rhysand breaks way and paces while pulling his hair at its roots, "But it was me. I did do it. And I fucking liked it, and I don't know what to do with that. Fuck!"

"Can you unbind my arms?"

"Yes! Sorry!" Rhysand dashes over to Cassian and unbinds his arms and tosses the restraints onto the chest of drawers. Cassian starts to rub his arms, but Rhysand grabs one and starts massaging it.

"I feel sick that I liked it. I wanted it. I don't want to hurt you any more, though. I've hurt you enough," Rhysand laments.

"I know you don't want to hurt me, Rhysand, that's why I don't blame you. It was Amarantha, not you," Cassian reassures.

"She's making me hurt the innocent," Rhysand whispers, "Those fae just now, I'm positive they were innocent. And I have to throw on this Court of Nightmares mask and just go along with it," he sighs.

"She knows you're wearing a mask. That you're pretending. She's trying to break you," Cassian whispers.

"It's working," he replies in kind.

Rhysand moves on to massage Cassian's other arm. They both watch his work in silence.

"You take care of me, and I appreciate it," Cassian says softly.

"I hurt you. It's the least I can do," Rhysand responds with guilt in his tone.

Rhysand sighs when he finishes massaging Cassian's arms, "I need to wash this blood off of me..."

"You didn't say anything as he was dying. Why not?"

Rhysand runs his hand through his hair, "No tongue, flayed hand... I thought, I thought he was better off dead," he looks up at Cassian, "It may have been the wrong call."

Cassian shakes his head, "It was a tough call. I almost spoke up, but got lost in indecision and then it was too late."

Rhysand's eyes go wide and he grabs Cassian's shoulders, "Do not speak up. Do not express your opinions. You are seen, not heard. Do you hear me?" Cassian nods. "I am serious. It is mortally dangerous if you express your opinions."

"I understand."

"And don't speak about what's happening here outside of this room. We don't know who is listening. We don't know who is betraying us," Rhysand sighs, "That's why I wouldn't talk with the others this morning. It was so dangerous for them to all stand together and try to literally discuss treason together."

"You're right."

Rhysand wraps Cassian up in an embrace, "Please be careful. I don't know what I would do without you."

"I'll be more careful."

Rhysand steps away, "I'm going to wash up so I can be ready when they summon us." Cassian nods. Rhysand goes into the bathing chamber.

Cassian remembers that Rhysand's wardrobe was brought here, so he investigates the room again. Sure enough, the wardrobe is filled with black clothing and the drawers with more black. He calls over to Rhysand to tell him his clothes are here.

Cassian snags his book and snuggles up onto the bed to read.

Rhysand comes back into the room nude except for the chain with a medallion hanging from his nipple rings. He heads to the drawers, finds and puts on some underwear.

"Want some underwear?" Rhysand dangles a pair up to Cassian.

"Oh gods, yes," Cassian crawls across the bed and snags the underwear. Silky black. Lovely. He takes off his pants to put them on then puts his pants on again. He thinks he needs to wash the pants tonight.

Rhysand picks through his shirts in the wardrobe. He pulls out a sheer black shirt with stars embroidered on it and puts it on. He picks a pair of pants that fit tightly on his body. He buttons up the shirt half way so the top of his chest and tattoos are clearly visible.

He shows off to Cassian, "Sexy enough?" Cassian chuckles and nods.

Rhysand grabs a pair of socks and shoes and sits at the table next to his books to put them on.

"So, what I was wondering about earlier," Cassian starts, "That Amarantha didn't correct Malric about your daemati powers. Do you think she'll give any power back to you?"

Rhysand blows out some air and runs his hand through his hair, "I don't want to hope. I'm not thinking about it."

"I get it," Cassian says as he looks back at his book, "I was the same way when you first captured me. Hope was painful." Rhysand gives him a pained look.

They read in silence until there is a knock on the door. It opens and a grey lesser fae enters, "The evening activities have begun. I am to escort you to the VIP area"

Rhysand stands and grabs the arm restraint from the chest of drawers, and Cassian clambers over the bed and hops off. He turns his back to Rhysand with his arms folded and Rhysand buckles in the arm restraint. Much much looser than it was earlier.

Rhysand nods to the escort to indicate they're ready to be lead to the revelry.

The escort leads them to a modestly sized room. The left and right walls are lined in a long wall-to-wall couch. The far end has an opulent hearth, and the center has an array of small round end-tables and large low-backed chairs that could sit two people in an intimate fashion. Flanking the door are tables of food and drink.

Some people are already present. Most appear to be those from the inner circle and a couple have partners accompanying them.

As Rhysand and Cassian enter, they are stopped and told to open their mouths and stick out their tongue. They glance at each other but then comply. A pill is placed on their tongues and they're told to swallow. They comply and eye each other again. What the fuck did we just take?

Rhysand grabs a plate of food and goblet of wine and makes his way across the room nodding at everyone in respect. He chooses the chair closest to the fire so Cassian can enjoy the heat. He sits in the chair legs wide and indicates for Cassian to lounge between his legs. Cassian sits and leans partially against the chair and partially against Rhysand's leg. Rhysand places a hand on Cassian's neck and rubs soothing circles on the back of his neck.

Cassian was nervous, but seems to be calming down. The fire is very pleasant. It might just be the most pleasant fire he's ever encountered. He gazes at the flames and they radiate colors he's never seen before. He's fascinated. And gods, the light massage Rhysand is giving his neck is just heavenly.

Rhysand offers food for Cassian to eat from his fingers. He eats it and it tastes delicious. Like nothing he's tasted before. This is turning into a nice evening.

More fill the room. All of the inner court appear and about half have a partner with them. The Prythian natives also appear. They sit together on the opposite corner from Rhysand and Cassian. A couple other singles and couples appear he hasn't seen before.

"Your Queen approaches," a grey fae announces. Everyone jumps up to stand.

Amarantha enters the room wearing a bright red sleeveless dress that plunges between her breasts to her navel, and slits up the sides showing off both her legs. Everyone bows.

"Please everyone, as you were! We're here to relax and enjoy ourselves," Amarantha says merrily.

The attendees all retake their seats. Amarantha saunters through the room greeting and running her hand across shoulders and faces as she passes them.

Shortly after Amarantha arrives, male and female high fae in barely-there clothing start filing into the room. Amarantha smiles with glee, "The entertainment is here. Please everyone, enjoy them. However you would like."

A female approaches Rhysand from behind and runs her hands down his chest, "Hello, handsome," she coos in his ear. He closes his eyes and tips his head back. She runs a hand inside his half-buttoned shirt and lightly tugs on the chain attached to his nipple rings. He gasps and subtly bucks.

Another female kneels down in front of Cassian, "What do we have here?" She runs a nail down the side of his face. It feels luxurious. She frowns and coos, "Have you been sad?" He dumbly nods. "Would you like me to make you happy?" He grins and nods.

She looks so radiant to Cassian. She's glowing, literally glowing. Is she an angel? He wishes he had his hands. He wants to run his hands all over her body. He leans forward to get closer to her and pulls on his restraints.

"Oh, are you all tied up, my sad one?" she sings beautifully. Cassian nods and frowns. He leans further closer to her, his lips part. She leans forward and they share breath. He can smell her and drinks in her aroma.

His cock hardens. It's growing more than it has been while caged. It's pressing hard against the bars and starts to ache. But oh, even the aching feels good. Just... everything feels amazing. Wouldn't she feel amazing? Gods. I want my hands. He struggles against his restraints again.

She takes both her hands and gently caresses down both of Cassian's arms. He closes his eyes and moans. Fuuuuuck. I could cum from just this alone. Please sweetheart, keep going.

She removes her touch and he whimpers and opens his eyes. "You feel pretty good, don't you my sad one." He nods fervently. "You want more?"

"Please," he whispers his plea.

"Ohh, my sad one speaks." He nods dumbly.

She runs a nail down his thigh. He pants. She hums, "So responsive, my sad one is."

He nods and breathes heavy, "More," he whispers.

She cups both sides of his face in her hands. He shivers. She bends forward and just barely has their noses touch. Their breath caress each other's lips.

"Please," his voice cracks as he begs.

Her tongue darts out and licks across Cassian's bottom lip and she backs up to gaze at his face. He whimpers. "Please," he whispers, "Please."

She hums, "Do you want a kiss, my sad one?"

"Please," he's so desperate he almost wants to cry. He needs this. He wants her so badly. It's like he's never wanted anything this badly before in his life. Her touch is heavenly.

She leans back in achingly slowly while still cupping his face preventing him from moving. She ever so slowly bends forward, their lips almost touch. He presses forward trying to close the gap. And then suddenly she sucks his bottom lip into her mouth and pulls. Fuuuuuck. Don't stop, sweetheart. Don't stop.

She leans back to gaze at him and he whimpers. "Please, sweetheart, please," he croaks.

"Oh, am I your sweetheart, my sad one?"

"Yes," he gasps.

She scooches forward so their legs touch and then leans in again. She gets closer, their breaths mingle, then finally, finally, she presses her lips onto his. He moans. She licks the seam of his lips, he opens, and their tongues explore each other. He continues to moan. This is his best kiss of his 500 years of life.

He feels molten in his core and snake around his body. He could absolutely cum from this. What is with her? Why is she so amazing? Every touch from her feels orgasmic.

Her hand rests on his knee as they continue to explore each other's mouths. She moves up his thigh slowly and his cock feels as if it could burst that cage open on its own, magic be damned. She reaches higher and higher and then reaches the hardness of his cock cage. She gently feels around it to gauge what it is.

"Oh, my sad one, are you restrained here, too?" He nods. "Is that why you're so sad?" He nods again.

"Please," he whispers, "more."

She maneuvers herself so she's curled up around Cassian, fit also between Rhysand's legs. Rhysand is having his own drug-induced encounter. A female has one hand down his shirt and the other down his pants as he has his head tipped back and panting.

Cassian leans towards her to find her lips again. She acquiesces and allows him to explore her mouth with his tongue. She runs her hands around his chest, every time she caresses his pierced nipples Cassian shudders.

Cassian breaks the kiss and purrs in her ear, "Sweetheart, you're so amazing. The most amazing female I've ever encountered." He kisses down her neck.

She giggles, "I bet you think I am."

"I don't think, I know it, sweetheart," he purrs. She giggles and leans down to suck a nipple into her mouth. "Oh gods, sweetheart, yes, oh gods," Cassian babbles. That molten bliss in his core is snapping its tail ready to explode.

"Rhysand dear," Amarantha calls. The female stops and looks up towards the direction of her voice. Cassian kisses down her neck and chest. She gently pushes him away as she continues to look behind Rhysand. Cassian whimpers.

"Rhysand," she pulls the female playing with him away, "We can't have you having too much fun, now can we." It's Rhysand's turn to whimper.

Amarantha leans over Rhysand from behind and sticks a hand down his shirt. She hums in approval as she tugs on the chain connecting his nipple rings, "Remember who you belong to, Rhysand."

The female playing with Cassian moves to get up. He whimpers pleadingly, loudly. "I'm sorry, my sad one, it's time for me to go," she gives him one last deep kiss on the lips then stands and saunters away.

He pulls and thrashes against his arm restraints wanting so badly to grab her and pull her back. "Please, sweetheart," he begs.

"I'm sorry, my sad one," she waves and walks away out of his line of sight. He whimpers. His cock throbs.

He looks up behind himself and sees Amarantha draped over Rhysand from behind him, her hands down his shirt and his head tipped back and panting. Cassian is so jealous. He whines.

Cassian turns so he's kneeling facing them. He looks up at them in longing. Amarantha notices.

"Cassian dear, are you feeling lonely?" she coos. He nods.

"Rhysand, your pet needs attention," she playfully admonishes.

He tilts his head back up. Cassian can see his pupils are blown and eyes heavy lidded with lust. Rhysand reaches out with both hands and runs his nails over Cassian's scalp. Cassian groans and leans forward to rest his forehead next to Rhysand's hardened cock.

Rhysand rubs and massages Cassian's head as Amarantha plays with the chain under Rhysand's shirt.

"We should take this to my private quarters," Amarantha coos.

She stands up and rounds the chair to pull on Rhysand's arm. He sits forward and indicates for Cassian to get up. He groans and stumbles up to his feet. Amarantha pulls on Rhysand's hand and he follows. Cassian follows those two.

Cassian can see what's happening in the rest of the room now. Everyone is glowing. Everyone is radiant. There are angels everywhere. So many are enjoying each other, or enjoying themselves with their hands down their pants. Cassian stumbles forward wanting to join any of them. Wants any of them to touch him, kiss him, whisper things in his ear.

They get to the threshold of the room and Amarantha says, "Give these two another dose." A pill is brought in front of his face. He struggles to focus on it, but then just opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue. The pill is placed in his tongue and starts to melt. He swallows it.

Amarantha leads Rhysand by the hand down the hallway and Cassian follows on wobbly legs. She leads them into her suite and straight to her bedroom.

"Strip," she says to Rhysand. He promptly begins unbuttoning his shirt. He drops it to the floor. He unties his pants and drops them to the floor and steps out. He lowers his underwear and his hardened length springs forth.

"Sit on the bed, back against the headboard," Rhysand crawls onto the bed and sits at the head.

Amarantha points to a spot on the floor near the bed, "Cassian dear, kneel here and watch Rhysand and I." He complies and kneels in place.

Amarantha drops her dress and it slides down her body to the floor. She steps out and crawls along the bed to Rhysand. She straddles and sits in his lap.

She leans forward and captures Rhysand's lips. They kiss deeply and fervently. She runs her hands over his chest, picks up the heavy medallion, and drops it so it tugs on his nipple rings. He gasps in her mouth and she hums appreciatively.

Cassian is dying to be touched. His entire body is tingling just begging for more more more. He whimpers. Amarantha chuckles.

Amarantha raises herself, positions Rhysand's cock, and sinks down his length. He tilts his head back and moans.

"Don't you dare cum before me," she warns.

He tilts his head forward, "No, my Queen," he gasps.

She takes his hands and places them on her ass. She begins to grind against him and captures his lips in another deep kiss.

Cassian groans. He wants to touch something, anything. He'll just rub against the side of the bed if she'll let him. The lack of stimulation is driving him crazy.

"Please," Cassian begs.

Amarantha breaks the kiss with Rhysand and looks to Cassian as she grinds on Rhysand's cock. "Cassian dear, is there something you want?" He nods fervently.

"What do you want, Cassian dear?"

"More, please," he whines.

"More what?"

"I want to be touched. I want to touch something. Please."

"You'll have to wait, Cassian dear."

He leans forward groaning all the way until his forehead touches the floor. He whimpers as he stays in that position.

"Sit up, Cassian dear. Watch us."

He groans and sits up. He watches Amarantha bounce on Rhysand's cock and feels like he's going to pop. He sees Rhysand's hands grip her ass and Cassian flexes his own hands wishing he could be touching someone, too.

Amarantha tilts her head back and pants as she works herself on Rhysand's cock. Rhysand loses himself, too, gripping her ass to pull her in as he thrusts up into her.

Amarantha whips out a hand and clenches Rhysand's throat, "Don't you dare stop!"

"Never, my Queen," he gasps through his strangled throat.

Rhysand has raspy gasps as he struggles to breathe while Amarantha writhes and convulses on top of him, moaning all the while. Finally she stops and collapses back onto the bed, her chest heaving.

Rhysand's cock had slid out and now stands at attention between her splayed out legs. He mindlessly takes his hand and starts stroking himself, wanting to finish.

She sits up and stills his hand, "You don't cum until I tell you to."

A pained expression crosses Rhysand's face, but he says, "Yes, my Queen," with a breathy voice.

Amarantha rolls over and splays across the bed. Cassian whines.

"Your pet wants attention, Rhysand."

Rhysand lowers his hand to the side of the bed, "Cassian, come here."

Cassian quickly crawls over to Rhysand's hand and rubs his face against it. Rhysand caresses his face then moves on to his scalp and runs his nails through Cassian's hair. It feels divine. Cassian rests his head against the edge of the bed and lets Rhysand scritch all over his scalp. He moans happily.

Amarantha shifts and begins to run a hand down Rhysand's chest. She pulls on the chain connecting his nipple rings. Rhysand leans forward to follow the chain.

"You forgot who you belong to today, Rhysand dear. You allowed that other female to touch you."

Rhysand gasps as she tugs on the chain, "I'm sorry, my Queen. She came up behind me, and I lost myself."

"That's no excuse," she takes a nipple ring and twists. He gasps and groans as he leans forward into her pulling on him. "You must defend what is mine," she growls.

"I'm sorry, my Queen!" he gasps through the pain.

She releases him and he falls back against the headboard, panting.

Amarantha pulls on Rhysand's shoulder and she rolls onto her back to pull him over on top of her, "Fuck me again, Rhysand dear."

Rhysand's hand leaves Cassian's head and he whines. He looks up on top of the bed and sees Rhysand positioning his cock at her entrance. Gods, I wish I was doing that. I wish I could just feel that wet warmth around my cock. A shudder courses through him.

She grabs hold of Rhysand's neck and squeezes, her nails digging in puncture marks. "Don't you dare cum, Rhysand. Don't. You. Dare."

"No, my Queen," he says with a literally strangled voice.

Rhysand pushes his cock into Amarantha and she throws her head back and gasps. She wraps her legs around him and drags the nails of her free hand down his back slicing the skin as it goes.

She holds his neck up and lightly strangles him as he thrusts inside her. She meets his thrusts with her own.

Cassian rests his chin on the bed and watches Rhysand's ass rise and fall as he thrusts into Amarantha's heat. He rubs his face left and right against the bed just so he is feeling something. Anything. His skin is tingling all over demanding to be touched, caressed, loved. He whimpers. His body is in agony from desire.

Amarantha releases her grip on Rhysand's neck and wraps her arms around his back pulling him close. Rhysand collapses on top of her and buries his face in her neck as he continues to thrust, snapping his hips in as he goes.

She scrabbles against his skin as she arches her back. Her scrabbling leaves scratch marks all along his back, some light, some deep.

She moans loudly, almost a yell, as her body writhes and thrashes under Rhysand's hold. She meets Rhysand's thrusts with her own.

She slows down then stills and says, "Stop, enough." Rhysand stills in turn. After a few moments she unceremoniously shoves him off her and he rolls onto his back next to her.

Cassian whines. Maybe they'll pay attention to me now.

"Your poor pet is so starved of touch, Rhysand dear."

Rhysand hums. He lifts an arm and says, "Cassian, come." Cassian pops up and crawls onto the bed under Rhysand's arm and cuddles into his side, resting his head on Rhysand's shoulder. Rhysand runs his hand up and down Cassian's back between his wings. Cassian shudders from pure pleasure.

Rhysand moves his ministrations onto Cassian's wing, who is absolutely into it. He stretches his wing out and over Rhysand's body to give him more access. Rhysand adds his other hand, caressing the membranes and massaging the joints. It's just perfect.

The sensations on his wing are ecstatic. Molten warmth grows in his core. He'd rut, but doesn't want to rub his cock cage into Rhysand's leg, so he just uselessly thrusts shallowly. He rubs his face along Rhysand's chest and shoulder to feel more more more. Every touch feels amazing.

The molten warmth in his core grows and envelopes him in a cocoon. He's lost in the sensations. Rhysand continues his work on Cassian's wing without ceasing. Cassian buries his face in Rhysand's chest and starts to moan. His useless thrusting increases. The the cocoon wraps tight around him. "Gods. Yes!" Cassian gasps and he's tossed off the edge and his body writhes against Rhysand's side as he rides a wave of pleasure. Cassian stills and Rhysand moves his ministrations to Cassian's back and hair.

"Do you feel better, Cassian dear?" Amarantha coos. Cassian nods with his face still buried in Rhysand's side.

Amarantha rolls off the bed and saunters to a drawer. She pulls something out and saunters back to the bed.

"Cassian dear, go kneel back where you were." He groans and rolls off the bed and positions himself where he was earlier.

"Rhysand, if I recall correctly, you would tie Cassian up to the bed for him to sleep every night. Then you'd fuck him whenever you wanted to," she says as she pulls one of his arms above his head.

"Yes, my Queen, I did."

She hums in acknowledgement as she locks Rhysand's wrist to the headboard. She grabs his other arm and brings it above his head to lock it as well to the headboard.

She crawls onto the bed, straddles Rhysand and immediately sinks herself down onto his cock. He groans and closes his eyes.

That pleasure is short lived as she whips out a hand and grips his throat to strangle him once again, "Don't you dare cum," she growls.

"No. No, my Queen," he squeezes out through his strangled throat.

She rides him as Rhysand does what he can to breathe while Cassian kneels and watches. Cassian's post-nut clarity breaks through the drugs momentarily and he suddenly realizes how incredibly fucked up this entire situation is. Horror at what is happening sinks into his gut, but then it gradually soothes once again and he's back into a haze of intense desire wondering why he thought anything was wrong a moment ago. The only thing that's wrong is he's being ignored. He whimpers.

Amarantha moans loudly and snaps her hips to grind Rhysand's cock. She pants then collapses to the side and closes her eyes.

Cassian whines and looks up at Rhysand, and he returns a sympathetic expression. There's nothing Rhysand can do while his wrists are bound to the headboard. Cassian whimpers.

Amarantha is still and her breathing has become deep and slow. She's asleep. Cassian dares to shuffle over to the bed, rests his chin on the edge and looks up at Rhysand and whimpers. Rhysand mouths 'I'm sorry' with sympathy. Cassian rubs his face on the bed wanting more more more.

Cassian's skin wants to be touched everywhere. He sways back and forth along the silk sheets on the side of the bed. They feel great. He sways and then one of his nipples gets some friction and the piercing drags along the silk, and it feels wonderful. He sways so both nipples get attention. He unfurls his wings and flexes them forward so the front edge glides across the silk. He's lost at how wonderful it feels as he caresses himself along the silk sheets.

Cassian looks up and sees Rhysand's hardened cock still at attention. Rhysand's been hard for awhile without reprieve and it's starting to ache, but Cassian doesn't know that. He just sees the cock that has made him feel spectacular before, and wishes it could make him feel great again now. Gods, I want more more more.

He considers crawling back onto the bed so he can rub himself along Rhysand again. But Amarantha is right there. She might object. He's hazy with intense desire but he remembers it's dangerous to offend Amarantha.

Cassian feels like he could pop if he doesn't get more more more. He whimpers.

"Cassian dear," Amarantha groans, "You need to be patient."

Cassian stills. He doesn't want to upset her, but the lack of stimulation builds up uncomfortably in his body and he releases a pathetic whimper.

He rests his chin on the edge of the bed and opens and closes his wings so the front edge glides along the silk sheets while he stares at Rhysand's cock standing at attention. He wants that cock used on him. But nothing can be done without Amarantha's say so. Both Cassian and Rhysand have their hands bound. Amarantha is the only one in the room with hands available. Cassian whines.

Rhysand closes his eyes and then his breathing, too, deepens and evens out. Now Cassian is the only one awake. Fuck. Awake and frustrated. Fuck. He rubs his face along the silk as he glides the front of his wings along it, too.

Eventually his consciousness starts to wane, too. He finds himself startled awake as he suddenly tips over, but then starts back up with rubbing himself along the silk sheets. Eventually, the sleepiness wins out. He startles awake tipping over and decides to just go with it and gently lowers himself to the floor and sleeps.

 

***

 

The bed creaking just barely rouses Cassian to consciousness. He hears Amarantha demand, "Don't you dare cum," and Rhysand's strangled reply, "No, my Queen." Cassian falls back asleep to the rhythmic motions of the bed and Rhysand's strangled gasps for breath.

Chapter Text

Cassian is repeatedly woken up to Amarantha's demands, Rhysand's strangled replies, and the rhythmic shifting of the bed. Again, and again, Amarantha rides Rhysand's cock while strangling his neck.

Cassian helplessly lays on the floor next to the bed. He doesn't know what he should do. He doesn't know what he can do. Rhysand is being used again and again and all Cassian can do is listen.

Rhysand used to use me this way. Cassian is still angry about those days. The outrageous entitlement to use someone else's body. To violate someone's body that way. Two years of it, and he was changed... or unlocked. He still doesn't know which. Have I always wanted to be cared for so completely? I think so... He misses the mother he didn't have an opportunity to appreciate. Have I always wanted a Dom? Maybe... He sunk into a soldier's role so readily, and there was always a part of him that wanted the same in the bedroom.

Amarantha gets off the bed and Cassian watches her nude backside saunter into the bathing chamber, her long red hair gently swinging with each step before she disappeared behind the door. Cassian wants to get up and check on Rhysand, but he's afraid to do something Amarantha might object to. He hears the water of a tub turn on, so he decides to chance it.

He sits up and looks over Rhysand. His wrists are still tied to the headboard, and he looks wrecked. His torso and chest are covered in scratches. Some look really deep and will require extra care to treat. His nipples are purple and red, his neck black and blue with bleeding puncture marks.

Cassian looks into Rhysand's violet eyes and pours in all the sympathy he can muster. He meets Cassian's gaze for a moment, and then averts his gaze to the opposite side of the bed. Rhysand's face is blank. Hollow. Empty.

Cassian wishes he had something to offer him. Even if it were just a hand. But he doesn't even have that. His arms are folded and restrained behind him. All he can offer is eye contact, and Rhysand won't accept.

Cassian takes another glance across Rhysand's bruised and scratched body. Even on his worse days, Rhysand never did anything like this to him. He never battered Cassian for his own pleasure. He would hurt him to punish him, sure. And Rhysand admitted he held back because he wanted to reserve for punishment things he had wanted to do more of.

Amarantha is just wantonly brutalizing Rhysand. Does she have a plan like Rhysand did? Is she organized and calculated like Rhysand was? Or is she just doing whatever her sadistic heart desires?

The door to the bathing chamber opens and Cassian spins around with his eyes wide. He had wanted to lay back down before Amarantha came back out. She comes strolling into the room with her hair damp, but towel dried, completely nude with her porcelain white skin on full display.

"Aww, you are such a good boy, aren't you, Cassian," Amarantha coos in that sickly way of hers, "Checking in on your master, are you?" Cassian nods dumbly. He doesn't know the rules of this game, only that breaking them gets someone hurt. He lowers himself to sit his butt on the floor and fold his legs in front of him.

She walks right up to Cassian and cups his chin in her hand, "I wonder when Rhysand will care for me so much."

"Now, my Queen," Rhysand responds hoarsely through his abused throat, "That time is now."

Suddenly Rhysand writhes on the bed, his legs kick and his back arches, but no sound leaves his throat. He twists and pulls on the restraints on his wrists.

"Such pretty words, Rhysand, but I know they are lies!" her tone constrains down to a mere hiss by the end of her words. Rhysand stops writhing and flops down exhausted, gasping and panting loudly.

Amarantha turns and strides towards her wardrobe, "I wonder when Rhysand will stop lying to me," she angrily opens her wardrobe. She pulls out a simple dark grey dress and puts it on. Cassian notes she didn't put on any underthings. Perhaps she never wears underthings.

She sits at the vanity. She waves at her hair causing it to magically dry, then picks up a heavy, polished blackwood brush with boar bristles and runs it through her red silky hair. Each stroke is slow, methodical, almost ritualistic. She starts at the crown of her head and drags the bristles all the way down to the ends in one continuous, even pull. She doesn’t rush. She brushes with the steady patience of someone sharpening a blade.

Her expression doesn’t change. No relaxation, no absent-mindedness. Just cold, detached perfection, as if taming her own hair is the first battle of the day -- and she never loses battles. She carefully puts down her brush, perfectly aligned with the side of the vanity, and assesses her image in the mirror.

She picks up a pot of dark, blood-red pigment and a brush with a thin delicate tip. She dips the brush in the pigment and begins to paint the color onto her lips. Her hand is too tense, though, and the brush slips painting a line from the corner of her lip up to her cheek. For a long moment she just stares at her reflection. Frozen.

Then she slowly, with an artificial calmness, places the brush onto the vanity.

She picks up a scrap of linen and wipes the smear away with ruthless, scraping strokes that leave her skin reddened beneath. She reapplies the lipstick, this time moving slower, too slow, the carefulness of it barely masking the tremor coiled in her jaw.

When she finishes, her lips are a perfect, violent red again, but her cheek still bears the faint ghost of the scrubbed-out mistake, a rawness she couldn't fully erase.

She leans in closer to the mirror, studying her reflection like an enemy she must conquer, her breathing measured but slightly too deep, as if she were steadying herself for a kill.

Amarantha stands and assesses the two males at her bed. She rakes her eyes across Rhysand's body. Then wordlessly, emotionlessly, she turns and exits the room. The door snicks behind her and a lock clicks.

 

Cassian remains stone still. The room is quiet, but not peaceful. It's the kind of quiet that comes after a bomb has exploded. And now he and Rhysand are stranded, alone in the aftermath.

Cassian kneels and turns to face Rhysand, who still won't meet his gaze. His eyes are open but staring blankly away from Cassian.

Cassian lumbers to his feet then sits on the bed. Gingerly. Carefully. He's not sure what Rhysand needs right now. Well, what Rhysand needs right now is healing ointment and bandages. But I can't offer that, either.

Rhysand glances over to Cassian and up to his eyes momentarily. But only momentarily, then his eyes dart back to stare at the other side of the bed. Cassian so wishes he just had a hand he could lay on Rhysand's knee. But he can't. He flexes his useless fingers, frustrated at how little he can do. He has nothing to offer but his presence.

Cassian tucks one knee up onto the bed, then the other, shifting his weight carefully as he climbs beside Rhysand. He scooches over so he's knee to knee with Rhysand, and then lays down next to him. Facing him. He had to do this carefully because Rhysand's torso is covered in slashes, even down his side. He wraps his feet around Rhysand's leg. It's the only place he can touch him without causing more harm.

Cassian breaks the silence, "You're not alone," he whispers, "I've got you."

Rhysand's breath hitches, then it shifts so every inhale is a little shaky.

After a long silence of watching slow deep breaths, Rhysand speaks hoarsely, softly, "I don't deserve you."

"I've got you," Cassian whispers into the quiet, "and I trust that you have me." Cassian uses a foot to gently caress across Rhysand's calf.

Rhysand's body tremors slightly, like he's holding something back -- his grief, most likely. His breath becomes slow and measured, with a pause between each inhale and exhale. Cassian recognizes it as the technique Rhysand has used to help him calm down. All Cassian can do is caress Rhysand's calf with his foot.

Cassian breathes with Rhysand. Inhale, pause, exhale, pause. Eventually it evens out into a deep, yet natural rhythm. Cassian breathes along with that, too.

"I thought," Rhysand suddenly speaks, his voice hoarse and soft, "I thought I could do this without brea--" he cuts himself off with a swallow.

"I thought," Rhysand starts again softly, "I could keep... something of myself..." he licks his dry lips and swallows, "... safe."

Rhysand's breath shakes with every inhale again. He abruptly takes a deep inhale and holds onto that air tightly with his eyes screwed shut. A grimace crosses his face and silver lines his eyelashes. He holds this, then his face relaxes and he lets out a slow measured exhale. His breathing rhythm returns, but seems to hold his exhales.

"I've got you, Rhysand," Cassian whispers.

Rhysand's eyes pop open, "Stop!" his voice is scratchy but firm and loud in the deathly quiet of this room. "Just stop it!"

Cassian sits up so he can look into Rhysand's face. "Stop touching me!" that face barks at him. Cassian jumps away so he's sitting at the foot of the bed.

Rhysand twists his body and pulls on the wrist restraints. "You don't have me!" he grounds out through clenched teeth, "I don't have you!" he bucks and tugs on the restraints, "We're alone!" he yells out in emphasis.

Cassian stares, calculating what's happening. Rhysand is writhing and twisting on the restraints. He's losing it. He's going to hurt himself. What can I do? I only have myself. My presence.

"We're together," Cassian says gently.

"No we're not!" Rhysand bucks and kicks his legs.

"I have you," equally as gently.

"No you don't," but less loud. He writhes left and right but has stopped bucking and kicking.

"You have me."

"No I --" his breath hitches, "I don't. No I don't," he says breathily through his sore throat. He's on his side and has mostly become still but remains keeping tension on the wrist restraints, pulling them taut. His whole body held tight with the tension.

"I can't," Rhysand gasps, "I promised you I would, and I can't."

Cassian crawls back to lay beside Rhysand. With Rhysand on his side they're now face to face, looking into each other's eyes. I made the right call. He didn't want to be away from me, he wanted to be away from here.

"All you can offer me is your presence. All I can offer you is mine. And that's enough for right now," Cassian leans his forehead against Rhysand's and their breaths mingle.

"I promised I would always take care of you," Rhysand whispers. He releases his tension and stops pulling on the restraints.

"You do take care of me," Cassian wraps his legs around Rhysand's.

"I'm not. You're in danger. I can't help you," Rhysand says so softly it can barely be heard.

Cassian noses up Rhysand's cheek. Their lips so close his start tingling. They don't kiss, it's not their thing. It's just not something they do.

"You're helping me now. You're here for me," he says equally softly as he drags his nose back down Rhysand's cheek.

Rhysand tilts his chin up and Cassian automatically shifts his head so their lips don't touch. They don't kiss, it's just not what they do.

But... why not? His lips tingle from proximity. He rests his forehead head back onto Rhysand's and gently runs his nose up the side of Rhysand's. Would it be something good if we did? He pulls back to look into those violet eyes. They're staring right back. Intently. Rhysand licks his lips and leaves them parted.

Maybe it'd be something good if it were something we did. Especially here. Trapped. In this underground palace. Cassian leans in slowly keeping attention to Rhysand's facial expressions. He's loose and relaxed, but he does use this moment to pull Cassian's legs into a tighter embrace.

Cassian presses his lips into Rhysand's lips, who promptly slots their lips together. Their mouths open and tongues tentatively touch. They break the kiss and share breath a moment. Rhysand leans in and grasps for Cassian's lips once again, and he leans in right back. Their mouths open wide and explore each other.

It isn't a kiss of passion. It's a kiss of comfort. Of being there for each other in the only way they can. To relax each other. To release each other's tension. To narrow their perspective to just the Right Here and Right Now.

They each melt into the bed from the relaxation they're providing each other, their legs still woven together. The relief of stress sends sleepiness through Cassian's body. And it must for Rhysand, too, because he breaks the kiss with his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm.

Cassian's eyelids grow heavy and fall. All we have for each other is our presence. And it's enough. He listens to and counts Rhysand's breaths. He doesn't count very high before he's asleep, too.

 

***

 

Cassian wakens to the sharp snap of the lock. His eyes shoot open with the sound. He sees the door slowly open revealing Amarantha's silhouette framed in the threshold.

Cassian doesn't move nor flinch. He remains as still as Amarantha. She's looking at them. Assessing them. She sees their closeness. Their legs entwined with each other. Their faces resting against one another with kiss swollen lips.

"Well," her voice drips with a syrupy sweetness, "Isn't this just... precious."

Cassian stiffens and Rhysand blinks awake to be equally as frozen at the sight of Amarantha.

She moves forward to the foot of the bed, each step deliberate. She draws a finger down the bed's banister, slow and idle, "Did you cry in his arms, Rhysand?" she tilts her head like a predator eying its prey, "Did you two whisper sweet nothings to each other?"

A smile grows across Amarantha's porcelain face with her blood red painted lips. She's planning. She's conniving.

She swiftly grabs the banister with her other hand and uses it to suddenly pivot and swoop to the side of the bed, closer to Cassian. This time he does flinch.

"I suppose it's sweet," she runs a nail down Cassian's side, leaving a trail of red skin behind, "The way you cling to each other. Two broken things huddling together to provide each other comfort."

Rhysand stares up at her and his jaw tightens. She shifts her gaze to Rhysand, "You taste each other's mouths," she slowly swipes her thumb under her lip, "with mine still on your skin."

She rakes her gaze down their bodies, "I must say, I've always wondered what it would take to get a pair of Illyrian warriors to rut like animals," she brings her gaze back to their faces, "Apparently not much."

Rhysand slowly pivots away. Cassian's gaze lowers to the bed.

Amarantha straightens. She displays no anger. Just an expression of smug satisfaction.

"Cassian, off the bed," she demands, "Kneel and watch." Cassian scrambles off, almost losing his footing and falling on his ass, with shame burning through his body as it twists and grows within him.

Amarantha crawls onto the bed while hitching up her dress. Cassian moves to kneel where he was the night before.

She straddles Rhysand's thighs. "You're not ready for me, Rhysand," she says with an exaggerated pout, "You know how impatient I am," she flicks his flaccid cock.

"I'm sorry, my Queen," he says with his voice still hoarse.

"Well?" she rubs her thumbs into his hips in what would normally be a massaging motion, but with her, with her talon sharp nails, she instead presses uncomfortably firmly and cuts arches into his skin. She sighs dramatically, "I'm waiting."

Rhysand's skin flushes down to his chest. He closes his eyes and tries to concentrate. Amarantha whips out a hand and grasps Rhysand's throat and hisses, "Look at me. No need to imagine. I'm right here."

He opens his eyes and casts his gaze across her face, down to her lips, down her neck, and down into her dress where her cleavage lies. Her long locks of hair dangle down on either side of his face. Trapping him. Here. With her.

She wraps a hand around his cock that is slowly increasing in length and hardness, and keeps her other hand firmly around his neck. She strokes him. Too hard. Too dry. He bites back a grimace, and tries as he can to do what she demands.

Cassian watches. He shouldn't have an expression of sympathy, Rhysand wouldn't want that. But damn, do I sympathize. I wouldn't want to be forced to get hard for her. Perhaps I should just look down at the floor. Attempt to give Rhysand some privacy as he struggles through this.

Cassian hears a satisfied moan from Amarantha, and then the bed starts rhythmically shifting. It grows faster and more fervent. He hears Rhysand breathe audibly through her strangled grasp, it saws in and out at an uneven pace.

Cassian glances up and sees Rhysand's head tilted back as he gasps for breath. His face is red and sweat is collecting on his brow. Amarantha's head is also tilted back, her porcelain skin turning a pink hue as a flush grows across her flesh. While Rhysand is struggling to survive, Amarantha takes her pleasure.

She reaches her crescendo with a loud moan and punctuates it by completely cutting off Rhysand's airway. His face is beat red and veins are popping from his skin. He kicks his legs and thrashes side to side. She just holds on to his neck while panting. Taking time for her own come down and giving no care to Rhysand's struggle.

She flicks her head up and whisks her arms behind her so she may lean against them. She scans Rhysand's form beneath her, noting the bruises, puncture marks, slashes and scratches across his skin. She looks upon his battered form with a lustful expression, with just a hint of a smile on those blood red lips.

She hops off the bed with agile grace and is up by Rhysand's restraints. She deftly opens them and releases his wrists.

"Get up, get dressed," she says as she approaches her own wardrobe, "I need you to get ready for the Statecraft Salon this evening." Rhysand sits up on the edge of the bed and rubs his wrists while he listens.

She opens the wardrobe, her fingers skimming past gowns like she is selecting a weapon, "You'll be at my side tonight. I expect you polished, poised, and sharp enough to remind them why I keep you close."

She looks back at Rhysand and waves a hand over her neck, "And do cover that up." She turns back to selecting her weapon, a gown.

"Bring your pet, of course. He makes you look formidable," she pulls out a dress and assesses it, "His arms bound. In fact, I expect him bound whenever any of my court could see him." She puts the dress back then turns to Cassian and looks him up and down, "That will be any time in public, I suppose."

She saunters over to Cassian and cups his face, "I know that's unfortunate, Cassian dear. But politics. You understand, right?" Cassian nods dumbly. His jaw tightens within her grip despite himself. He doesn’t pull away, but his nostrils flare, a single breath away from flinching. Her thumb brushes too close to his mouth, and for a heartbeat, he forgets how to breathe.

She returns to the wardrobe and eyes her arsenal. She removes a gown and cocks her head to one side as she considers this choice. She nods to herself then hangs it on the door.

She turns back to the males and claps her hands once, "Get a move on! I don't want you to be late!"

"Yes, my Queen!" Rhysand jumps up and puts on his pants faster than any one reasonably should with all the slashes across his body. He hurriedly swings his shirt over his arms and buttons it half way. He picks up his shoes, socks, and underwear in a bundle he holds in front of him.

Rhysand jerks his chin to Cassian as his instruction to follow. Cassian snaps to his feet and is at Rhysand's side in just three long sides. The movement is automatic, practiced, not submission, but discipline carved into his very bones.

Rhysand bows low, "I'll see you again later this evening, my Queen." She hums an affirmation without looking at him then waves him off to go away. Rhysand opens the bedroom door and the two of them attempt to step over the threshold holding onto as much dignity as they can. Rhysand snicks the door shut when Cassian crosses into the next room.

They pause and look at each other and take a deep breath together. Cassian exhales like he's been holding the same breath for hours. His shoulders roll back, stretching under unseen weight.

Rhysand sneaks a seat in a chair to put on his shoes and socks. He shoves his underwear in his pocket as he stands then buttons his shirt as he approaches the exit of the suite.

He pauses at the door, finishes buttoning his shirt, fixes his cuffs and smooths down his shirt and pants. Then he puts on an air of confidence and exits the suite like the High Lord he is. He nods at the guards as he passes to give them respect then heads down the hallway.

 

Cassian can see Rhysand is leading them back to their room. But that won't do. Rhysand needs his wounds treated.

"Rhysand," Cassian whispers quietly. No acknowledgement. "Rhysand!" Cassian says more harshly, more urgently.

Rhysand whips around and hisses, "What?!"

Cassian flinches at Rhysand's harshness and blinks momentarily. He shakes it off and whispers, "We need to take you to the infirmary."

"No time," Rhysand says quietly, curtly, then turns around and strides forward.

"Rhysand!" Cassian hisses back.

Rhysand spins around and eyes him intently with an expression saying 'Well? What? Spit it out!'

Cassian approaches so Rhysand can hear him clearly as he whispers, "You cannot afford to bleed on your clothes tonight." He eyes Rhysand sternly, daring him to question his reasoning.

Rhysand rolls his eyes and looks to the ceiling. He exhales, "Fine," he says tightly. Then proceeds to lead them towards the infirmary.

They enter a brightly lit room, brighter than candles can provide alone so Cassian looks up and can see the fae lights lining the ceiling. There is a high fae male wearing a soft and layered set of sea green robes standing at a counter grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle.

His eyes dart momentarily at the newcomers then back to his work, "Anything you need, High Lord?"

"I have some bleeding wounds that need to be closed," Rhysand says hoarsely through his abused throat.

"And your voice needs to be fixed," the healer says as he turns around. He looks Rhysand up and down in an assessing gaze. "Show me," he says curtly. The healer steals a glance towards Cassian while waiting for Rhysand.

Rhysand takes off his shirt. It's clear which wounds need the most attention because blood already has dripped down his skin. Rhysand turns a full circle so the healer can see his back and sides while saying, "I don't have time for a full healing," he struggles to say through his throat, "Just enough to not ruin my clothes."

"Sit," the healer gestures to a stool and Rhysand obliges.

"Your voice is more important than clothes right now. I'll start with that." The healer raises his hands to Rhysand's throat, and Rhysand flinches. He backs his hands away.

"I'm going to very gently touch your throat. You'll mostly feel the healing energy, and it will feel soothing. Okay?" Rhysand nods. The healer holds his hands up again, "Watch my hands as they move towards you." Rhysand watches the healer slowly bring his hands towards his neck. The healer places light fingertips on the tender skin and initiates the healing energy. Rhysand's shoulders soften as he releases tension.

Cassian glances around the room and quickly notices a large drawing of the anatomy of Illyrian wings. The parchment is old and curling at the edges. And the image is inaccurate. Most information about the Night Court is inaccurate. But why is there an image of Illyrian wings? He's the only Illyrian in the palace. As far as he knows, he's the only Illyrian outside of the Night Court at all.

"Speak," the healer pointedly demands.

"How does my voice sound now?" Rhysand says almost in his normal voice, but there is a husky undertone.

"Almost," the healer resumes on Rhysand's neck.

Cassian's eyes keep being drawn towards the image of Illyrian wings. It looks to be a drawing of a dissection with joints and tendons labeled like a butcher's guide. Cassian shifts his feet and flexes his neck. He's seen too many battlefields to be squeamish, but something about this drawing feels... invasive. What kind of healer is this?

"Speak," the healer's voice breaks the hold the drawing has on Cassian. He turns his gaze back to Rhysand as he tests his voice, "How does my voice sound now?" The healer motions for him to continue, "You seem to have successfully returned my voice. The Queen should be pleased."

Cassian can see the bruises on Rhysand's neck have reduced and the puncture marks have become smaller and no longer bleed.

The healer turns to the sink and fills a bowl and grabs a cloth. He returns to Rhysand and carefully washes the blood off his skin. Rhysand tries to maintain a stoic demeanor, but the corner of his eye twitches betraying how much the treatment stings.

"I assume you're going to the Salon tonight." Rhysand nods. "You're right, we don't have much time. I'll close everything that is bleeding or could bleed if it's disturbed and then you need to get washed up and dressed." Rhysand nods again.

The healer finishes cleaning up Rhysand's wounds and sets about healing the slashes across his body. He approaches Rhysand slowly, and verbalizes everything he's about to do before he does it. Cassian is reminded of when he was at the hospital in the Dawn Court. Everyone kept trying to touch him without notice and Cassian kept flinching uncontrollably. But the expert healers always said what they were going to do and moved slowly. He was calm with those healers.

Watching the healer's gentle treatment of Rhysand's trauma responses deepens Cassian's understanding who this fae may be. He's observant, and patient.

The healer's hands move across Rhysand's skin, pausing over slashes just long enough to prevent them from bleeding again before moving on to the next one. The healer finishes and inspects his work, poking and pulling at some slash marks to ensure they're secure. Rhysand is still littered with scratches, but they're no longer slashes. They still likely hurt whenever he moves, though.

"Alright. You're done. Get ready for the salon," the healer dismisses them with a wave of his hand. The healer washes the bowl he used at the sink while Rhysand puts on and buttons his shirt.

"Thank you," Rhysand says with a now clear voice, "Good night." Rhysand inclines his head as a show of respect. The healer just flicks his hand behind him to wave them off.

 

Rhysand leads them back to their room. Before the door even finishes shutting, Rhysand is grabbing a pillow off the bed. He throws it over his face and screams as loud as he can in it.

He tosses the pillow back on the bed as he says, "Gods, I've needed to do that for hours." Cassian chuckles.

Rhysand unbuckles Cassian's arms and tosses the binding on the chest of drawers. "I need to get into the bath fast," Rhysand is already halfway to the bathing chamber before he finished his sentence.

Cassian rubs at his arms. This is the longest he's ever been bound for. Almost an entire day. He shudders and rubs the muscles harder. He rotates his arms around his shoulders then crosses each arm across his chest to stretch it.

He's going to be bound again shortly, he needs to get movement in now. His legs suddenly buckle and his knees slam into the floor. Fuuuuuck. He leans forward and supports himself with his arms. The arms he won't have access to soon. Fuuuuuck. His breathing becomes choppy. His inhales shudder and his exhales hitch. Fuck! We don't have time for me to have a panic attack!

He rolls his body down so his forehead is on the floor and his arms are tightly wrapped around his head. Fuck fuck fuuuuuck!

Cassian doesn't know how long he remained in that position, but long enough for him to suddenly realize Rhysand is at his side with a comforting hand on his back, trying to get his attention by repeatedly saying his name.

"... Cassian! Can you hear me?" Rhysand's voice is a mixture of softness and desperation.

"Yeah," Cassian croaks out.

"What's happening?" concern laces his words.

"My arms..." he unwinds himself and sits up, "We have to bind my arms again."

Rhysand immediately repositions himself and starts massaging Cassian's shoulders. His head bobs as Rhysand presses into his muscles.

"It was just so long this time," his gaze is glassy and cast to the floor, "And we're clueless as to how long this next time will be."

"I'll do what I can for you tonight, okay?" Cassian nods dumbly. Sure, unless you're tied up, too. He sighs.

"Stop," Cassian backs up and pushes Rhysand's hands away, "You need to get ready. I'll be fine. Go get ready."

Rhysand nods and whisks himself up onto his feet, opens the wardrobe, and sets himself to the task of assembling this evening's armor. Cassian stays on the floor, fingers curling and uncurling, arms flexing and relaxing, testing every twitch like he’s making sure these arms are still his.

Rhysand's pick for this evening's armor is an all-black outfit designed to hide his injuries without raising suspicion. The high-collared tunic covers the bruises on his neck completely, but the sharp tailoring and subtle embroidery make it look intentional, not like he’s trying to conceal anything. The fabric is lightweight so it won’t irritate his healing skin. He throws on a long sleeveless coat to add formality, then fastens it with a row of understated buttons. Everything fits perfectly, clean and commanding, exactly the image he needs for the salon.

Once he's completed getting ready, Rhysand kneels down in front of Cassian again and reaches for his shoulders. Cassian pulls away.

"Let me take care of you while I can," Rhysand insists. Cassian sighs and doesn't resist when Rhysand picks up an arm and starts massaging the elbow. Maybe I do need this...

Rhysand works on Cassian's arms while they wait. He keeps even attention on both arms to ensure each get the same treatment. There is enough time to get down to massaging Cassian's fingers by the time there is a knock on the door and it opens.

A bored looking grey skinned lesser fae steps in, "You have been summoned for tonight's salon. I shall escort you."

Rhysand nods to the escort and grabs the arm restraint off the chest of drawers. Cassian sighs deeply, but offers his back to Rhysand with his arms folded up behind him. Rhysand snakes the restraint around his arms and buckles it. Loosely.

Rhysand gestures to the escort to lead the way.

 

The escort leads them to a gilded chamber lit by soft amber light floating above the crowd like captured fireflies, casting the room in a false warmth. At the center, low tables are arranged in a circle with velvet cushions and lounge seats surrounding them. Small groups of fae scatter throughout the room around these center seats. Laughter rises from every cluster, but none of it sounds real. A violinist sits in a dark corner weaving her craft.

As they cross the threshold, Cassian sees this isn’t a party. It’s a game. Every eye in the room is already watching them, yet pretending not to. Every conversation in the room has changed because of them.

Rhysand walks with perfect confidence, every movement calculated. Cassian follows a half-step behind, arms restrained behind him, body exposed. He keeps his head up. Doesn’t look at anyone directly. But he feels them. Dozens of gazes crawling over him, cataloguing him.

A High Fae male in green raises a glass in their direction and whispers something to the female beside him. She laughs, high and sharp, eyes raking over Cassian’s body like she’s inspecting meat at a market.

Cassian clenches his jaw and keeps walking. Rhysand snags a glass of wine off a tray a servant has offered.

A high fae male Cassian doesn't recognize steps forward from the lounging crowd, robes shimmering like oil in water. His companion trails beside him, glass in hand, gaze sharp and gleeful.

"High Lord," the man purrs, bowing with exaggerated grace. "How delightful to see you among us tonight. And you’ve brought your pet," His eyes slide toward Cassian, "Does he speak?"

Rhysand offers a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, "Only when it suits him."

The companion leans in, eyeing Cassian’s restrained posture, "He’s beautiful," she says with a slow smile, "And obedient. A rare combination."

Cassian doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t bow. He just holds her gaze for a moment, measured and unreadable, then turns it away letting her wonder what he’s thinking.

The man laughs lightly, "Oh, he does have teeth."

"Sharp ones," Rhysand replies in a tone like silk drawn over a blade, "Be careful where you put your fingers."

A sinister grin crosses Cassian's face. He remembers the time Rhysand had him bite off someone's finger for touching him. The courtiers drift off with smirks, and Cassian's eyes follow as they depart, daring them to risk a finger.

Rhysand and Cassian continue their stroll through the room and near the couch between two tapestries where Helion lounges beside Aíne, who stands the moment she sees them. Her eyes drop to Cassian’s arms. Her face goes cold.

"You’re bound," she says flatly.

Cassian holds her gaze, "It’s not what it looks like," quietly to avoid drawing attention.

"It looks like you’ve gone back into a cage," Helion says, no smile in sight.

One of the Vanserra brothers mutters under his breath, "He’s wearing restraints again. That tells us enough."

Cassian’s voice stays calm, controlled, quiet, "There are things at play that can’t be explained. Not here."

Aíne’s nostrils flare, "You haven’t worn bindings in years. Don’t tell me this is just politics."

Rhysand cuts in, smooth and low, "It’s always politics, Lady Aíne."

Helion stands now too, folding his arms, "We’re not speaking to you, Rhysand."

Cassian takes a controlled breath and conveys as diplomatically as possible, "This isn’t all him. You know it’s not."

Nostrus scoffs, "Feels familiar. You defending him while he’s got blood on his hands."

Cassian’s jaw tightens, "I don’t have the freedom to say what I want. And Rhysand doesn’t have the freedom to do what he wants," he casts his gaze at each of them and says even quieter, yet somehow louder, "We’re all trying to survive the same trap."

There’s a pause. Aíne looks at him like she wants to argue, but then she nods once.

Helion’s eyes are sharp, "We’ll talk later."

Cassian nods in return. Rhysand, silent, turns and walks away. Cassian follows.

A female in silver-trimmed robes peels away from a knot of officials and approaches Rhysand directly. Cassian recognizes her from the inner court introductions. She is Vaelith, Amarantha's Spymaster.

"High Lord," she says with a curt nod, "I trust you're adjusting to the pace here in the palace."

Rhysand gives a smooth, polite smile, "With grace and enthusiasm, of course."

She doesn’t smile back, "Your performance in the preliminary briefs was... sufficient. But Amarantha’s patience isn’t limitless. I hope your Salon remarks tonight are better rehearsed."

"I prefer spontaneity. It keeps people alert."

Vaelith's eyes narrow, "And exposed."

There's a flicker of something between them, an unspoken dare. Then she glances briefly at Cassian, barely acknowledging him, and turns back to Rhysand.

"She'll want to see control. Show her that, and the rest can be overlooked," she pauses, then adds without looking at Cassian, "Especially your distractions," with that, she steps past them and vanishes into the crowd.

Rhysand exhales slowly, barely audible. Everything here is a game.

 

Rhysand and Cassian continue their circuit around the room when the double doors at the far end swing open. The doors have a controlled smoothness that draws attention without demanding it.

Cassian doesn’t need to look to know she has arrived. The room shifts. Voices drop. Postures straighten. Even the courtiers who were lounging now sit up, hands smoothing robes, smiles sharpening.

Amarantha strolls in like she owns every breath in the room. She probably does. A ripple of silence fans out ahead of her. Even the violinist falters for half a breath before recovering. Laughter halts mid-sentence. Everyone readjusts themselves to be seen watching her without seeming like they are.

Her gown is blood red tonight, the fabric catching the light like wet silk. Her hair is piled high, her lips a matching shade of red, and her gaze sweeps across the salon. Her smile gleams too wide, too white, as if something sharp waits beneath.

She doesn’t look at Rhysand right away. That would make him too important.

Instead, she acknowledges a few of her inner circle with the barest nods. The Attor gets a lingering glance. Vaelith earns a brief smile that says everything and nothing.

Then her eyes find Rhysand.

And stay there.

She takes her time crossing the salon, never hurrying, letting the silence swell just enough.

When she reaches him, she speaks like it's an inside joke. "You made it. I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost."

Rhysand bows his head, "My Queen, disappointment is the only consistency I can offer."

She smiles, and the room laughs, but only because they’re supposed to.

Her gaze slides past him to Cassian, and for the first time since entering, her expression genuinely shifts. Interest. Amusement.

"I'm glad you haven't left him hidden away," Amarantha says, circling just slightly toward Cassian, voice light as ever, "You've brought him out to shine. How thoughtful."

Cassian keeps still. Her presence is like frost and fire all at once. She's suffocating, even when she’s smiling.

Rhysand gives a careful answer, "He improves the atmosphere."

She hums in acknowledgement as she studies Cassian more closely, taking in his restrained arms, his posture, his silence, "Quiet. Pretty. Obedient."

She steps closer, her eyes never leaving Cassian, "Are you being treated well, Cassian dear?"

Cassian knows this game. The question isn’t for him. Not really.

He answers anyway. Calm. Flat. Controlled, "I am."

Her smile twitches, pleased, "Good. You’ve always been such an asset. It would be a shame if he forgot that, wouldn’t it?" Her eyes flick to Rhysand, then back to Cassian.

"I’ll want a demonstration later. Nothing dramatic. Just something that shows you still remember who you belong to." She pats Cassian's cheek, feather-light, then turns away. Done with this scene, and already onto the next.

 

Rhysand completes his circuit of the room with its energy sapping small talk, and settles into a lounge seat far removed from the cluster of courtiers. He spreads his legs wide and indicates for Cassian to sit between them. He gently massages Cassian's shoulders with one hand while lazily drinking from his wine glass in the other.

Polished conversation floats in the air and its many voices merge into one din. Velvet laughter hums along the edges of the chamber. But something shifts when Caelan sets down his goblet just a little too carefully. The Emissary is sitting a few seats down from Rhysand.

"The lesser courts will be... unattended tomorrow," Caelan says, tone casual, crisp. "Their High Lords will be here for the tithe. The Queen has requested a token be sent to all the courts in their absence. Something gentle. Reassuring."

Rhoven speaks up from behind Rhysand. He's being boxed in. "A written message, of course," the Court Scribe says, "Something they'll reread when no one's watching."

Caelan's eyes slide to Rhysand, his voice softening as he adds, "And something spoken aloud before their court. So the message is... properly understood."

Rhoven rounds Rhysand's chair to stand before him. He smiles, polite and precise, "Perhaps paired with flowers. Foxglove, maybe?"

A murmur flickers through the salon. One of the Vanserra brothers leans to another, "Foxglove is poisonous."

The brother elbows the first between the ribs, "That's the point."

Across the room, Amarantha shifts and simply watches. Her eyes settle on Rhysand and do not move.

Rhysand feels her gaze like a blade across his collarbone. Caelan and Rhoven are circling with the grace of dancers and the intent of wolves. Everyone else just thinks it's courtly pageantry. But this is a test. One he cannot fail.

Rhysand runs his finger around the rim of his glass as he ponders. He then takes up the glass and uses it to punctuate his point.

"For the card," Rhysand says clearly, "send it along with the foxglove with the following message," he sits up straight backed with his glass raised, "All gardens flourish when weeds are removed," he relaxes his posture and smiles devilishly, "Her Majesty hopes each court will take root in peace, before pruning becomes necessary," he sips his wine.

Rhoven nods and makes eye contact with Caelan with an expression that says 'it can work'.

Rhysand holds his wine glass by the stem with both hands. His gaze shifts to the Emissary, "And when Caelan speaks before the court, he'll say," he raises his chin in mock pageantry, "Her Majesty sends flowers today, so none are needed tomorrow."

He lets those words hang, like a sword suspended by silk. Not one sound in the room. Then Caelan exhales with quiet delight, "Perfect."

Amarantha does not speak. But she has not looked away. Her fingers trace the stem of her goblet without drinking. She lets the silence breathe around Rhysand's offering like it deserves space.

Across the salon, someone shifts in their seat. Aíne reaches for her wine with a trembling hand.

Rhysand returns the wine glass to the small table beside his chair and fingers the stem. He tries to give the impression of someone melting into their seat self satisfied, but Cassian can feel the tension in his muscles.

Then, like a spell breaking, the music swells. A new conversation picks up across the room. Laughter stirs back to life, delicate and false.

The court moves on.

 

Rhysand eyes the crowd and notices Helion has started a not-so-subtle circuit around the room, stopping only moments for small talk before moving on. Helion's circuit has him walk past Rhysand. He pauses just behind him, as if he just happened to be there by chance.

"Is that what you have chosen?" Helion says bitterly, but quietly so only Rhysand can hear, "To become her mouthpiece?"

Rhysand doesn’t turn. He lifts his glass and takes a slow sip before saying, low and cold, "Loyalty is like currency, but if you hoard it too long it stops being worth anything."

He partially turns his head, "If you don’t spend your loyalty…" he snaps his gaze to Helion's eyes,

"…someone else will spend you."

Helion stiffens, "I see."

Rhysand stands in one graceful movement and faces Helion. He looks him in the eye as he downs the remainder of his wine then asks, tone serious, "Do you?"

He and Helion hold each other's eyes for a tense moment. Then Rhysand looks down at Cassian, "Stay," and swivels to make his way towards the refreshments table along the far wall.

Helion bends over and whispers to Cassian, "Be careful with him." But Cassian's gaze does not leave Rhysand.

He watches as Rhysand drifts along the table. His fingers brush over a silver goblet, then a crystal decanter as he passes by. He doesn’t pour anything. He is simply standing there with eyes on the bottles like he’s choosing one. But he’s not.

Rhysand's back is to the room. To anyone else, it would look like he is merely selecting his next drink. To Cassian, it looks like retreat, like the breath before drowning again.

He is too still. The set of his shoulders are too straight. The fingers of one hand press so hard against the table that the tips turn white. His breathing is measured, and Cassian can see it clearly now. Inhale, pause, exhale, pause, and repeat. Rhysand is calming himself before his mask is slid back on.

Amarantha’s voice rises above all else, clean and smooth through the din, "Rhysand."

The court goes quiet again, just enough for the name to echo.

Rhysand straightens. He pours his wine, lifts the glass like a salute, and walks to her with a smile carved from bone and smoke.

 

The court continues in its low hum, but Amarantha hasn't shifted her focus once. She’s seated in the salon’s central ring, languid and amused with a wine glass poised in one hand like a scepter. Around her, conversation moves in half-tones, never too loud, never too bold. She doesn’t command the room. The room simply orbits her.

When Rhysand has drawn close enough she says, her voice soft but unignorable, "Rhysand, come sit with me."

Rhysand sits next to Amarantha, sharing a couch. He looks to Cassian, "Come, sit here," and points to the floor at the side of him that is opposite to Amarantha.

Cassian lifts himself off the floor and barely takes two steps before Amarantha turns her gaze to eye him, "No."

Cassian freezes. His body locks up, and for a moment, even thought abandons him. The room stills just slightly.

"Cassian dear," she says with a syrupy voice as her hand flicks to the space between her and Rhysand, "Sit here."

Rhysand exhales long and slow as he keeps his eye on Cassian, who approaches and gingerly seats himself on the floor in front of Amarantha's and Rhysand's legs.

She hums in mock sympathy, "Get comfortable, my pet!" She pulls on his shoulder. He shifts with her guidance and she places him leaning against the couch with his back to Rhysand's leg and his knees pressed against Amarantha's leg.

She runs a hand along his shoulder as soon as he's settled. No words. Just ownership. Her touch is idle, the kind one might use to calm a favored beast before putting it on display.

Cassian does not move and has no idea where to look. He decides upon an averted gaze to the floor.

Amarantha's fingers find his hair, then his jaw. She tilts his face up and smiles as she looks him over.

Her gaze shifts to Rhysand, "You made the court listen tonight."

He inclines his head, "Only because they know who they're listening to."

Amarantha laughs softly, a sound of pleased indulgence. She trails a nail along Cassian's collarbone, still watching Rhysand.

"Go get me something sweet," she says offhandedly, gesturing toward the table across the room, "I'm craving something soft."

Rhysand hesitates only half a second before he rises. Cassian catches the brief look between them. It's a warning, a promise, and an apology rolled up inside Rhysand's careful smile.

Then Rhysand is walking away. Amarantha doesn't look after him. Her gaze remains on Cassian.

She shifts in her seat slightly and pulls Cassian closer with a single hand resting behind his neck, her touch light but unyielding.

She doesn't say a word. She doesn't have to.

Rhysand disappears into the edge of the room and Cassian's eyes remain on where he was last seen. Amarantha's hand remains on the back of his neck, the pressure featherlight but constant. Her fingers play along the edge of his spine.

She shifts in her seat, her leg gliding along his own. "He doesn't like leaving you alone with me," she smiles, "I like that."

Cassian's pulse drums in his throat, but his body remains still.

She lowers her goblet to the floor beside her, then trails a finger down the curve of his spine as she leans close to him.

"What do you think about him, Cassian dear?" she asks gently, "Does he tell you what he's doing for you? What he's up to?" He doesn't answer.

Her hand returns to his jaw. She tilts his face toward her, forcing his eyes to meet hers. "He's learning to be useful," she says, "He's learning to survive. And you..." she lets her eyes travel over him, slow and deliberate "... are a very good reason to keep him motivated."

Cassian can feel the tension coiled in his chest, the restraint wound tight in his muscles.

Amarantha smiles, "I don't need to break him," she murmurs, "I just have to make sure he understands I could break you."

She strokes his cheek once. Light. Cold.

Footsteps return. Rhysand approaches with a silver dish and two honeyed pears. He sets them carefully on the table before her.

Amarantha withdraws her hand from Cassian's neck only after Rhysand is close enough to see it.

She reaches for a pear and takes a slow bite.

Rhysand takes his place again, folding himself back into the same easy posture, but Cassian sees the stiffness at the corner of his mouth. His fingers brush against Cassian's shoulder briefly as a silent check-in and then pull away.

"Perfect timing," she says, voice bright again.

Cassian doesn't look at Rhysand, and Rhysand doesn't look at him.

"You know what I like about you, Rhysand?" she says, not bothering to lower her voice, "You hate me and you're still learning from me."

He doesn't blink, "You reward results. It's worth paying attention."

Amarantha smirks, "You're not just paying attention. You're practicing," She waves her goblet vaguely through the air, "That message tonight sounded exactly like something I'd say."

She leans in. Her voice lowers, but only just, "You're starting to sound like me."

Cassian watches from below. His spine is straight. He says nothing. He listens.

Rhysand lifts a brow, "You said you wanted someone useful."

"I did," she says, "But now I want something more than useful," she sips her wine, "You've always been clever. You know how to play the court. Say the right things. But what I want now is someone who understands what those words do."

She tilts her head, watching him closely.

"Words don't just intimidate, Rhysand. They isolate. They corner. They strip people of their illusions. And that's how you keep power: by making sure no one else even thinks they can take it from you."

Rhysand doesn't answer. Amarantha smiles, slow and satisfied.

"You're doing so well already," she glances at Cassian, "Look at him," her hand brushes through his hair again, "You've barely touched a blade since he arrived. But you're still cutting."

Cassian goes still beneath her hand. Not from pain. From understanding.

"You don't need to become me," she says at last, finishing the last of her wine, "Just close enough that when you look in the mirror, you can't tell the difference anymore."

She smiles, red-lipped and radiant. Reflected in her wine glass, it looks almost human.

 

The room has returned to easy laughter, murmuring again creates the din. This 'Statecraft Salon' moves ever forward. Cassian remains seated in the floor, still pressed against Rhysand's leg.

But something is... off.

Cassian doesn’t know what it is at first. He's made aware because he feels Rhysand has tightened behind him and gone still.

Cassian follows Rhysand's gaze. To the Vanserras.

There were three brothers. He knows there were three. They’d been gathered near the refreshments table earlier, red hair unmistakable against the pale stone. Now there are only two in the room.

One is stationed near the wine. The other is leaning too hard into a story that isn't very funny. His smile stretches too wide. Too eager.

Cassian doesn’t see the third brother. He scans the room again. That extra head of bright red hair cannot be found.

Behind the circle of tables and chairs, Helion has been eerily stationary. So has Aíne. Both are watching the room like they’re trying not to. Stillness from the wrong people is always a sign.

Nostrus hasn't moved from his post between two tapestries. His eyes are half-lidded, like he's waiting for a moment that's already passed.

Rhysand doesn’t say anything. But they've both seen it. They're up to something.

Rhysand rises from his chair, smooths his sleeve and adjusts the fall of his coat. Cassian moves to follow on instinct but before he can rise, Amarantha's hand slides lightly into his hair.

She is not commanding in her touch. It's just a gentle drag of fingers through the strands near the nape of his neck. The touch isn't painful. It's worse than that. It's intimate.

She doesn’t look at Cassian. She’s still speaking to Rhoven, still sipping her wine. But the message is absolutely clear. He is tethered to her just as strong as if a leash was clipped to his neck.

Cassian keeps his eyes on Rhysand. He didn't glance back. He didn't break his stride when Cassian didn't join him.

Rhysand moves through the crowd like smoke. One hand is holding his goblet, the other drifting at his side. He's the picture of idle grace.

But Cassian knows Rhysand isn't idly walking. He's on a mission. Looking at Rhysand’s eyes he can see where they scan, where they linger, and how they flick past the two remaining Vanserra brothers, then back again.

One of the brothers fidgets. The other shifts his stance to block Rhysand’s view of Aíne. Interesting.

Rhysand stops to speak with them. The older brother stiffens slightly. The younger one tightens his jaw. He can’t hear what Rhysand says, but he sees the moment the smile drops from the older one's face.

The elder brother's reply is sharp and defensive. Rhysand just tilts his head before he moves on, continuing is casual idle grace.

Cassian watches the Vanserras exchange a look. They both seem to realize something has shifted.

Rhysand's footfalls return before his presence does. Cassian doesn't look up while Rhysand lowers himself into back to his original seat, smoothly and unhurried. But Cassian does melt a little back into his leg, feeling safer with his presence.

Amarantha doesn't speak at first. She lets a thread of conversation finish before her gaze slides back to Rhysand, eyes a little too sharp, voice too sweet.

"A bit restless, are we?" she asks a simple question clearly expecting to learn more by how the answer is given rather than the answer itself.

Rhysand lifts his glass and sips, "It felt a little warm."

Amarantha hums dissatisfied. She sets her goblet down on the table beside her, "You know how to make avoidance sound poetic."

Her fingers drift to Cassian's shoulder again, merely resting, not gripping.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

Rhysand does not answer immediately. He allows a slow breath between words before replying, "Not yet."

Amarantha hums mirthfully. The sound she makes when she smells blood.

She doesn't press. Her fingers stay lightly on Cassian, though, indicating her ever presence between he and Rhysand.

Rhysand doesn't shift in his seat. Cassian doesn’t move. And around them, the room spins on, unaware. Or pretending to be.

 

A haze of conversation and indulgence passes by. Amarantha holds court effortlessly. Her is voice bright as she entertains the gathered courtiers, and her laughter slices, never missing a chance to mock, flatter, or provoke.

All the while, her hands wander with possessive ease: fingers thread through Cassian's hair, or a too comfortable hand on Rhysand's thigh. She never looks at them when she touches them. She doesn't need to. They are hers, and everyone in the room knows it.

Amarantha sips from her goblet, then speaks sweetly, as if she’s recalling a fond memory.

"Cassian dear, you're always so silent. Surely there's a story you could gift us with?"

Cassian stiffens. I don't want to talk in front of all these people. And what in Hel would I say, anyway?

Her tone remains soft, amused, "Not a speech. Just a little memory. Something Rhysand taught you."

Cassian doesn’t move as his eyes dart quickly back and forth across the floor. His brain is on the fritz as he desperately grasps at things he could possibly say.

Amarantha turns to Rhysand with a smile, "He seems to be shy."

Rhysand replies calmly, "You asked for obedience, not performance."

Amarantha laughs, "But performance is such a satisfying side effect, isn’t it?"

She turns back to Cassian, "Come now, Cassian dear. Don't you want to show us how well you've been trained? A little story," she smirks, "Something humiliating and honest."

Cassian lifts his eyes to look at her with his jaw tight. Fuck. What do I say? What do I say? What do I say?

She leans in closer to Cassian, "What’s the worst thing he made you do?" she whispers.

A memory flows through his mind and he flinches almost imperceptibly. But she sees it and her smile grows wider.

"You're thinking about it right now. Don’t lie."

Cassian breathes once through his nose. His brain is locked on to that one memory now. He can't think of anything else.

She leans back and spreads her hands, "Tell the story, Cassian. It’s right there. Right beneath your skin."

He looks into her eyes. His lips part as he prepares to speak while his brain races to form the memory into words and the words into speech.

"There was a day... he told me I wasn't allowed to piss unless I looked him in the eyes."

Soft laughter titters around them along with murmurs of delight.

Cassian keeps going, his eyes now locked onto Amarantha's, "I wanted to obey. But I couldn’t. My body just... wouldn’t," his throat bobs as he swallows.

"He was being patient with me. He just stood there waiting," he breaks eye contact to sigh and shake his head, "But I wasn't patient with myself. And I made the decision to disobey."

Quiet spreads around them as more listen in.

"He promptly lifted me off my feet by my neck and strangled me," he averts his eyes to the floor and says with more difficulty, "I ended up pissing myself while he held me there because I was so scared."

The gathering audience stills.

"He called me disgusting, and threw me in the shower."

The laughter starts slow. A chuckle. A ripple. Then a wave. The laughter crashes over him in waves bringing their delight, cruelty, and entertainment with it. Cassian’s skin flushes like it's been slapped.

Amarantha's smile joins in the mirth surrounding them. She runs her hands through Cassian's hair.

When the laughter settles she says in syrupy kindness, "What a good boy you are. You told the story so well."

She raises her glass toward Rhysand, eyes gleaming, "I do hope you’re proud of your work."

Rhysand doesn’t answer. And Cassian doesn’t look at him.

The din of voices grows around them again as attention on Cassian is lost. The court is moving on. But Cassian isn't.

Cassian is on the floor, spine upright, leaning lightly against Rhysand’s leg. He wants to run away. He wants to rage. He wants to punch Rhysand in the jaw. But what he needs is to calm the fuck down. He measures his breaths. Inhale, hold, exhale, hold, and repeat.

Rhysand doesn't speak. He sits perfectly still above Cassian. But then Rhysand shifts subtly. He moves a slow, deliberate hand so his fingers gently brush Cassian's shoulder.

Cassian knows what Rhysand is trying to communicate with that subtle touch: 'I heard every word. I hate it too.'

After a moment, Cassian leans back more, allowing the full weight of his back to press into Rhysand's leg. A silent answer, 'I know you care. But I’m still bleeding.'

 

Time stretches. Then settles. No more games. No more performances. All that remains is warmth that isn't comfort, touch that isn't intimacy, and the heavy lull of too much wine.

Cassian doesn’t know how long they stay like that. Time passes in the rhythm of Amarantha’s hands as she holds court. She touches his hair, his face, shoulders. She dared a wandering hand down the front of his chest. Sometimes her hand finds Rhysand. His hand. His knee. His thigh.

The gathered courtiers thins slowly. People drift away in twos and threes. Some say goodnight. Most don’t. No one is being dismissed. They just begin to understand the Statecraft Salon is drawing to a close.

Amarantha stands without a word. She adjusts her gown, picks imaginary lint from her sleeve, smooths the edge of a bodice that doesn’t need it. Nothing about her is out of place — she just wants everyone to know it.

Then she walks with no clear purpose. She is instead drifting from one group of courtiers to the next. She is taking her time, circling. She lays hands on forearms. She whispers. She laughs with no humor in it.

Cassian watches the hem of her dress move across the polished stone floor. He watches the way people lean forward with caution. Enough to be seen. Not enough to seem hungry. Just enough to keep their heads.

She stops near a noble from the Southern Isles. Tilts her head as he says something about trade routes. Smiles like she’s listening.

She stops near a small group of her inner court. She tilts her head as they speak, as if she's paying attention.

Her back is turned towards Rhysand and Cassian, and that's the moment Rhysand rises.

He does not rush, just performs a smooth, silent push to his feet. He sets his glass down, adjusts his sleeve and walks away. Cassian stands a beat later and diligently follows.

As soon as they cross the threshold of the room it is as if they stepped into fresh air, and not the continued stale of a palace under a mountain. Tension drops. Breathing is easier. Cassian feels lighter. Not free. Just… unburdened. For now.

 

They walk through the dim windowless halls that hide any indication of time and reach their room in silence.

Rhysand locks the door behind them with a quiet snap. He promptly removes Cassian's bindings and tosses it on the chest of drawers. Cassian stretches and massages his arms while Rhysand strips off his coat, tosses it on the end of the bed, and stands there for a moment like he's forgotten what comes next.

Cassian continues to work his arms and Rhysand finally moves and decides to help Cassian get his blood flowing again and work out the knots in his muscles. Silence settles between them, one that's not quite so comfortable.

Rhysand stops to scrub his face and starts to pace. Cassian sighs and sits on the edge of the bed, "They're up to something."

Rhysand stops and puts his hand through his hair, "So you saw it, too," he closes his eyes for a deep breath, "Something's moving."

Cassian gives a small smile, "Maybe... maybe they'll get us all out."

Rhysand doesn’t answer. Just stares at him, perfectly still. Like something dangerous coiled too tight.

Cassian rubs his hand on the back of his neck while he looks to the floor, "I have an enchanted parchment with Thalion," he looks up at Rhysand who remains still, "If Helion is involved, perhaps Thalion has confirmed what may be going on?"

Rhysand takes a deep breath then paces once again with his hands in his hair. He stops, turns to Cassian and says softly, "Show me."

Cassian kneels next to the wardrobe and pulls the parchment out from under the rear leg.

"You were smart to hide it. That parchment is dangerous to have."

Cassian nods, "He gave it to me that first night to ensure I was safe from you," he smirks at how funny it is in retrospect, "The next morning I found he had written to ask if we were okay," he starts his walk towards Rhysand, "I told him what happened to us."

Rhysand huffs a soft laugh, "So that's why he's been defending me."

"Most likely. It's been blank ever since, though," Cassian says while carefully unfolding the parchment so both he and Rhysand can see. This time, there's writing.

-------------------------
We've made contact.
One of the Vanserras will help us reach her.
Don't make any moves of your own yet. Just keep watch.
-------------------------

Rhysand reads it once. Then again. Cassian looks at his face and watches his mind churn in calculations.

Rhysand's eyes are still focused on the words on the parchment, "Fuck."

"What's wrong? Isn’t this good? It feels like good." Cassian gives a puzzled expression.

"No."

There's a knock on the door. Rhysand snatches the parchment from Cassian and quickly folds it in the time it takes for the servant to open the door.

"You've been summoned. I shall escort you to the Queen's suite."

Rhysand grabs his jacket, then stops, "No. I won't need it." The parchment is no longer in his hands.

He grabs the arm bindings off the chest of drawers. Cassian sighs as he turns his back to Rhysand with his arms folded. Rhysand helps him into the bindings as if helping him put on a jacket.

They approach the escort and let him lead them through the dimly lit, time sucking corridors.

 

Rhysand and Cassian are lead through Amarantha's suite and straight into her bedroom. She is sitting in a comfortable chair in front of the hearth. No book, just a glass of wine while she looks into the fire.

The door shuts behind them. It's ominous given what always happens in this room.

She looks up at them with disappointment, "You snuck out of the Statecraft Salon."

Rhysand stills. Amarantha stands and saunters over to them, "I have plans for us tonight."

"I am at your service, my Queen," he says with an incline of his head.

She reaches Rhysand and runs a lazy finger down his chest, "That you are."

Her finger slowly lowers down his body, "Tonight is the full moon," Rhysand nods as her finger continues lower down his abdomen, "The night the magic keeping Cassian's cock cage locked is released," her finger reaches down so she's pressing Rhysand's flaccid cock.

"Yes, my Queen."

She approaches Cassian, "We're going to continue with our lessons on how to..." she rakes her gaze up and down his body, "... break a warlord."

"Strip," she gives her single word order as she turns and saunters back to the chair by the fire.

Cassian and Rhysand look at each other. When she turns back to sit she says, "Release his bindings," then gets herself comfortable in the chair.

Rhysand releases Cassian's arms and tosses it on the floor in front of the foot of the bed, followed by his own tunic, pants, and underwear. Cassian strips his pants and underwear and also tosses it on the pile.

They're standing nude before Amarantha, who still wears her resplendent blood red gown. They're merely toys for her entertainment.

"Cassian dear, remove your cock cage."

Cassian looks down at himself. Over the last nine to ten years he's only been uncaged a few months. He moves his hands over to the cage and runs his fingers around it trying to remember how it even works. He's only removed it the one time and that was over seven years ago.

He finds a latch and opens it. The cage loosens and a strain he didn't even know he had is released. He finds another latch, three latches in all and the cage falls into his hands. It's like he can breath freely again. Well, it's like his cock can breath freely again.

He works the base ring off and now he is completely free. After over seven years. He feels loose and untethered. That constant weight and pressure is gone, and now it's like he could float up into the air.

"Yes yes, you're so interested in your cock," Amarantha says with a snicker. Cassian realizes he's been staring at himself and a flush washes down his skin.

"Give the cage to Rhysand." Cassian hands the cage and ring over to him.

Rhysand palms the cage in one hand and rolls the ring around his fingers in the other. He starts to slowly approach Amarantha.

She settles further into her chair and a look of amusement spreads across her face, "You know what comes next, Rhysand dear," she purrs, "Put it on."

Rhysand smiles faintly, "Of course." But instead he continues to slowly close the gap between them. She raises an eyebrow at him as he approaches. He may be towering over her while she is seated, her presence lifts her to eye level.

He crouches down in front of her. Now she towers over him. "Something happened tonight," he says to her like offering his regent a gift. Cassian stills as if that gift were their only weapon. Actually, it is.

Amarantha hums her affirmation, "You're stalling."

"I'm circling." He sets the cage down on the small round table next to her chair. He dares run a hand from her knee down the back of her calf as he says softly, "One of the Vanserra brothers left early." Cassian stops breathing.

She lifts a brow, "That’s not news."

He leans further into her space as he massages the back of her calf, "The other two stayed behind. Laughed too loud. Watched all the wrong people."

She cocks her head to the side. Cassian’s body coils so tight he could snap. What is he doing? Why is he telling her this? He's ruining our chance of escape!

Rhysand keeps his voice low and intimate, "Helion went still when it happened. Aíne didn’t speak once. Nostrus watched the floor like it owed him something."

Fuck! Cassian wants to scream. Wants to tackle Rhysand to the ground. But he can only stand there silent and naked while watching Rhysand rip everything apart.

Amarantha watches Rhysand carefully as she continues to smile at him, "You're teasing me, Rhysand dear."

"Only because I know you don’t like being fed all at once."

She lifts a hand and runs a nail down the center of his chest, "Don't get yourself too worked up," she murmurs, "I expect you to fit into that cage."

He exhales a soft laugh, then looks up at her with lust in his eyes, "Let me stand beside your throne during the tithe tomorrow."

She watches him, "That's where you want to be seen?" Cassian is frantically lost as to what Rhysand is trying to do. Yeah, what the fuck? Why does he want to be seen next to her?

Rhysand’s voice is smooth and casual, "Let them see me beside you. Let them wonder what I do for that place. What they'd have to do to earn it." Cassian narrows his eyes, what is he plotting?

She tilts her head, amused, "You want to be part of the stage dressing?"

"I want them to wonder what I already know."

Amarantha hums in acknowledgement. She reaches for the cage and dangles it from two fingers, letting sway.

"Then put it on. Let me see how well you fit your cage."

 

Rhysand takes the cock cage, sits back into a kneeling position and spreads his legs wide. His balls and flaccid cock dangle in the space between his legs. He maneuvers the base ring around his cock and balls then slides the cage over his shaft.

His actions slow as he latches the cage to the base ring. The latches close with an audible snap, and each one seems like an ending. An ending to Rhysand's last shred of freedom.

He finishes and pauses just staring at himself.

Amarantha leans forward and snakes a hand between his legs. She brushes her fingers along the bars as she murmurs an incantation. Rhysand can feel magic settle into the cage.

She sits back comfortably in the chair, "Look at me." He was caught continuing to stare at himself.

"Only I can remove it."

Rhysand's throat bobs as he swallows.

"Don't worry, I still intend to regularly use your cock. It's just that your pleasure is now mine to control. You will cum only when I grant it."

Cassian knows how that feels. Rhysand gave me at least one powerful orgasm a day, usually more. I don't think Amarantha will be so considerate. She doesn't have a sense of responsibility towards us.

"Cassian dear, I haven't forgotten you," she calls to him. That's okay! You can forget me!

"Come kneel beside Rhysand." He scrambles over to kneel.

"It's been a long time since any fingers have touched your cock, hasn't it?" Cassian nods dumbly.

"Would you like to touch it now?" He freezes. Not in front of you!

"Come on, touch yourself. Have a little fun."

He swallows and slowly brings his hand towards his crotch. She eyes him intently. He can't get out of this. He gingerly places a palm over his cock, and gods, does it feel good to actually have something touch his skin again. It's like all his nerves are alight. He begins to harden.

He slowly wraps his fingers around his shaft, which is gradually lengthening, and gently pulls down. It's an indescribable delight to have these fresh and new sensations travel through him. He closes his eyes and goes back to his inner world of just darkness and sensations.

He's almost completely at attention. He shifts his grip and strokes himself slowly. It's all he needs right now with his nerves so alert.

"Rhysand dear, kneel between my legs facing me." Cassian's eyes flick open and he glances at them.

Rhysand repositions himself. "Raise up your arms... good. Now just relax. Use my lap as your pillow... that's right," she runs her nails through Rhysand's hair.

Cassian continues his motions on his cock but has his full attention on what the fuck Amarantha is up to. She raises a hand and gestures towards the bathroom. A moment later a bottle comes floating into the room and settles itself right in front of Cassian, between his knees.

"Would you like to use your cock?"

Cassian shifts his gaze from the bottle to her.

She gestures to Rhysand's backside, "There's a perfectly good hole to use right here."

Rhysand stops breathing. Cassian does, too. His brain as gone blank, and his hand stills. He shifts his gaze back to the bottle. It's oil. At least she remembered that part.

Cassian swallows. "Come now, Cassian dear, how long as it been since you used your cock?"

"Over seven years," he says hoarsely, his throat not obeying being used.

"Seven years!" she mock exclaims, "Then come now," she pats Rhysand's back, "You must be dying for an opportunity to use it again."

He remains still, and his mind is still from shock.

She grows more serious, "It's your opportunity to fuck him after all those countless times he has fucked you."

Cassian still doesn't move. His breathing is barely perceptible.

She becomes completely serious and narrows her eyes, "Cassian. Fuck him. Now."

A shudder courses through Cassian's body. He grows softer in his hand. Fuck.

He swipes at the bottle of oil and repositions himself so he is behind Rhysand. He's kneeling between her legs, leaning forward against the chair, with his arms and head in her lap.

Cassian picks up the bottle and flicks it open. He brings it up to Rhysand's ass and freezes. Fuck fuck fuck. How can I do this to someone like this?

Amarantha notices he froze, "Go on," she encourages.

His fingers flex without thought and oil spills out and down the cleft of Rhysand's ass. He pours some on his fingers and puts down the bottle of oil.

He places his clean hand on Rhysand's side. Fuck. He's so tense. He always wears his mask of nonchalance, but it doesn't mean he can relax his muscles on command. Fuck.

He slowly glides his fingers down Rhysand's cleft down to his hole. His very tight hole. Fuck. He gently massages it as he thinks. Last time I fingered Rhysand he was tense until I started whispering to him and was affectionate. But this time...

Cassian glances up to assess their positioning. The positioning of the three of them entangled together in each other's spaces. Fuck. Rhysand is completely enveloped in Amarantha's space with him being positioned between her legs and on her lap while she lazily runs her nails through his hair. Getting to Rhysand means getting into Amarantha's space, and that is not want he wants to do.

He runs a gentle hand down Rhysand's back. He doesn't relax. Fuck. He can't imagine leaning over to whisper something soothing to Rhysand because getting to his ear would mean getting right up close to Amarantha. Fuck.

Should I just say something out loud? When I was trying to get off in front of Amarantha before, Rhysand spoke to me as if she weren't there to help me get over the edge. Maybe I should risk it.

Cassian runs a massaging hand down Rhysand's side as he says, "Relax, Rhysand, I've got you."

Before Rhysand can even react, Amarantha giggles, "You two are so sweet to each other." Rhysand just immediately becomes more tense. He clenches down and his ass cheeks turn to stone. Fuuuuuck. That just made it worse!

Cassian wishes he could just bash his head against the wall.

Alright. I'll try giving Rhysand time. He knows he needs to relax. He knows what he needs to do. I'll just give him time to do it.

Cassian continues to massage Rhysand's very tight hole. He experiments with pressing in gently but he's just too tight.

Amarantha dramatically yawns, "You're boring me. You males take so long to get there!" Cassian only shifts his gaze to her.

"Speed it up," she demands.

Cassian inhales and firmly presses a finger into Rhysand with steady pressure. Muscles across Rhysand's face twitch as he tries to maintain composure. The muscles surrounding Cassian's finger struggle between relaxing and clenching.

He thrusts his finger and can see a flush begin to form across Rhysand's skin.

"Just use your cock already, this is taking too long," she sighs and rolls her eyes.

Cassian's eyes flick up to hers. Before he can think better of it he blurts out, "I don't want to hurt him."

An unamused expression crosses her face, "Was he always careful with you?"

"Y- yes."

Her eyebrows shoot up, "Really now?" Cassian nods.

"Well, I don't give a shit," she flicks her hand at him, "Just use your cock already."

Cassian gently retracts his hand and picks up the bottle of oil. He drizzles it on his cock, catching the drippings with his other hand. He tries to make his cock as a lubricated as he can, but lube can do only so much. Rhysand needs to relax.

He runs his cock up and down Rhysand's cleft. He can feel his muscles twitching, fighting between clenching and relaxing. Rhysand is trying to relax, his body just won't.

Cassian notches his cock at Rhysand's entrance. He inhales and applies firm pressure inwards. Rhysand's breathing changes to quick shallow breaths. His brow furrows. His cheeks twitch. Cassian keeps pressing further. Rhysand's lips part.

Amarantha whips out a hand and clasps it behind Cassian's neck and pulls him forward with unexpected force. This causes his cock to thrust forward quickly, and Rhysand bucks with a strangled cry.

"Faster," she growls. She and Cassian lock eyes.

Cassian starts a pace of thrusting shallowly with his eyes glued to hers. Rhysand's mouth gapes open and he whimpers.

She removes her hand from Cassian's neck and shifts to be comfortable again. She lowers her gaze to Rhysand's grimacing face. She takes his face in her hands and and holds his head up to face her. She cocks her head to the side admiring his pained expression.

"Look at me, Rhysand," she coos.

His eyes flicker open and find her face. His mouth is gaping, he's panting, his face is flush.

"Deeper, Cassian," she instructs. He stills. Her expression turns from fascination to fury in a split second and she snaps her gaze to Cassian. That look alone terrifies him and he thrusts in fast to the hilt.

Rhysand grunts painfully and squeezes his eyes shut. His arms whip out and bracket either side of Amarantha's hips to brace himself against the back of the chair.

Cassian sets a new rhythm with deep thrusts. Amarantha still holds Rhysand's head up in her hands and slowly shifts her own head left and right as she carefully studies his face.

"Look at me," she says flatly. The eyes of both males flick to her, but hers remains locked onto Rhysand.

Rhysand is loudly panting, with an occasional grimacing cry. His face is turning red. A bead of sweat rolls down his brow.

She releases his head and pushes his shoulders back slightly. His arms shift to bracing against the seat cushion. His whole upper body bobs with each of Cassian's thrusts.

Amarantha pulls on and gathers up her gown's skirts. She pulls them up over her knees.

"Finger me. Make me cum," she says lowly.

The expression that crosses Rhysand's face can only be that of a silent plea for mercy. Please no more while he endures this.

She returns a cold expression that can only be that of announcing a threat. She shifts her eyes to Cassian, then shifts her eyes back to Rhysand. The threat is not against him, but against Cassian.

With much difficulty he moves a shaky arm and snakes it beneath Amarantha's skirts. Within a moment a smile curls along her face. She shifts her hips forward and settles further back into the chair.

Amarantha's eyes grow heavy lidded. Rhysand's entire body starts to shake with effort. Too much is happening to him all at once. He's attempting, and failing, to maintain composure. He's keeping his head up to have his eyes remain locked on hers. He's concentrating on how to bring a female to orgasm with only his fingers. He's being pounded up the ass. It's too much all at once, so his body shakes.

Cassian can clearly see Rhysand is trembling. He's close to breaking.

A lazy relaxation washes over Amarantha. She gives a half smile, "Let yourself go, Rhysand," she says in a gentle low voice, "Just let your emotions flow."

She bucks and hums in satisfaction, "Your composure is already broken, I can see your suffering plain as day," she pants a bit as Rhysand's ministrations prove effective, "Might as well drop the mask."

Rhysand's bottom lip trembles.

"That's it," she coos as she languidly thrusts her hips, "Let go, Rhysand. Let go."

Rhysand screws his eyes shut and his head drops. Suddenly a shuddering gasp escapes him, and Cassian can feel him instantly loosen. He's gliding easier through him with each thrust.

He buries his face into Amarantha's thigh, as his breaths turn shaky and shuddering. She lifts his head and studies his face. She starts panting as she looks at his tear streaked cheeks. She starts rhythmically thrusting her hips as she admires his trembling lips.

She throws her head back, but continues to stare at Rhysand's face through the bottom of her eyelashes. The grip on his face turns harsher. The tips of her fingers turning white from the pressure.

Then she gasps and her back arches and her body undulates from her head down to her hips. She releases a loud satisfied moan. Her body melts as she comes back down.

She swipes a lazy finger over Rhysand's wet cheeks and smiles like she's done something beautiful.

"Stop, Cassian." He stills. She hums thoughtfully. She admires Rhysand's face, then releases it.

"Go," she says unceremoniously, "I'm done with you. Go back to your rooms." She leans her head back against the chair and closes her eyes with a satisfied smile.

Cassian carefully pulls himself out of Rhysand. He flinches anyway. He stands and gives space for Rhysand to stand. They quickly, but quietly, make their way to the door. Rhysand grabs all of their clothes in one go, while Cassian opens the door, and closes it after them.

They walk a bit away from the door and Rhysand places their clothes on a chair. They quietly dress themselves. Rhysand takes extra time to smooth his pants and adjust his tunic so it's just right. Cassian decides to just carry his arm brace.

They exit the suite, Rhysand not forgetting to give a respectful nod to the guards. I'm going to have to remember to ask him why he keeps doing that, Cassian thinks.

 

Although the corridors are timeless by vision, time is being betrayed by sound. It's quiet. The palace is asleep. Their footsteps sound traitorously louder as no other sound joins them.

They reach their room and Rhysand closes the door after them. His hand remains on the doorknob. He slowly leans forward and rests his forehead head on the door.

Cassian quietly slides up next to Rhysand and clicks the door locked. He doesn't touch Rhysand, he just leans against the wall with him. There is nothing to say. There is nothing to do. They aren't ignoring what happened. Right now this silence spent next to each other is their quiet acknowledgement: 'We just experienced something fucked up and nothing we do or say will make it okay.'

Cassian puts a hand on Rhysand's arm, "Let's wash up," he lightly tugs on his elbow, "Come with me."

Rhysand follows with Cassian's guidance. He leads them to the tub and turns it on. "You first," he says gently. Rhysand just slips to the floor next to the tub. Cassian kneels in front of him, "I'll help." Rhysand nods dumbly.

Cassian leans him forward and pulls the tunic up over his head. He stands them up and unties Rhysand's pants. He pulls it and the underwear down his legs. He can't help but pause at seeing the cock cage. He brings forward the sensations his own cock is currently feeling, finally free to be caressed by the silky underwear. He helps Rhysand take his pants off his feet.

He kicks off his own pants and guides Rhysand into the tub with him. Cassian crouches down, soaps up his hands and massages Rhysand's calves. This is what Rhysand always did for me after a rough time. Maybe this is what he wants for himself. Cassian gives him a massage up both legs with soapy hands.

He stands and looks into Rhysand's eyes, "Do you want me to wash you back there?" Rhysand hesitantly nods. He slowly and gently runs his soapy hands across the globes of Rhysand's ass and then hesitantly down the cleft. Rhysand hisses when Cassian reaches his asshole. He tries his best to balance gentleness and cleanliness as he soaps up the whole area.

Cassian moves on and massages Rhysand's chest and back, then his arms and hands. He looks up into Rhysand's blank expression and gently wipes the dried tears and sweat from his face.

"Sit in the water," Cassian helps lower him down into the water. He gives himself a quick wash over and rinse, then helps rinse off Rhysand. Neither need their hair washed tonight.

Cassian steps out and guides Rhysand to stand and step out as well. He hands him a towel, then grabs one for himself and towels himself off. Rhysand hasn't moved. Cassian's heart breaks for him. He takes the towel from Rhysand's hands and towels himself off.

"Go to bed." Rhysand nods and steps forward on his own accord and leaves the bathroom.

Cassian stays behind. He grabs his pants, his only pair of pants, and soaps them and rinses them then hangs them on a bar. How am I going to get more pants? I don't think wearing Rhysand's nicely tailored slacks will cut it for me. He sighs.

Cassian goes into the other room and picks up Rhysand's jacket from the bed to find the enchanted parchment. He throws the jacket in the bin, and puts the parchment back under the rear leg of the wardrobe.

He joins Rhysand in the bed. He faces him from concern and wanting to see him, but is surprised when Rhysand closes the gap between them and wraps their legs together.

"I wouldn't think you'd want to be near me," Cassian whispers.

"It wasn't you, it was her," he insists.

They lay with their faces close, sharing air. Rhysand takes one of Cassian's hands in his own and rubs his thumb across Cassian's knuckles.

"I broke," Rhysand confesses with a broken voice.

"You cried, you didn't break."

"Then what does it mean to break?"

Cassian thinks on it. He remembers his own breaking. "I think truly breaking is losing parts of yourself you wanted to hold on to dearly."

"What broke for you?" he says so softly he's barely heard.

"My dignity. It is everything in Illyrian culture, and you took it from me embarrassingly quickly."

"Dignity is meaningless."

"You taught me that. The lesson was painful, and it broke me to understand it."

"I gave up dignity because it could interfere with the protection of Velaris. There is absolutely nothing I wouldn't do to protect Velaris," his eyes flick up to Cassian's, "I would kill you if it meant protecting Velaris."

Cassian runs a hand down Rhysand's side, "Then it would be a worthy death."

Rhysand's eyes grow wide and tremble, "You believe that?"

"Yes, truly."

Rhysand grasps Cassian and pulls him into an embrace, "Then you understand," he says with his face buried in Cassian's shoulder.

"I understand. And if Velaris is the only thing you are holding onto dearly, then you haven't broken as long as you continue to work to keep the city safe."

He pushes Rhysand back to look into his eyes, "The city is safe. You haven't broken." Rhysand gives a small smile on his pained face.

They lay caressing each other's hands and shift their gazes from each other to their hands and back again.

"Can we," Rhysand swallows and looks at their hands, "again. It was... soothing," he looks up at Cassian's face.

Cassian gives a subtle smile and closes the gap between them so their lips can meet. Again, there's no passion. It's simply comfort. And it works. Rhysand's tension eases, and Cassian melts into the bed sheets. They fall asleep together sharing breath.

Chapter Text

Cassian wakes, stretches, and curses the timelessness of being under this oppressive mountain. He feels relatively rested so perhaps it is morning.

He looks to see Rhysand and he isn't there. He listens carefully to see if he can hear him in the bathing chamber but there is only absolute silence. Now he's growing concerned.

He gets up and looks in the bathing chamber and sees it's completely empty. He checks the tub and the sink and they're both dry. Where is Rhysand?

He he puts on his pants and carefully approaches their bedroom's door to the main hallway. He sees the door is unlocked. He slowly opens the door and looks left and right down the hallway. Nothing is there.

He retreats and leans against the edge of the foot of the bed. Where is Rhysand? Should I venture outside and look for him? No, I shouldn't go out. Amarantha said she doesn't want me in public unrestrained.

What if Rhysand is out there needing help while I'm just sitting here being Amarantha's obedient dog. But what if Rhysand doesn't need any help at all and I go out and piss off Amarantha in the process.

He sinks to the floor and rests his head back against the foot of the bed. There are no good answers.

If my fate is to be decided today, what kind of person do I want to be? The one who died fruitlessly saving Rhysand? The one who lives as Rhysand dies? The one who died searching for a problem that never existed? Or the one who continues their life because nothing nefarious is going on.

He sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. If Rhysand is not dying, I should stay here. If Rhysand is dying, I cannot save his life. But would I want to die with him?

Yes. I've already tried life without Rhysand and it sucked. I'm better off dead while attempting to hold on to my values than to be alive without him.

Cassian jumps up with determination. He goes over to the door and puts his hand on the doorknob. He takes a deep breath and swings open the door.

And there is a startled Rhysand on the other side of it.

"Were you waiting at the door for me or something?" he says as he steps inside the room and Cassian closes the door behind him.

"No. I had decided to go searching for you. I was worried you were in trouble."

Rhysand turns and looks at him with an expression that is half pained and half wonder, "That's thoughtful of you. Stupid and reckless, but thoughtful."

He approaches Cassian and presses his finger into his chest, "Promise me you will never attempt to search for me again. Do you understand?"

Cassian shakes his head, "Why? We're in this together."

Rhysand gestures outside, "But we aren't while out there in front of all of them. I can wander the halls unescorted, you cannot. You would be killed for disobedience. Or worse. They could take your wings. Never search for me. Do you understand?"

Cassian cocks his head and thinks it over. He shakes his head, "I don't want to hide in here if you're in trouble."

Rhysand tightly grips both of Cassian's shoulders, "We cannot be there for each other if one of us is dead. Amarantha will not kill me, but she will kill you. You cannot be here for me if you are dead. Do you understand?"

Cassian shrugs off Rhysand's hands and moves to sit on the bed. He's quiet for a moment before he says softly, "I don't want to be here without you."

Rhysand kneels down so he can look up into Cassian's eyes, "You won't be here without me. She will kill you before she ever kills me. You won't ever have to suffer this place alone."

Cassian looks at the intensity of Rhysand's expression. I think he's right. He huffs, "Okay. I'll never go searching for you."

Relief washes over Rhysand's face before he jumps up and hugs Cassian, who awkwardly hugs back.

"I don't know how I would have coped if you had died or were maimed because I left this morning. I don't think I could have forgiven myself," Rhysand says while embracing Cassian.

Rhysand releases Cassian and sits on the bed next to him. "I should have told you I was leaving. It was stupid not to," Rhysand sighs.

"Please, wake me up next time."

"I will, I will."

Rhysand turns to him and holds up a bottle. It's a bottle of oil.

Cassian whips up and snaps his arms out wide incredulously, "You want to fuck?! You risked our lives because you want to fuck?! What is wrong with you, Rhysand?!"

Rhysand's jaw tightens. He doesn't speak at first as he grinds his teeth, then finally says, "I wanted to have something for ourselves."

Cassian calms down and sits on the foot of the bed again, "What do you mean?"

"Last night isn't a one off. She's going to force you to fuck me again and again," Rhysand fidgets with the cap of the bottle, "I wanted us to take it for ourselves. I don't want the memories of it to all be about her. I want other memories, too."

Rhysand looks over at Cassian, "Please?"

"Let me see if I understand you," Cassian clears his throat, "You want me to fuck you." Rhysand nods. "Because you want some control over how you're fucked?"

Rhysand nods, then says barely audibly, "Yes."

Cassian falls back against the bed under the enormity of what has been requested of him. Rhysand rotates to look at Cassian's face while Cassian stares at the ceiling. Me fucking him. Never thought I'd see the day. Physically, I should be able to do it. Emotionally? It's very different being the one in control. It didn't work out that well when I tried it after the High Lords freed me.

Cassian lets out a long exhale before saying, "I'll need you to tell me what to do. I don't like being in control any more."

Rhysand nods, "Okay."

They just look at each other in silence for a long while.

"Can we do it now?" Rhysand asks tentatively, "It's still before breakfast and this may be the only free time we get all day."

Now?! Now. Okay, it's now. "Alright," Cassian says and starts to shuck off his pants.

Rhysand stands and rounds the bed as he removes his shirt and rolls off his pants.

"You're healed!" Cassian exclaims.

"I didn't leave only so I could find some oil," Rhysand says as he crawls onto the bed, "I also stopped off at the healer."

Cassian shuffles back to the pillows. He languidly pulls on his still-hardening cock. Gods, I haven't jerked myself in seven years.

"I want to face you. So come here between my legs," Rhysand instructs and Cassian moves into the requested position.

He hands Cassian the bottle of oil, "Prep me."

Cassian takes the oil and pours some on his hands, "I don't want to make all the decisions. Just tell me when you're ready for the next step." Rhysand nods.

Cassian scooches forward and props Rhysand's hips on his thighs so they're elevated. He reaches down and gently applies the oil from his hand and starts massaging Rhysand's hole.

"Is there anything I can do to help you relax when we're with Her?"

"Don't talk about Her now."

Cassian just nods and continues the gentle massage.

"Insert a finger," Rhysand whispers. He closes his eyes and subtly bucks his hips when Cassian penetrates him. He opens his eyes again and continues his intent stare at Cassian's face, "I'm okay, keep going."

Cassian thrusts his finger and occasionally gently pulls on the rim to stretch it. Rhysand is more relaxed this time. He places his free hand on Rhysand's side and can feel his muscles are much more relaxed. I wish there I was something I could do to help him relax when we're with Her. We need to find time to talk about how we can help each other when with Her.

"Second finger."

Cassian slowly pushes in the second finger as Rhysand slightly squirms but doesn't break eye contact. Cassian thrusts his fingers and Rhysand's lips part. He scissors his fingers and rotates. Rhysand's eyes close as his head tilts back, but then tilts his head forward and resumes eye contact. Rhysand licks his lips and his breathes come a little harder.

"Third finger."

Cassian adds a third and Rhysand grimaces and squirms. Cassian stops. "No no no," Rhysand quickly says, "just keep going." So Cassian resumes, albeit concerned. I hope Rhysand isn't pushing himself too fast. Cassian rotates his hand and watches Rhysand grip the sheets and pull on them.

"Okay, your cock now," Rhysand says hoarsely.

"Are you sure?" I'm not sure.

"I'm sure. Do it."

Cassian retracts his fingers then oils up his cock. He lines it up with Rhysand's entrance and looks back at Rhysand for reassurance. Rhysand nods. Cassian takes a deep breath and slowly pushes himself forward.

Rhysand's breath hitches and he pulls on the sheets. His breathing turns into light panting.

But Cassian, he barely notices. Oh gods this feels so good! He fights his instincts to slam in and thrust away selfishly. He goes slowly while his cock yells for more more more. His lips part as his jaw hangs a little. He looks down and watches his cock be enveloped bit by bit as he enters Rhysand. That is so hot. He flicks his gaze up to Rhysand's face. His mouth is gaping and his face twitches an almost-there grimace.

Cassian reaches his hilt and pauses, "Gods, you're so warm. This feels so good," he pants.

Rhysand just nods, "Keep going."

Cassian leans forward and plants his hands on either side of Rhysand's elbows and begins to thrust. Not shallow. Not languid. His self control is waning and he rolls his hips how he wants it. He closes his eyes. He can feel Rhysand squirm under him. So hot. But then that molten core starts crawling up his spine. If I keep going like this I'm gonna cum. Fuck. The least I can do is get Rhysand to cum first.

He opens his eyes and slows down. Rhysand is still staring right into his eyes, mouth agape, and panting. Cassian gradually shifts his angle as he thrusts searching for Rhysand's p-spot. He feels he's gone all the way around and found nothing but tries again, paying attention to Rhysand's body language to see if a particular angle is better.

There's a knock on the door. They freeze as solid as statues. Rhysand clenches down hard on Cassian's cock and he has to bite back a groan.

The door opens a few inches then a voice calls out, "Breakfast is being served in the main dining hall," then the door is promptly shut.

Cassian and Rhysand stare at each other wide eyed. Then Rhysand smirks. Cassian snickers. And then they both laugh. After a moment of laughter they eventually sober back up.

"Where were we?" Cassian teases with a grin.

"We were at the point where you're fucking me," Rhysand deadpans.

"Oh yes," Cassian thrusts and Rhysand tilts his head back and groans, "I had nearly forgotten."

Cassian thrusts focusing on Rhysand's pleasure. He pays close attention to his body language trying to find what works for him. Once it seems Rhysand had fully recovered from their... interruption... and had gotten back into the groove of it, Cassian resumes his hunt for hitting the p-spot just right. He methodically shifts his angle while watching intently. Finally, Rhysand vocalizes and tilts his head back at one particular spot. That's it.

Cassian increases his speed and depth at that specific angle and is greeted with Rhysand's own hip thrusts. Rhysand thrusts and squirms with an expression of pained ecstasy. He's panting deeply and tugging on the sheets.

Unexpectedly, Rhysand flings his hands up to Cassian's shoulders and hauls him down so they're chest to chest. Cassian's disoriented for a moment but readjusts for this position then resumes thrusting. Rhysand captures his lips and his tongue quickly meets his own. He digs one hand into Cassian's hair and the other holds tight under his wings. Rhysand is thrusting his hips with abandon and Cassian is trying to match up with him.

Rhysand breaks the seal of their lips to tilt his head way back while he cries out, "Yes, harder!" Cassian obliges. Rhysand's back gradually arches up then suddenly he wracks his body left and right while moaning. He holds onto Cassian like a lifeline while his body undulates.

So hot. So fucking hot my cock got him to cum. Cassian snaps his hips. The molten core within him whips at his spine and climbs higher and higher. Grunts and a groan escape him when his cock starts to spurt and he snaps his hips for the final time. He feels his cock emptying. Into Rhysand. I'm the one who fucked. I'm the one who dumped my load so deep.

He sits up and slowly pulls out of Rhysand. And now I'm the one who gets to watch my seed spill out. I got to claim him. He's mine. He casts his gaze back up to Rhysand's face. He looks so fucked out. So wrecked. His perfect hair is mussed. He's breathing deeply with his eyes closed and jaw hung open. I did that. So hot.

I guess it's also my responsibility to clean. He crawls off the bed and lumbers into the bathing chamber. He throws the faucet on to hot water then grabs a couple cloths. He soaps one up and washes off his cock and crotch. He tosses that one in the bin then thoroughly wets the other one and lightly wrings the excess water out.

He goes back out to the main room and smirks. Rhysand hasn't even moved. So fucked out. He walks slower to appreciate the view. Rhysand is sprawled out, legs askew, arms just flopped to his sides, his mouth open, his face placid, and breathing deeply.

Cassian climbs onto the bed then pats Rhysand's side, "Roll over onto your stomach." Rhysand groans but complies. He nudges Rhysand to open his legs wider, then Cassian runs the hot wet cloth over Rhysand's skin. He melts into the sheets. I always liked this part, too. Cassian gently wipes up his thighs, scrotum, and cleft. Rhysand hisses when he reaches his asshole. I guess it still ended up stinging. Hopefully he isn't hurt.

Cassian tosses the cloth into the bin then lays down next to Rhysand, "How do you feel?"

"Good," Rhysand groans.

"Good," Cassian replies then gets comfortable against the pillows.

It's been almost a decade of Cassian being the one fucked and now the tables have turned. It used to be him in the fucked out haze afterwards. Now he's more fairly clear minded waiting on Rhysand to recover.

Muffled garbled speech comes from Rhysand.

"What?"

Rhysand moves his head and groans, "We need to go to breakfast," he rolls over and sighs, "We need to eat whenever we have an opportunity just in case She forgets to feed us again."

"I've only got to slip on boxers and pants. You're the one with the whole routine."

"I know, I know," he throws an arm over his eyes, "I was mostly giving a pep talk to myself to get out of bed." Cassian playfully nudges him in the shoulder.

Rhysand stretches every which way then literally rolls over and over until he slides off the bed. He throws on some boxers he grabbed from the chest of drawers then goes to the wardrobe and pulls out a simple pair of pants and simple tunic. Black, of course.

Cassian grabs a fresh pair of boxers from the drawer and pulls on his pants. Doesn't take him much to get ready!

Rhysand combs his hair. Cassian shrugs and runs his fingers through his newly shortened locks. I miss my hair. He sighs.

Rhysand finishes up, "Ready?"

Cassian wordlessly turns his back to Rhysand and folds his arms behind him. He wiggles his fingers for emphasis.

"I did forget," Rhysand swipes the buckles off the chest of drawers and loosely restrains Cassian's arms.

Rhysand opens the door and lets Cassian out before closing the door behind them.

Sounds are the indicator of time down here. He cannot see the time since the lighting is always the same, but if he pays attention to what he can hear while walking these hallways he gets an idea of what time it is. There is currently the bustle of a waking palace echoing through the halls. Footsteps. Voices. He thinks he may even hear the kitchen ever so faintly.

They enter the dinning hall. It has many tables this time. Nine round tables seating twelve each, and then a semi circle table in the back of the room on a dais. The straight side of the table has a throne-like chair flanked by two chairs, then 9 chairs around the circular side. Servants are buzzing around the tables setting them up. They're currently putting red table cloths on them.

Along the left wall is the buffet for breakfast. A few people are milling around, notably those hailing from Prythian are gathered together eating off small plates while they talk. They glare at Rhysand as he passes, then give sympathetic looks to Cassian as he walks by.

Rhysand piles a small plate high with food. They stand off to the side and Rhysand clearly tries to block everyone's view of Cassian while Rhysand is forced to hand feed him. Cassian appreciates having the potential stares minimized. They wordlessly eat their way through the small plate. Rhysand leaves Cassian behind for seconds.

Saelwyn intercepts Rhysand before he can reach the buffet. They speak for a moment then Rhysand waves at Cassian to approach as he puts the dirty plate in the bin. Cassian reaches them and Saelwyn wordlessly leads them down the hallways.

Cassian is nervous. Nothing good ever happens when they are lead anywhere in this palace.

After just a few turns, Saelwyn enters a room. They all go inside. It is a long narrow room just large enough for the furniture. There is a large desk at the far end with two simple chairs in front. There is a lit hearth on the left wall with two plush sitting chairs, a low lying table, and a couch. The entire right wall is composed of empty floor to ceiling bookshelves. There is no rug, just the bare rock floor.

"This is the office I have requisitioned for you," Saelwyn says gesturing at the room as she turns, "I've set up your furniture and basic writing supplies, but you will need to decorate. Feel free to wander the palace and take anything you want from any room with an unlit hearth."

"It's satisfactory," Rhysand says in his bored courtier's fashion, "Thank you."

She hands over something to Rhysand, "Here's the key."

"I'll require an assistant to carry the additional supplies here," Rhysand says as he steps away and reviews the room.

"I'll have one sent to you tomorrow morning."

Rhysand nods. Saelwyn nods then wordlessly exits.

Cassian nudges the door shut with his shoulder, "It's nice." Rhysand nods as he continues looking over the space.

Cassian approaches Rhysand and turns his back to him, "Can you take this off."

"Cassian, that's not a good idea."

Cassian turns and sees a pained expression on Rhysand's face. "This is supposed to be a place anyone can walk in and ask my advice. Especially Her inner circle. She specifically said she doesn't want them to see you unbound."

Cassian groans and flops himself in the corner of the couch, "Fuck. I'm going to have to be bound all day every fucking day."

"I could leave you in our room," Rhysand offers. He sits on the opposite side of the couch.

"I'll think about it," Cassian sighs, "I don't like the idea of us being separated, but I am positive I am going to need to have days off to stretch my arms," he leans his head back against the couch and closes his eyes.

Rhysand places a hand on Cassian's knee. There's nothing to say. They're each being tortured by Her. They each have their struggles to endure from Her. All they can do is be present for each other. And Rhysand is letting him know that he's present.

After a moment of just being present, Cassian raises his head and says, "Today is the day we renegotiate The Agreement. We have a lot to discuss." Rhysand nods.

Cassian sits up and turns on the couch with one knee up on the seat so he can fully face Rhysand, "We need to rewrite it from scratch. Nothing is the same. You're no longer my Dom. We're handling this..." he glances around, "... situation... as equals."

Rhysand runs a hand down his face, "I'd rather just be in charge of protecting you, but alright. We're equals."

"You can still protect me. But I'll also protect you."

"I don't want you to put yourself in danger to protect me," Rhysand says sternly.

"I don't want you to put yourself in danger, either!" Cassian exclaims.

"It's my job to protect you!" he growls.

"Not any more! You cannot risk sacrificing yourself for me. Not now. Not here."

Rhysand snaps to his feet and paces while running his hand through his hair, "You are my responsibility. I stole you. I broke you. I have to protect you."

"Rhysand," Cassian says sympathetically. Rhysand just continues to pace.

"Rhysand, stop," Cassian pleads, "Listen to me." Rhysand stops pacing, but he leans against the hearth staring into the fire.

"Rhysand, I'm tied up here. Don't make me chase you around the room," he says with clear frustration. Rhysand sighs, turns and plops himself back onto the couch.

"I know you feel immense responsibility for me. But we aren't in normal circumstances," he cocks his head to one side, wishing he had a hand to lay on Rhysand's knee, "You can't do this alone. I absolutely do not want to do this alone. So although we want to protect each other, we also need to survive. For each other, we need to survive so we can still be here for each other."

Rhysand sighs deeply, leans his head back against the couch and closes his eyes. He's quiet for a time, "I promised you-"

"All previous agreements are off the table," Cassian interrupts, "We are starting over from scratch."

Rhysand turns his head to look at Cassian. He really looks at him then says quietly, "My heart... feels like it is turning to stone, and will fall out of my chest when... whenever I think about not being in charge of protecting you."

Cassian huffs, "That's probably guilt."

"Is that what it feels like?"

"Yeah, that's what it feels like." Cassian scooches over to press his shoulder next to Rhysand's. "You should feel guilty. But don't let your guilt endanger us."

"My emotions are endangering us?" Rhysand's head is still laying against the couch, but he shifts his eyes to look up at Cassian.

"They will if you keep insisting on protecting me at the cost of yourself," Cassian says softly, "The Agreement will help us to think more clearly when things get emotional. We'll plan on how to handle situations with clear minds so it's easier to follow those plans when things get tough," he leans his head down on the couch so he's level with Rhysand, "Okay?"

"Okay," Rhysand whispers.

"We're equals and we'll look out for each other within reason," Cassian summarizes, "Anything else?"

Rhysand sits up and props his elbow on the back of the couch. Cassian sits up along with him. Rhysand bites his thumb as he thinks.

"We should keep the talking clause. We need to keep the lines of communication open between us," Rhysand says matter-of-factly.

Cassian nods, "Agreed."

They think together in silence, then Cassian speaks up, "We really put ourselves in risk by questioning Her demands while attempting to protect each other. We can't keep seeking consent from each other when She orders us around. We just have to obey."

Rhysand bites his thumb again while he thinks.

"Don't let your emotions cloud your judgement," Cassian cautions.

Rhysand huffs, "Yup, my heart turned to stone again at the thought of it," he sighs heavily, "I guess you're right. We need to just obey, even if it is against each other." Cassian nods.

Rhysand sits up straight, "Let's write this down," he stands and goes to the desk and sits down. He pulls open drawers until he finds parchment and writing tools. Cassian stands and sits at one of the chairs on the other side of the desk.

Rhysand writes in large letters at the top, "The Agreement," then continues to write in smaller lettering. "We're equals," Rhysand mumbles as he writes. Cassian nods.

Rhysand continues to write as they discuss the details of putting their plan to paper. They're equals. They look out for each other. They talk to each other. They give consent to follow Amarantha's orders. At the end, the parchment with their agreement says:

 

-------------------------

The Agreement

Effective until the next full moon

1. We are equals.
This is no longer a Dominant and submissive relationship. We speak to each other as equals and make decisions together. Neither of us will give the other orders.

2. We look out for each other.
We promise to help each other's well-being however we can (within reason while under Amarantha's control)

3. We talk.
We agree to speak honestly about how we're doing. Even if it's hard. Even if we'd rather not.

4. Consent under Amarantha.
If Amarantha gives an order that involves the other, we agree in advance that it will be followed. We will not hold guilt or blame for surviving.

5. Review at the next full moon.
This Agreement stands until the next full moon (to the best of our ability to understand when the full moon has occurred). Upon which, this agreement is null and another agreement is planned to be negotiated.

-------------------------

 

Rhysand signs his name at the bottom in his fancy looping script that Cassian can hardly decipher.

Cassian huffs a laugh, "I guess I'll sign it when we get back to our room," he wiggles his fingers for emphasis, primarily just for himself to reinforce that his hands actually exist.

"Speaking of," Rhysand stands and folds up the parchment to slip it in his pocket, "We need to get back so I can get changed for the tithe." Cassian nods.

Rhysand leads them out and down the hallways. The palace is a absolutely bustling now. Noise from all directions of all types is echoing through the hallways. It is certainly getting close to lunch time. They better hurry.

They reach their room and Rhysand promptly releases Cassian's bindings. Cassian takes the parchment and looks for writing tools while Rhysand looks for his outfit for the tithe.

Rhysand chooses a fitted black velvet jacket with obsidian buttons and midnight-blue embroidery that traces the sigils of the Night Court in subtle, shifting thread. His high collar and long sleeves are trimmed in silver. The weight of the garment carries quiet authority.

Cassian finds the writing tools and signs his name in his scratchy script. They decide to store the parchment under the rear leg of the wardrobe since Rhysand doesn't have access to the pocket space between realms.

While they wait to be summoned, Cassian relaxes and Rhysand massages Cassian's shoulders and elbows to try to limber them up in preparation for a long day stuck in the arm restraints.

Finally, the long expected knock arrives and the door opens to reveal a grey skinned servant, "You have been summoned for lunch."

Rhysand nods and grabs the arm restraint. Cassian takes a deep breath and presents his back and folded arms for Rhysand to buckle together.

The hallways are loud. This must be the most people Cassian has heard in this palace before. The noise just grows louder and louder the closer they approach the dining hall. The noise is all voices and the din is deafening as they reach the hall.

They round the threshold to enter the room and the sound hits like a wall. There is laughter, arguments, glasses clinking, a thousand conversations layered atop each other. Cassian blinks as they step inside.

The dining hall has been transformed.

Nine round tables gleam with silver and crystal, each set with twelve chairs arranged like petals around a perfect center. Deep red tablecloths fall to the floor, and each centerpiece is a work of living art. There are delicate branches twined with blooming nightlilies and curling faelight vines that pulse softly with magic.

Above them, chandeliers of floating glass orbs drift through the air in slow orbits, casting soft golden light like stars circling an invisible moon. The light reflects in the polished floors and catches on jewelry, polished horns, silver filigree cuffs. Everything glows.

At the back of the room, a dais holds the semi-circular

high table. The throne at the center gleams like bone dipped in obsidian, flanked by two chairs of blackened steel. The outer arc curves around with nine high-backed chairs. No chair on the dais is yet filled, but they are already heavy with significance.

And the people, there are so many people. Every court is here. Cassian sees Day silks, Winter furs, Autumn leathers. Sunburst clasps and moonstone necklaces. He can taste the tension rising with the steam from the serving trays as palace staff begin pouring wine and clearing paths.

And every head turns when they enter. The din dampens as conversation slows. Rhysand walks forward, head held high as if this is his throne room. Cassian follows but watches everyone's gaze.

A delicate hand catches on Cassian's elbow. He turns to see Aíne with Helion behind her. "Cassian," Aíne says with care, "Are you sure you're okay?"

Cassian stops and looks at her sympathetically, "Aíne, no one here is okay. We're trying to survive."

"Cassian," Rhysand snaps, "Heel."

Cassian swivels at the voice and sees Rhysand several paces away with his eyes narrowed and hands in his pockets. The crowd has parted leaving a clear path between Rhysand and Cassian.

Cassian quickly turns and whispers to Aíne, "We all have our parts to play," then hurries to catch up with Rhysand.

As the dais comes into view, Cassian can see a cushion on the floor to the left of the throne and knows instantly that's where their assigned seating is. Unsurprising, Amarantha appears to keep putting Rhysand to her left. Cassian guesses Tamlin will be assigned to the right.

Once they're at the foot of the dais he sees name cards on the plate for each chair up there. He glances around but doesn't see name tags on the other tables. The center pieces are labeled with court names, except for the two unlabeled tables closest to the dais.

Rhysand drifts across the front of the dais. The area here is primarily composed of High Lords and Ladies, and Amarantha's inner circle. As they walk, the High Lords and Ladies add more distance. The inner circle politely greets Rhysand.

Rhoven steps forward as Rhysand makes his way by. Rhysand does not stop walking. He only slows enough to not be rude. Rhoven glides into step beside him, all fluid grace and folded hands, as if this were a casual stroll through a library rather than the most dangerous court in Prythian.

"I have sent the care packages," Rhoven says, his voice soft and precise, "Caelan is delivering them now."

Rhysand nods once, eyes forward.

"We used your exact phrasing," Rhoven adds, "firm, but merciful."

There is a beat of silence. Then, with the faintest trace of a smile, Rhoven says, "If any court takes offense, I will be sure to remind them those were your words."

Rhysand glances at him, just barely. Enough to acknowledge the barb.

Rhoven is already drifting away, his hands still neatly folded behind his back.

A bell rings and the din quiets into an eerie silence. "Everyone, please stand behind your seats. Your Queen approaches."

The silence is then filled with shuffling shoes and clacking heels. Not even a murmur arises. No one speaks as they find their chairs. The rustling of people milling about dies down and a quiet fills the room. A collective breath is held.

The great doors open with a slow groan, but no one turns to look. They already know who it is.

Amarantha enters as if the room has been holding its breath for her. Her gown is deep crimson, stitched with gold thread in swirling thorned vines that shimmer as she walks. The train drags behind her like spilled blood. Two red skinned guards follow at a measured distance, spears upright, eyes fixed forward. They are not for protection. They are punctuation.

She moves with slow, practiced ease. Her heels strike the stone floor in an unhurried rhythm. No one speaks. No one blinks. Her attention seems to pass over the room like a net, catching everything without ever stopping.

She climbs the dais and takes her position in front of her throne, dragging one hand along Tamlin's shoulders as she passes.

She speaks with a voice that is calm, almost warm, "I have spared no expense to welcome you all. It warms my heart to see you so... obedient," she gazes across the crowd, "Please, enjoy my hospitality."

She turns and sits. The room exhales and promptly erupts with the sound of scraping chair legs along the stone floor. Then the sounds die down and quiet reigns once again.

Cassian kneels on the cushion between Rhysand and Amarantha. He eyes the seating arrangement before him. Tamlin and Rhysand flank Amarantha on the flat side of the semi-circular table. Nostrus is centered on the circular side and flanked by Morrigan and the Lady of Winter. His own Lady of Summer having been killed by Amarantha's hand just a few days prior.

Servants begin pouring wine. Still, no one speaks.

When the wine has finished being poured at their table, Amarantha lifts her glass, and without needing to stand or raise her voice, says, "To progress. May your gifts be generous, and your spirits pliant."

A few at the table echo the toast. Most simply raise their glasses. Cassian watches them over the rim of his own emptiness.

A team of grey skinned servants surround the table, one for each seated person, each carrying a plate under a dome. Once all in position, they all lift the dome from the plate in unison and place the plate in front of the person they're next to. Then just as orderly, they all file away.

They begin to eat, still in silence. Their cutlery tapping on porcelain is nearly the only sound in the room.

Amarantha's gaze drifts down to Cassian, "You have trained him well, Rhysand," she then looks up at Rhysand, "He even kneels without a leash. That's discipline."

She lets the statement settle. Then she turns her head, slow and deliberate, toward the rest of the table, "What do your courts do to maintain such loyalty?" she asks, "I'm always collecting strategies."

Her eyes land first on Thesan. He places his goblet down with care, "Through education and stability," he says, "We earn devotion by earning trust."

Amarantha lifts a brow, "Trust? How quaint. Does that still work?"

"It has for generations," Thesan replies evenly.

"For the ones who survive, I suppose," she says, then turns her head, "Oberon?"

Oberon clears his throat, "Fear of failure," he says, "And of course, a proper hierarchy."

"A classic approach," she murmurs, "Unimaginative, but serviceable."

Then Nostrus. He does not speak immediately. His eyes flick to Rhysand, then back to his wine, "By making loyalty a privilege," he says, "And rewarding it visibly."

Amarantha leans back in her chair, studying him, "A privilege," she repeats, "Like seating."

Nostrus holds her gaze. He does not reply.

She turns to Eris, "Surely Autumn has something efficient to share."

Eris inclines his head slightly, "Obedience is bred young," he says, "Before they know they have a choice."

Amarantha laughs. Not a sharp laugh, but low and pleased, "Spoken like a male raised right."

Her gaze drifts to Thalion. He meets it without hesitation, "Through pride in our court's legacy," he says, "We build loyalty by giving our people something worth serving."

Amarantha tilts her head, "So idealistic," she says, "And how did that work out for your father?"

Thalion lifts his glass again. Drinks. "Not well," he says.

A silence stretches. Then she smiles, "At least you learn."

Her eyes settle on Tamlin, "And you?"

Tamlin does not answer immediately.

"I said-"

"Through tradition," he interrupts, his voice is low, firm, "And consequence."

Amarantha smiles wider, "Lovely."

She lifts her goblet and sips, then sets it down with the precision of someone who could have broken it if she wanted to.

"Let us hope your offerings are as convincing as your answers," she says, with a gentle smile that almost passes for warmth, "It would be such a shame to be disappointed after such lovely words."

They resume their meal in silence. Amarantha grows impatient and shifts her attention to Eris.

"Eris," she says, "Do your brothers know how lucky they are to be seated, rather than displayed? Not everyone escapes the consequences of curiosity."

Eris does not flinch, but he does not smile either. He cuts a piece of meat. Lifts it to his mouth and chews.

"Eris," she says again, the softness in her voice far worse than ice, "I asked you a question."

He sets his fork down with care, "They are aware of your generosity," he says.

Amarantha studies him with interest, her tone still sweet, "Then they must also be aware," she says, "of how quickly generosity runs out."

A faint tension flickers across Eris' jaw. He says nothing.

"Still," she adds, lifting her goblet, "they're fortunate. So few get second chances, even when they don't know they've already used them." She takes a sip and turns her attention elsewhere, as if the moment had never happened.

The meal continues. Slowly. Uncomfortably. The tension does not ease with food or wine. If anything, it sharpens. Conversation remains fragmented, cautious, pulled along by Amarantha's steady hand. She does not let the silence settle. Instead, she circles the table with her voice, needling one High Lord after another. A comment here. A challenge there. No question is innocent. No answer is safe.

Cassian stays still at Rhysand's side and listens. To the clatter of forks. To the practiced lies dressed as compliments. To the tiny hesitations that come before anyone dares respond. Amarantha plays with them like a cat flicking its claws across velvet, never striking, but never letting them forget that she could. Time drips forward, slow and precise, as she feeds herself on fear.

The plates have been cleared and replaced twice more, and now dessert plates sit empty before them.

Amarantha stands and quiet quickly reigns once again in the room. Over a hundred people quiet themselves at once.

She raises her goblet, "You've eaten well. Now let's see if you've given well."

She turns to Rhysand, "Come, Rhysand. And bring your pet."

Rhysand dabs his napkin to his lips then places it over his plate as he stands. He and Cassian follow Amarantha and her guards out the back entrance of the dining hall. They weave around hallways and end up in a small sitting room with a vanity, wardrobe, and full length mirror. The guards stand outside the door as the three of them enter.

Amarantha goes straight to the vanity and begins touching up her makeup. Rhysand stands with his hands in his pockets and Cassian behind him. They have no idea what she expects of them. Whenever they've been alone it's always been... intimate.

Amarantha looks at them through the mirror, "Sit, relax."

Rhysand nods, and makes his way to a plush sitting chair. Cassian sits at his feet and Rhysand drapes a protective hand over his shoulder.

Amarantha touches up her lip color and glances at Rhysand's reflection.

"You've learned how to play the part so beautifully," she says, "But tell me, are you acting for them, or for yourself?"

Rhysand meets her gaze in the mirror, "Whichever keeps you smiling," he says.

She smiles at her reflection, slow and satisfied, "Good," she says, setting the lipstick down, "Because we both know what happens when I stop smiling."

The door opens with a low creak. The Attor steps inside and closes it behind him. He says nothing. He does not need to.

He crosses the room and lowers himself into a chair designed for wings. His posture is calm. Settled. He folds his hands in his lap and says nothing more. His eyes flick once over Rhysand, then linger on Cassian, with suspicion not interest.

Amarantha finishes adjusting her lip color. She stands, unfastens her bodice, and slips free of her gown. She undresses with the casual ease of someone who expects every eye in the room and is made more powerful by it. She crosses to the wardrobe and dons her second gown.

Her new gown is black silk layered in panels, each one edged in gold thread shaped like curling thorns. The sleeves are long and split to the upper arm, the underlayers sheer and gleaming faintly. The bodice is molded armor. It is dark metal and velvet, shaped to her body, detailed in filigree that only reveals itself when the light catches it just right. A torque is clasped at her throat.

Then she lifts the crown. It is not hers by right. It clearly had belonged to the Day court. Sunbursts arc across its golden band, flawless and gleaming. The gems are polished and burning with inner light. This is a prize. She sets it on her head with the ease of someone who has never doubted it would be hers.

When she is dressed, she walks to the low couch and sits. Straight-backed. Chin lifted. One hand relaxed on the armrest. As if the stone throne is already beneath her.

The mirror holds her reflection. Rhysand seated. Cassian at his feet. The Attor watching.

She speaks as if to herself, "I do love it when the room is quiet. Makes me feel like I've already won."

The Attor replies without hesitation, "You have."

There is a knock at the door and it swings open. A servant bows low in the threshold, "They are ready for you, my lady. The court awaits."

Amarantha rises, "Then let's begin."

The red skinned guards lead their small procession through the empty hallways. Amarantha, the Attor, Rhysand, and Cassian taking up the rear. The hallways are no longer echoing activity. Now it sounds like it's the middle of the night. Amarantha's clacking heels seems to be the only sound.

They approach the closed doors of the throne room. Amarantha quickly informs them that Rhysand and Cassian will go first and stand to the left of the throne. Cassian's heart clenches at the thought of going first. Then feels sympathy for Rhysand as he's the one who has to lead. All Cassian is in charge of is following.

Rhysand stands boldly in front of the grand ornately carved doors. He's used to this, Cassian thinks, he's made this procession hundreds of times as a High Lord. All he has to do is put himself back into that headspace and walk. And all I have to do is follow. I'm used to this. I can do this.

The doors creak open revealing what's inside. The throne room unfolds like a stage dressed for conquest. Just like the dining hall, this room has been transformed.

The high arched ceilings are draped in black and gold banners, one for each of the seven courts, but every sigil has been stitched through with a red thorned crown. None fly higher than the others. All bow to the one seated above them.

The floor has been cleared down the center into a long ceremonial aisle, lined on either side by courtiers, guards, and servants. The air smells faintly of smoke and crushed flowers. Onyx braziers burn low at each corner, casting flickering shadows along the walls.

At the far end of the hall rises the dais, tall and carved from dark stone, polished to reflect the light like glass. Upon it rests the throne. They've replaced the previous throne with a new one, twisted from gold and bone, its arms are shaped like curling roots or claws. It is not elegant. It is not beautiful. It is meant to dominate.

The space before the throne has been ringed with gold inlaid markings. It is a boundary, subtle but unmistakable. Stepping within it is to kneel and to be judged.

The room has absolute silence. The crowd watches as Rhysand and Cassian step through the grand doors, all eyes falling on them like weight. Some curious. Some contemptuous. None safe.

Rhysand walks down the aisle like he has before when approaching his own throne. He looks ahead with his chin high. His steps echo in the silent hall. Cassian's bare feet pad quietly behind him, but still audible in the silence.

They reach the dais and ascend to the left of the throne. Rhysand stands next to the throne and Cassian positions himself to the left and behind Rhysand. He feels fortunate that he can just turn his gaze to the floor and pretend not to exist.

The Attor makes his way down the aisle, casting his gaze left and right as his forked tongue whips and flicks in and out of his mouth. Some at the front of the crowd step back as he passes. He ascends the dais and positions himself to be Amarantha's right hand.

Amarantha crosses the threshold into the room and pauses. The two guards stand on either side behind her. She eyes the crowd as if she can see into each person's mind. As if she is searching for dissent.

Once satisfied, she walks forward, each step snapping on the floor, like how bones of traitors would snap should anyone defy her. Snap. Snap. Crack.

She ascends the dais and stands before the throne. She spreads her intense gaze across the crowd once again. And once again she is satisfied.

"Bow."

Cassian dares not to bow. He sees Rhysand has made the same choice. His heart beats in his chest scared for the poor soul who dares to peek up. There is over a hundred and fifty people here. Surely one will be stupid enough to lift their head. Cassian's heart starts to bleed for the poor soul.

They hold the bow long enough for Cassian's back to start to ache. And then she finally releases them, "Rise."

No one peeked. No one offended her. Cassian is impressed the news of the poor fae who lost their eyes managed to reach everyone assembled. Cassian is impressed at the level of control Amarantha has so quickly exerted over the people of Prythian.

The assembled fae all rise as one, smooth and silent. And silent they remain.

Amarantha does not sit. She remains standing before the throne, letting the stillness stretch. The court waits, suspended.

"It's a rare thing," she says at last, voice calm, almost conversational, "to see every court gathered in one room. And rarer still that they do not speak."

She walks down one step of the dais. Not hurried, but not slow. Just enough movement to draw every eye back to her.

"When I first arrived in Prythian, I watched your courts carefully. I listened to your emissaries speak of peace, of progress, of power."

Her gaze sweeps across the gathered High Lords.

"Now I see clarity. Simplicity. The end of illusions. You understand now that peace is not a treaty. Power is not a bloodline. And progress..." she smiles faintly, "... progress is survival."

Shoes faintly scuff the floor as people shift their stances.

"I did not ask for this throne. I earned it. You did not offer me your power. I took it. And I do not need your love, your praise, or your obedience to keep it. I only require your usefulness."

She turns and climbs back up the final step, "Which brings us to the tithe."

She faces the court fully now, every syllable deliberate, "This is not just tradition. This is not pageantry. This is proof. That you still have something to offer. That you still deserve to walk among those who do."

She lifts her hand and gestures toward the open space before the throne.

"Step forward," she says, "If you believe your court is ready."

Then she sits and says nothing more.

She does not name a court. She does not look at anyone directly. She only leans back into the throne, perfectly composed, and waits.

The silence that follows is thick. Awkward. Calculating.

Cassian can feel it ripple through the room. The tension rises as High Lords glance at one another, measuring the risk. Who will go first? Who will look overeager? Who will insult her by hesitating too long?

No one moves. Amarantha does not prompt again. She waits. And the room begins to sweat.

Thalion steps forward without hesitation. He does not look to the others. His stride is clean, deliberate, and assured, as if he had always intended to go first and was merely giving the rest of them a moment to gather themselves.

He wears a white chiton that leaves one shoulder bare, the cloth gathered high around his waist and falling only to the tops of his knees. A gold snake wraps around his bicep, its head resting on the swell of muscle. Each step lands with calm finality, and the room adjusts itself around his presence.

Cassian watches the subtle shifts in posture from the other courts. No one dares interrupt Thalion. No one pretends they had meant to go first.

Thalion stops at the base of the dais and bows. Not deeply. Not casually. Just enough.

"The Day Court brings light, order, and nourishment," he says.

An attendant from the Day Court steps beside him, lifting the cover off a lacquered presentation tray. Resting on velvet is a small white marble dial, elegantly carved and inlaid with gold, its sun-shaped centerpiece glowing faintly. Beside it lies a pendant of crystal quartz, warm with stored sunlight. And resting beneath them, bound in white ribbon, is a scroll bearing the Day Court's sigil.

Thalion gestures with one open hand, "The dial keeps time even in the dark. The pendant holds one hour of radiance. The scroll outlines the crops we have prepared for your granaries: sunroot, golden maize, and celestial vine. All long-growth, and ready to be distributed to your stores."

The scroll is taken from the tray and handed to the Coinmaster, Lazhar, who breaks the seal. He reads in silence. Then gives a single, precise nod.

Amarantha stirs. She leans forward, picks up the dial, and studies its craftsmanship. The light plays across her fingers. Then she sets it aside and lifts the pendant instead, holding it high enough to catch the glint of its core.

"You bring me light," she says, "Let us hope your usefulness lasts longer than your radiance."

She puts down the pendant and returns her eyes to Thalion, "You may step back."

He bows once more and turns to leave, the short hem of his chiton fluttering just above the tops of his knees. The gold snake gleams on his arm like a second gaze.

Eris steps forward before the silence can thicken again.

Not one pause. Not one breath. The moment Thalion returns to his place, Eris moves.

His stride is smooth, confident, purposeful. His coat is a deep, blood-rich red embroidered with hounds in gold thread running along the cuffs, the collar, the sweeping hem. Each step he takes seems choreographed to display it.

He stops before the dais and offers a bow. Exact. Controlled. Then straightens with a faint smile.

"Autumn brings its harvest," he says, "and its legacy."

Two attendants approach from behind, each carrying one half of a long, interlocking case. The wood is dark and lacquered to a glassy sheen, inlaid with hound motifs in glowing emberstone that seem to shift under the light. Copper hinges run down the spine, etched with curling autumn leaves, and a faint line of warding runes hums softly along the edge, barely visible, but undeniably potent.

The attendants kneel as one, lay the case between them, and unlock it with twin movements. The lid opens with a hiss of magic and cedar-scented air.

Inside the case they reveal a golden circlet set with a single fire opal, warm and pulsing as if it held its own breath. Beneath it, silk-wrapped bundles of enchanted spices rich in color and scent that are clearly preserved with powerful magic. At the base, a scroll sealed with the Autumn Court's crest, ribboned in burnished copper.

Eris lifts the circlet with gloved hands and holds it up to the light.

"This was forged in the earliest days of Prythian," he says, "and kept hidden even through the last war. It is woven with fire-binding and warding enchantments older than any of us. It is not merely decorative, it burns only for the hand that holds power."

He lowers the circlet back into the case, gentle and deliberate.

"The spices are flamebound and long-preserved. Their taste lingers. Their magic deepens with age. And the scroll details six full shipments: grain, wine, timber, flame-touched cloth, and two enchanted relics from the deepest vaults of my court."

One of the attendants rises and delivers the scroll to Lazhar. He breaks the seal. Reads. His face remains unreadable, but he gives the faintest nod.

Amarantha reaches down and lifts the circlet from the case. She turns it in her hands, studying the metalwork, the glow of the opal, the craftsmanship.

She glances up at Eris with something like amusement, "Beron never offered me anything so beautiful." Eris does not respond.

She lets her fingers linger on the circlet a moment longer, then places it gently back in the case.

"You may step back."

Eris bows once more. The smile never leaves his lips. He turns and walks back through the silence, his coat trailing behind him, hounds running at his heels.

As Eris rejoins the Autumn Court delegation, the silence returns. Tighter now. No longer waiting. They're expecting.

Two High Lords move at once. Nostrus of the Summer Court and Tamlin of Spring step forward in perfect simultaneity. Their footsteps echo side by side, equal in weight, equal in timing. The hall takes notice. Conversations die entirely. Even the musicians fall still, instruments in hand.

Neither man looks at the other. They reach the center together. Only then do they pause.

The stillness that follows is pointed. Tamlin lifts his chin, his posture firm, mouth set in an unreadable line. Nostrus draws in a slow breath through his nose, as if steadying himself. His eyes flick sideways, just once. Amarantha does not intervene.

The moment draws longer. Enough for discomfort to spread like a stain. Eyes turn. Whispers begin. Then they both speak.

"My court is ready to present," Tamlin says, low and cool.

"Summer offers now," Nostrus says, at nearly the same time.

Their voices collide. A soft gasp echoes from somewhere in the crowd. Not loud, but the kind that carries. Amarantha shifts on her throne. Not forward, not back. Just a tilt of the head, as if watching two dogs decide who will bare teeth first.

Neither of them move. The silence tightens again, this time with sharper edges.

Then, at last, Nostrus glances sideways. Only a glance. Barely more than a twitch. But it's enough.

Tamlin steps forward, just a single stride, and Nostrus exhales as if the decision had been mutual. He yields with a smooth, easy pivot and returns to the other Summer Court delegates without a word.

Amarantha's smile widens. She had said nothing. But the game had already begun.

Cassian hears Tamlin as he gives his presentation, his voice is low, measured, careful, but the words don't land. Instead, the ache in Cassian's knees has sharpened into a white-hot line of pain and call for his attention. The stone offers no mercy, and he's been kneeling too long. His back pulses. His calves are cramping. He doesn't dare shift again.

Tamlin is still speaking. Something about honey. Something about fruit. Then movement at the far end of the room catches Cassian's eye.

Two attendants enter through the grand doors, carrying something large between them. The crowd parts and reveals not a chest, not a tray, but a tree. A towering live tree.

The tree is small enough to be moved by hand. It is tall, narrow, and crowned with soft pink blossoms that sway with every step. The bark is pale and smooth, its roots carefully wrapped in carved wood lacquered with gold and shaped like winding vines.

They carry it through the space that opens before them. No one blocks their path. No one makes a sound. They reach the dais and kneel, setting the tree down with reverent care.

It blooms again as it settles, a fresh bud curling open high on a branch. Cassian can smell it from here. It's floral and bright, touched with magic.

Tamlin keeps speaking, but no one is listening anymore.

Amarantha stands. She descends the few steps from her throne and approaches the tree slowly to look it over. She lifts a single finger to touch the edge of one petal. It shrivels instantly. It curls in on itself like it's dying in fear.

She hums. Not a word. Not a smile. Just a sound of thought and dismissiveness. She turns her back on it and returns to the throne, then waves Tamlin away with a flick of her hand.

Nostrus is in motion as soon as Tamlin is dismissed. He doesn't wait for the center to clear. He walks cleanly into the space, smooth and unhurried, but without pause.

Cassian barely tracks it. The pain in his knees is still there, but it's settled into something distant now, something detached, like it belongs to someone else. He doesn't feel it so much as remember it's there.

His eyes blur. The edges of the room soften. Words drift by. Nostrus speaks about pearls, sea-silk, and something hauled from the trench by moonlight.

Cassian's head dips slightly forward, then snaps upright when Amarantha moves. She leans forward, elbow braced on the arm of her throne, chin resting on her knuckles. Her eyes scan the offerings as if she's been here before, as if this is all routine. She picks up something, a length of fabric, maybe, and lets it spill through her fingers like water. The motion is slow. Thoughtful.

Cassian watches the way her expression doesn't change. She could be studying a puzzle. Or a map. Or a weapon.

She sets the fabric down. Lazhar nods. Something is handed off. Nostrus is dismissed.

Cassian blinks. That all went a lot faster than expected. I think I lost some time.

Cassian closes his eyes. Just for a breath. Just for silence. The pain in his knees no longer pulses or burns; it has numbed itself into the background. The throne room smells like sweat and perfume and stone. He tries to disappear into it. Just for a moment.

The shift in the air startles him. Something has changed. He opens his eyes. No one has stepped forward.

Nostrus has returned to the Summer Court delegation, his offering is complete. Amarantha remains seated, still and expectant, with her hands folded lightly in her lap as if this were merely a lull in a pleasant afternoon. But the space at the center of the room stays empty.

The final three courts remain: Dawn, Winter, and Night. Each delegation hold their place in a silence with studied calm. Too studied. Too precise. The quiet is no longer courteous. It is hesitant. No one wants to move.

Cassian's gaze drifts toward Thesan. The High Lord of Dawn lifts his hand slightly, a peaceful gesture, perhaps meant to step forward. But then Oberon shifts, just enough to imply intent. Keir, standing for the Night Court delegation behind them both, does not stir.

Thesan lowers his hand. The hesitation stretches. Oberon glances toward Amarantha, then toward Thesan, and opens his mouth as though preparing to speak. But he hesitates, and the words never come.

Still, no one moves. The silence is not the kind that brims with competition or pride. This is something else. This is reluctance. A quiet refusal. No one wants to go next.

Amarantha tilts her head, just slightly, "How charming," she says, "Not one of you wants to go before the others. So shy. So considerate."

Her voice is smooth and unhurried. She lets it settle over the room like a net. Then she lifts her voice just enough to be heard without force, "Perhaps I should choose."

That does it. Oberon steps forward. He does not hurry, but his movement is immediate. His pace is even, his expression composed, but there is no mistaking what pushed him forward. He will not be chosen. He will choose.

Behind him, Thesan exhales and inclines his head. A simple, graceful acknowledgment. Cassian notes the quiet stillness of Keir, who remains exactly where he stood.

Oberon approaches the dais with squared shoulders and measured steps. The tension does not break. It only shifts. The room breathes again, but the air is no easier to hold.

Cassian watches the floor. He only half registers that Oberon is speaking. His eyes are fixed on a seam in the stone floor. The patterns in it have started to pulse in and out of focus. He doesn't know how long he's been kneeling. He's lost the rhythm of the ceremony.

Cassian tries to listen but catches only fragments. Furs. Ice. Stones. None of it glows. None of it hums with power. It all feels muted. Nothing shines like the offerings from Summer. Nothing radiates power like the treasures from Autumn or Day.

Even Amarantha looks bored. She lifts a crystal, turns it once, then waves it off.

The scroll is handed to Lazhar, who nods after reviewing it. Oberon bows and steps back without a word.

Thesan does not move at first, and neither does Keir. The silence creeps back in, softer than before, but heavier. Cassian lifts his head, just barely, and sees Thesan glance toward the Night Court delegation. A polite gesture. An opening. Keir says nothing. Doesn't flinch.

Thesan steps forward. It is smooth. Graceful. As if the delay had never happened.

Cassian's eyes follow him out of instinct. His mind is slow, dulled by strain, but the tension still registers. This one is careful. This one matters. He doesn't know why. But he knows he needs to watch.

Thesan moves without hurry, without stiffness. His robes are pale, trimmed in soft gold. Two attendants follow, dressed like scholars, each carrying a narrow tray.

Cassian watches because something about the quietness demands it. No armor, no spectacle. Just calm.

Thesan speaks, but the words blur. Cassian catches fragments. Something about healing wards, trained medics, something about light-infused remedies. His voice is even. Almost warm.

The trays hold vials that flicker with magic, scrolls, and unfamiliar tools. Not treasure. Not power. A different kind of offering.

Amarantha leans forward and lifts one vial. She tips it, watches the light shift inside, then sets it back down.

Cassian can't tell if Thesan has been dismissed or thanked. Only that he turns and walks away without looking back. Without waiting for a word.

Something about that unsettles Cassian more than anything he's seen all day. Not because it was defiant. It's because it was genuine.

Keir steps forward and Cassian blinks fully awake. He hadn't expected the steward of the Night Court to move so quickly, but here he is walking with purpose, posture tight with intent. He is not alone. Six attendants follow him in perfect formation, dressed in black trimmed with silver, each carrying a velvet-lined tray. Their presence is sharp, deliberate. A reminder that the Night Court has order and loyalty.

Keir carries the central offering himself. A long, narrow case of polished black wood cradled in both arms. Obsidian and silver catch the torchlight as he approaches. He stops at the base of the dais and bows low, lower than any before him.

"My Queen," he says, the title ringing clear and practiced, "Night brings you not only its treasures, but its devotion."

He opens the case. Inside, resting on dark velvet, is a sculpted model of the Hewn City, carved from obsidian and hematite. Crystals spike from the cavern's spires, their tips catching the light like torchglass. Beneath the model lies something far more interesting: a black scepter, its shaft carved with curling runes, its head set with a single dark opal that shimmers with restrained power.

Keir lifts the scepter in both hands and turns to face the throne, "This relic has remained within my family's private vault for generations," he says, "It is called the Scepter of Obedience. When pointed at those who hesitate, it compels them to kneel."

A soft murmur ripples through the room.

"It has been used to maintain order in our most unruly circles," Keir continues, "I offer it to you, my Queen, as a token of submission, and a gift from one court of strength to another."

Behind him, the attendants step forward and unveil their trays: polished gemstones, silver-forged shackles, scrolls detailing shipments of lumber, obsidian, iron, and relics drawn from the mines of Ramarex.

Keir steps aside slightly, presenting it all with an open palm, "The Hewn City was carved by our hands, shaped beneath the mountain without light or mercy. It is not a place of weakness. It is a place of endurance, of will. These offerings reflect that history, and the loyalty of the court that serves beneath it."

Amarantha leans forward. She does not touch the scepter. Not yet. She studies it like something alive. Then her gaze lifts, moving from the artifact to Keir himself, then slowly across the row of perfectly still attendants behind him.

Her smile is small and pleased. She nods to Lazhar. The scroll detailing Night's offerings is taken, read, approved.

"You may step back," Amarantha says.

Keir bows again, deeper this time, then he and the attendants reform the Night Court delegation. Cassian watches him move. Watches the stiffness in his shoulders. Watches how he never once glances at Rhysand. And Rhysand does not look at him. Not once.

The hall is quiet again as it waits. Lazhar approaches the dais with a folded parchment in hand. He offers it without speaking. Amarantha takes it. She reads in silence then smiles.

She rises. The sound of her movement alone is enough to hush the room. Every head lifts. Every eye watches her.

"I must say," she begins, voice smooth and light, "I found your offerings quite revealing."

She steps slowly to the edge of the dais, "Some of you brought me treasures. Others brought symbols. Some of you brought me yourselves." She lets the silence stretch.

"And for that," she says, unfolding the parchment again with a casual flick of her wrist, "I shall grant to you a gift of my own."

A murmur flickers through the room.

She raises her hand to gesture before her, "Eris Vanserra."

He steps forward immediately. There is no arrogance in his face, just composure. He bows once he reaches the foot of the dais.

"Kneel, Eris. Bow your head." He complies promptly.

Amarantha descends and places a hand on his crown. The air hums. Cassian feels something wash over the room like a heat that isn't heat.

Eris flinches slightly and his eyes widen. He is taking deep breaths like he can breath easier.

"I am returning to you some of your magic. Just enough so you aren't as weak as a human any longer," she smirks.

"Return to your delegation, Eris." He stands, bows again, then returns to the Autumn delegation in silence.

"Thalion."

The Day Court High Lord steps forward with calm grace. He kneels and bows his head. She repeats the motion. Another flicker of warmth, another release of magic. Cassian watches Thalion's shoulders square subtly as he rises and returns to his court.

"Nostrus." He kneels. Her hand settles. Magic moves. He returns.

"Rhysand."

Cassian stiffens. Rhysand descends the dais with precision. He then turns and kneels before her without a word, and bows his head.

"Your steward did well in your absence."

Amarantha places her hand gently on his head. The pulse of magic is unmistakable.

"You may rise."

Rhysand stands and walks to ascend the dais and return to the left of the throne. His eyes flick to Cassian.

Cassian, a voice that sounds like Rhysand floats through Cassian's mind.

Cassian's breath catches. Rhysand returns to his spot and faces the crowd again.

Cassian, can you hear me?

He almost forgets to keep his face still. Yes! We can talk again!

The relief is immediate. Like something long severed finally clicking into place.

Keep your face neutral. Try not to cry.

Cassian doesn't cry. But his chest feels strange. Like the pressure inside it finally has a release valve. Gods, things are going to be so much easier now that we can talk privately again.

"Tamlin," Amarantha calls. The voices fade into the background. Thesan is called, given his magic and dismissed. Oberon is called and he kneels.

But then Amarantha calls Rhydros forward without touching Oberon.

Rhydros emerges from the crowd with the weight of a drawn sword. He stops behind Oberon. Silent. Ready. Cassian's entire body goes still.

Amarantha turns slightly on the dais and gestures toward Oberon kneeling before her, "The Winter Court gave me the least. And so it will give me more."

She looks to Rhydros, "I want the capital sacked. Take what they refused. Burn what doesn't serve. Make it... memorable."

Rhydros inclines his head, "As you command, my Queen."

Oberon doesn't move. Still kneeling. Still bowed.

Cassian watches. Waiting to see what he'll do. Whether he'll rise. Protest. Plead. Or whether he already knew this was coming.

Amarantha begins to turn away, and then, quiet but clear, he speaks, "My Queen."

The words draw every eye in the room. Oberon does not rise. His voice is controlled, but strained from being one wrong word from breaking.

"You know what Winter has. What it doesn't. We gave what we could. Please... reconsider."

He says nothing else. He can only offer a plea without flourish. No drama. There is only the weight of knowing what the sacking would mean.

Amarantha stops. She turns back, slowly, step by step, until she stands above him once more.

"You are kneeling," she says, "yet still asking for more."

She descends a single step, "You failed me in public, and now you want mercy in public too."

She looks out at the crowd, "Then here is my mercy," she lifts her gaze to Rhydros, "Send your legions. Take what Winter failed to give. But..."

She turns her head slightly, watching Oberon, "... there is no need to burn anything."

Rhydros bows, "As you command."

Amarantha returns her attention to Oberon, "You may thank me now."

There is a beat of silence before Oberon lifts his head just enough to be heard, "Thank you, my Queen." The words are steady. Measured. But there is no mistaking the cost.

She smiles, pleased.

Amarantha ascends the last step and lowers herself into her throne with slow, deliberate grace. The weight of silence settles heavier than before.

Oberon is still kneeling and she pays him seemingly no mind.

Her fingers tap once against the arm of her throne, "Today has been full of generosity," she says. "Tribute. Spectacle. And loyalty."

She smiles faintly, like it's a private joke, "Loyalty is easy to wear in public," she says, "But fragile in the dark. Slippery. Inconvenient."

She rises, "And recently, I received a gift I never asked for. A whisper of disobedience. Of rebellion."

Cassian's breath catches in his throat. The ache in his legs fades beneath something colder. Fuck.

Her steps descend slowly, each one deliberate, "Some of you were bold enough to speak of my downfall. Some of you thought no one was listening."

Her gaze moves lazily across the crowd, "But someone was."

Cassian's eyes search the crowd. Aíne. Helion. Fuck. The air in the room has changed. No one is breathing easily anymore.

"Oberon," she says, as if just remembering him, "Clear the floor. Others will be approaching."

He rises slowly, hesitantly. Cassian can only guess what he's calculating to try to save his city. But, he just walks back toward the Winter delegation, his face unreadable.

Amarantha lifts her hand, "Step forward," she says, "when your name is called."

She smiles wider, "Let's not be shy."

"Eris Vanserra's brothers."

Morrigan grasps Eris' hand as the crowd undulates and eventually spits out the red headed brothers.

"Not you, Lucien. You were in Spring," she waves her hand dismissively. Lucien hesitates before stepping back to the edge of the crowd.

The three remaining brothers stand before her. Amarantha returns to sitting on the throne and drums her fingers on the arm while studying the brothers.

"I can't recall your names."

The brothers eye each other carefully then one opens his mouth to speak-

-Amarantha stops him with a raised hand, "I don't actually care what your names are."

She raises her eyes to the crowd and scans it, "Their mother, the former Lady of Autumn."

There's a gasp. Red and black hair move through the crowd before Aíne and Helion emerges. Aíne continues forward while Helion stays at the edge, their hands linger on each other as long as possible as they part. She stands next to her sons.

"Helion, the brother of the High Lord of Day."

He steps forward and grasps Aíne's hand as he stands next to her.

"How sweet. You two are mates, am I correct?"

Aíne nods hesitantly. Amarantha smiles widely and then purrs, "Just wonderful."

She casts her eyes about the crowd as if searching, then cocks her head, "A High Lord himself," she lets the words sink, "Nostrus."

Nostrus steps forward and two of his delegation resist letting him go. Their hands, too, linger on his shoulder and back as he walks away from the crowd and stands next to the Vanserra brothers.

Rhysand, Cassian growls in his own mind, These are the people you told Her about! He doesn't respond. Cassian's breathing deepens. Rhysand?!

Amarantha lets the silence stretch. She studies those assembled before her as if weighing something, like deciding where to begin carving.

Then she smiles, "How fortunate," she murmurs, "that they all came forward so willingly."

Her voice lifts, smooth and rich, "I could execute them. Of course. That would be simple. Quick. But what lesson would that teach?"

She gestures once with her hand. From a side corridor, two servants enter, dragging a heavy base. It scrapes softly against the stone. On it stand two tall wooden posts with leather straps looped neatly at the top. Cassian watches it come to rest in the center of the floor. A new centerpiece. A new throne, in its own way.

Amarantha looks at the assembled traitors, then turns her eyes to the crowd.

"There is something poetic about letting justice pass from the hands of those most hurt by betrayal."

She crosses one ankle over the other, "Start with a Vanserra brother. I don't care which is first."

Two red skinned guards grab the closest brother and drag him forcibly to the whipping post. They tie up an arm to each post, then one uses a dagger to cut his shirt off.

Amarantha holds her hand out and a guard places a coiled whip in her hand.

"Eris. Come." Eris steps forward and stands next to the assembled victims.

She gestures with the whip to indicate for Eris to collect it, "You do the honors. He is your subject. Ten lashes."

Eris steps forward, smooth but deliberate. His boots echo too loudly against the stone. He takes the whip carefully, his fingers brushing the leather coil with practiced grace. He doesn't fumble. But his jaw tightens.

Cassian watches his face as he uncoils it. He's unreadable. Controlled. But not relaxed.

The crowd steps far back as Eris steps into position. He adjusts his stance, lifts the whip, and crack!

When the whip cracks from Eris' hand, it is precise. Not hesitant. Not sadistic. Just... perfect. He performs a clean line of pain across skin, sharp enough to echo off the stone walls.

Amarantha smiles. Cassian doesn't breathe. He watches Eris reset the coil in his hand.

The next strike comes without pause. And the third. The fourth lash lands just above the last. A fresh welt blooms red. The fifth draws blood.

Still, no sound from the brother bound between the posts. His jaw is clenched tight, his arms strained against the leather, but he doesn't cry out.

Cassian watches Eris flick the whip back into position. He isn't showy. He doesn't pause. But there's something different in how he stands now. His shoulders are drawn tighter, his breath is slower.

The sixth strike lands hard. A faint grunt. Maybe a hitch of breath. The seventh is met with silence again.

Cassian isn't watching the brother anymore. He's watching Eris. The way his grip tightens. The way his gaze never meets the crowd, never once turns toward Amarantha. Like if he keeps his eyes forward, he can pretend none of them are watching.

The eighth lash arcs clean and sharp. Another bloom of blood. By the ninth, Eris's hand hesitates, just slightly, before he throws the whip again. The sound it makes echoes longer this time.

The tenth falls. The brother's head slumps forward. His back is a mess of blood and welts, but still he makes no sound.

Eris lowers the whip and steps back. His expression hasn't changed. But Cassian sees the tremble in the leather as he recoils it. Just once. Just enough.

"Next brother," Amarantha coolly orders, "And have that one kneel next to Cassian with his back facing our audience."

Two grey skinned servants work to release the whipped brother while the guards grab the next closest brother. The servants guide their brother to kneel next to Cassian, while the guards tie up and cut off the shirt of the other.

Cassian glances at the whipped Vanserra brother next to him. He's breathing heavy and just slightly unsteady, but overall is holding up remarkably well for someone who just received ten lashes.

"Eris," Amarantha coos, "Hand the whip to your mother."

Eris approaches Aíne and she holds out her hand. He places the whip in her hand then closes his hands around hers. They share a look of mutual unreadable expressions. A communication from an eldest son to his mother that only they understand.

Her hand closes around the coiled leather, but it sits stiff in her grip like something foreign. She moves to the spot Eris had occupied during his turn. Cassian watches her uncoil the whip and lift her arm. She swings but the whip lands in a limp tangle, a dull tap against her son's bare back. No sound, no mark.

"No, that doesn't count," Amarantha says bored and annoyed, "Again."

Aíne swings again and the whip flails wildly, uselessly. Amarantha tilts her head.

"Do you even know how to crack a whip?"

Aíne hesitates, "No, my Queen."

Amarantha's smile spreads like warm oil, "Eris, show her."

Eris doesn't flinch. He steps forward with quiet precision and positions himself just behind his mother. Cassian watches him adjust her grip, then place his hand on her shoulder to correct her stance.

"Loose in the wrist," Eris says, his voice flat, "Draw it back, then snap forward in one clean motion. Don't hesitate."

Aíne nods, eyes fixed ahead. She tries again. The whip flicks out this time, but the angle is wrong. It lands sideways, the tip glancing off her son's shoulder.

Amarantha clicks her tongue, "Still not right. Again."

Eris adjusts her shoulder again. This time, her strike lands sharply, leaving a red welt across her son's back.

"There," Amarantha purrs, "That one counts."

Aíne resets the whip in her hand, her face carefully blank. She strikes again. The crack echoes, sharper now. A second welt blooms, deeper than the first.

Cassian can't stop watching Eris. He's stepped back, now standing rigid behind his mother. He's not looking at her. Not looking at his brother. Just straight ahead, his face unreadable.

"That's two," Amarantha says. "Only eight more to go."

Aíne lifts the whip again, adjusting her stance as Eris had shown her. The third lash lands unevenly.

Amarantha hums in disapproval, "Doesn't count. Again."

The fourth is cleaner. The fifth barely grazes. Another rejection. By the sixth, her strikes are gaining strength but losing control. One lands too high, another too low. Each time Amarantha corrects her, Aíne nods silently and tries again.

Her son never cries out. His body jerks with each blow, but he remains silent, his jaw locked, his eyes closed. The only sound is the crack of leather and Amarantha's idle commentary.

It takes eighteen lashes before ten are finally accepted. When the tenth accepted lash lands, Aíne lowers the whip. Her shoulders are tight, her breath uneven, but she turns and coils the whip carefully in her hands. She stands still looking at nothing.

"Put that one on this side," she points to her right, "and string up the last brother."

The servants and guards promptly comply with their orders. The servants guide the whipped brother to kneel to the right of the Attor, and the guards drag the last brother to the whipping post.

Amarantha doesn't look at the brother being tied to the post. She keeps her eyes on Aíne, "You've done so well," she says, her voice light, "Do it again."

Aíne's hands clench faintly around the coiled whip. Her expression doesn't crack, not fully, but Cassian sees the way her lips press tighter and the way something behind her eyes flickers with pain.

She steps forward without protest. The whip uncoils more smoothly this time, but the strikes are still inconsistent. The first lands off-center. The second too shallow. Amarantha's voice rings out with lazy disdain, "Again", "Again", "Not like that."

By the fifth, Aíne stops hesitating. Her arm moves faster. Less precision, more force. The sixth strike leaves a visible welt. The seventh, too low. The eighth, rejected. The ninth and tenth finally pass muster.

Cassian watches the brother's back bloom with blood and bruises. This brother doesn't cry out either.

It takes sixteen lashes before ten are accepted. Aíne coils the whip again, tighter this time, her movements mechanical. She doesn't wait to be dismissed. She just steps back and stands motionless, the leather resting quietly in her hands.

"Place this one next to the first." The servants scurry to release the final Vanserra brother and guide him to kneel.

Amarantha gestures lazily, "Hand the whip to Helion."

Aíne turns without a word and carries the coiled leather over to Helion. Her hand lingers just a second longer than it should as she passes it to him. He takes it with a slow, unsteady grip, eyes already locked on the posts.

"String up the mother."

Aíne walks forward without protest. The guards take her by the arms and begin fastening her in place. Cassian watches the quiet efficiency of it. How the leather bites in, how the back of her gown is sliced cleanly down the middle and pulled away.

Helion doesn't move, "No," he says, almost under his breath, "No, you can't do this," he's trembling, slightly, but it's there.

He takes a step forward and lifts his hand, the whip still dangling loose in his fingers, "She's my mate."

His voice carries now, sharp with incredulity, "Do you know what that means? Do you care what that means?"

Amarantha watches him with the easy smile of a cat watching a bird flutter against a windowpane.

"It's not a matter of preference. It's instinct," Helion pleads, "It goes against everything in us to harm each other. Don't... don't make me do this."

He looks around the room as if anyone might step forward. No one does.

Amarantha exhales, bored, "You Prythians," she says, "always so romantic when it suits you."

She leans her chin into her hand, still watching him, "Add five lashes."

Helion steps forward and opens his mouth, but Amarantha quickly interjects, "I could make it 20 lashes."

Helion steps back and closes his mouth. He shakes his head in defeat.

"Wise of you. Fifteen lashes then. Begin."

Helion doesn't speak again. His jaw clenches. The whip unfurls in his hand and lifts it. His posture is stiff, mechanical, like he's holding something that burns.

The first strike lands sharp and loud. Aíne cries out. Helion flinches.

It's not a controlled sound. Not like the Vanserra brothers. It's raw, untrained. She flinches hard against the restraints, her fingers curling instinctively into fists.

Helion's eyes close for half a heartbeat. He exhales, then lifts the whip again.

Each lash comes with more force than the last, not because he wants to hurt her, but because he can't bear to draw it out. Yet there's no speed that can outpace the sound of her screaming. Her voice cracks by the seventh, and by the tenth, she's sobbing.

Cassian watches Helion's face between lashes. He's not impassive. He's crumbling behind his mask. Every blow is a fracture.

The fifteenth lash lands. Aíne sags between the posts, her back streaked with blood, her sobs quieting only when her voice gives out completely.

Helion lowers the whip slowly, like it's become too heavy to hold. He doesn't coil it. He doesn't move. He just stands there, staring at the weapon in his hand, and says nothing.

Cassian finds himself breathing shallowly, his jaw clenched. The warmth of the throne room feels suddenly wrong. It's too sharp, too loud, too bright.

And still, Amarantha says nothing. She just smiles, content.

Cassian tries to breathe. The air feels thick. It's too warm in here, the air is too heavy, he smells too much iron in the blood surrounding him. He's kneeling between broken bodies. Aíne is still whimpering softly. The silence from Helion is worse. His face, gods, Helion's face. What he had to do to her.

Cassian's stomach twists. He closes his eyes. His mouth starts to water and there is nothing he can do to stop it: he retches.

It comes up fast, a sudden heave that jerks his body forward. He turns just enough to avoid Rhysand's shoes, but not enough to escape his shame. He leans over his knees, shoulders heaving, barely able to balance himself because his arms are bound behind him.

No one speaks. No one laughs. Even Amarantha only tilts her head, mildly intrigued.

Cassian forces himself upright again. His legs are shaking. He doesn't look at anyone. He kneels there mouth agape. He has vomit in his mouth he's not interested in reswallowing.

Right beside him, Rhysand steps smoothly to the side, a careful, precise adjustment that avoids the mess. He doesn't look down.

Are you okay? Rhysand's voice floats through Cassian's mind.

It's a relief just to be able to hear that voice in his mind again. No.

Are you going to be able to hold it together?

Cassian swallows without thought, then grimaces at how disgusting that was. I think so. No. I honestly don't know.

Amarantha's laughter cuts through the air. She is utterly delighted. Her laughter ripples through the silence like sweet and suffocating perfume.

"My, my," she says, lounging back against her throne, "Did it finally get to you, little warlord?" her eyes flick up to Rhysand, "Or did the pet sense his master's discomfort?" Quiet snickering can be heard throughout the room.

Cassian keeps his eyes down, shoulders tight. His throat still aches. He knows there's no recovery from this.

"Touching," Amarantha says, "I do so love the sensitive ones."

Amarantha leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees, eyes fixed on Cassian, "Is it the sound, do you think? The screaming? Or the sight of all that skin coming open?"

She smiles, head tilting just a little, "Or was it the bond? Are you so deeply entwined with him," she nods toward Helion, "that your body recoils when he suffers?"

Cassian says nothing. Still breathing through his mouth. Still trembling just beneath the skin.

She clicks her tongue softly, as if disappointed, "A pity. You used to be such a proud thing. All that fire, now reduced to bile."

She sits up, her attention already shifting. Her voice, however, lingers in the air like a smoke that refuses to clear, "Clean that up," she calls lightly to no one in particular. "We can't have filth cluttering the floor when there's so much more to enjoy."

At a nod from Amarantha, the servants begin unfastening Aíne's restraints. Her arms fall to her sides as they're released, shoulders slumping forward from the loss of tension. For a moment, she just hangs there, head bowed, breath shallow.

She steps forward on her own with slow, small steps. Her back is striped with blood, her gown in tatters, but she walks without help. Cassian watches her legs tremble. Each step is deliberate. They aren't graceful. They aren't steady. Helion watches her journey forlornly.

When she reaches the space beside her son, she sinks to her knees. Her body folds too fast, and her balance nearly tips. She catches herself with one hand on the floor. Her other arm presses across her ribs. She steadys herself and remains there, knees spread awkwardly beneath her hunched and shaking body.

Helion absentmindedly drops the whip as he stares at Aíne's bloodied back. He did that, and he's unable to help her now.

Amarantha lifts her hand and points with two fingers at Helion, "String him up."

The guards move toward Helion without hesitation. He doesn't resist. He simply unclasps the upper portion of his robes and lets them fall to his waist. The guards seize his arms and strap him to the posts, the same bloodstained leather still damp from his mate.

"Thalion."

His name lands like a summons, "You are his brother. His High Lord. This is your court's failure. You may correct it."

Cassian watches Thalion step forward with the grace of someone accustomed to being watched. He takes up the whip without a word, his face unreadable, his steps measured.

Helion lifts his chin, but there's a tightness in his jaw. A tension he can't disguise.

The first lash draws blood. The second makes him grunt. By the fifth, he's swearing under his breath. By the seventh, his hands strain against the restraints. The eighth pulls a noise from his throat that isn't quite a scream.

Fuck. He's never been whipped before. Cassian can see it in the way his spine arches involuntarily. The way his shoulders twitch, trying to turn away from the pain even though there's nowhere to go.

Thalion never pauses. He delivers each strike with cold, perfect precision. When it's done, he coils the whip, places it neatly on the floor, then steps back to the edge of the crowd.

Helion sags in the restraints, breath ragged.

Amarantha hums contentedly, "Next."

The servants and guards know what to do. The servants take down Helion and have him kneel next to the two whipped Vanserra brothers, far from his mate.

The guards fasten Nostrus's arms to the posts, stretching him taut. His expression is pure venom. His shoulders are tense, his eyes locked on the crowd like he's memorizing every face.

"This one," Amarantha says, addressing no one and everyone, "is a High Lord."

Her voice carries clearly across the room, "And so he must be punished by one of equal standing. A public correction. A visible reminder."

She smiles, "Rhysand." The name falls like a bell toll.

"You will administer the sentence. Ten lashes. One High Lord to another," she tilts her head, pleased with herself, "Let Prythian see what it looks like to fall in line."

Rhysand steps forward, calm and clean. His boots avoid the small puddle of vomit without looking down. He doesn't glance at Amarantha. Doesn't glance at Cassian. Just walks to the whip and picks it up gracefully from the floor.

He weighs it in his hand. No flourish. No hesitation. But Cassian sees the tiny catch in his breath. Just once.

Rhysand unfurls the whip. The first lash lands with a crack that cuts through the court like a blade. It draws a red line across Nostrus's back, sharp and immediate.

Cassian watches Nostrus flinch. His body absorbs the pain without sound. His fingers flex slightly against the restraints. Nothing more.

Rhysand lifts the whip again. Crack.

Cassian isn't watching Nostrus anymore. He's watching Rhysand. The set of his shoulders. The tightness in his jaw. The stillness in his eyes. Each strike is clean. Efficient. Practiced.

But Cassian recognizes that the mask has slid across Rhysand's face. That quiet, expressionless nothing. Rhysand isn't present anymore. He's gone somewhere inside himself. A place where this doesn't matter. Where it isn't happening.

By the sixth lash, Cassian can't stand it. His legs are still aching, his stomach still raw, but the deeper pain now is watching Rhysand vanish behind his eyes.

Nine. Ten. Rhysand lowers the whip slowly. He turns back toward Amarantha without a word. With a smooth face and relaxed body.

But Cassian knows better. He's seen the man behind the curtain, and now he's watching him disappear.

Rhysand's steps are steady as he approaches the dais. He coils the leather slowly, evenly, like he's packing away a tool instead of bloodied rope.

Rhysand? There's no reply. Not even a flicker.

Rhysand, Cassian tries again, pressing harder now, not with words but with presence. With familiarity.

Still nothing. There isn't a wall there. He isn't being refused. Rhysand just... isn't there.

Cassian pushes further, just enough to feel the echo of it, like shouting into a cavern where the sound doesn't come back. Where the silence isn't just empty, it's hollow.

Rhysand returns the whip to the base of the dais with clean precision and resumes his place beside Amarantha. He never once looks at Cassian.

Rhysand, I'm here. I get that you may not be able to answer, so I'm just letting you know I'm here. All Cassian can offer is his presence.

Amarantha rises slowly from her throne. She glides to the edge of the dais, hands clasped before her, her gown whispering against the stone with each step.

"So much blood," she says, her voice calm, almost reflective, "So much disappointment."

She surveys the room, not stopping on anyone in particular, letting the tension rise again.

"Eris. Thalion." Both males step forward without hesitation. They do not look at each other.

She watches them approach, her gaze unreadable, "You stood there while your people plotted against me. You presented your offerings. You pledged your loyalty."

She pauses, "And yet you let your people embarrass you. Your own family."

A longer pause now. The court is utterly silent, "If you cannot hold your courts in check, you do not deserve the power they gave you."

She lifts one hand, her fingers splayed, as if gripping something invisible in the air.

"And so..."

She closes her hand into a fist and draws it back sharply toward her chest. The effect is immediate.

Eris gasps and staggers a step, clutching his side as if struck. Thalion doubles slightly at the waist, hands trembling at his sides. On the post, Nostrus jerks in place, his head snapping up as if the breath had been yanked from his lungs.

None of them cry out. But the absence is unmistakable. Their magic is gone. Cassian can feel the void where it used to sit, like a candle suddenly snuffed out.

Amarantha lowers her hand slowly. Her hands rest lightly in front of her, relaxed, composed, as if the blood on the floor were nothing more than a misplaced ribbon. She surveys the room with steady confidence.

"You have witnessed what happens when courts forget their place. What happens when order falters and arrogance outweighs loyalty."

Her gaze moves slowly from face to face. She does not pause long on any of them, but her eyes press into each court just long enough to leave a mark.

"Every ruler here has now seen what is expected of them. Every court knows what happens when expectations are not met."

She turns slightly, her expression shifting from regal sternness to something gentler, something almost indulgent.

"And now," she says, her voice warming as though the last hour had not been soaked in punishment, "you may be rewarded. The banquet hall has been prepared. Food, drink, and entertainment await you all!"

A faint smile curves her lips, "Follow the escorts to the hall. Enjoy the gifts of peace and plenty. You have earned them."

Her tone carries just enough sweetness to make the edge beneath it shine, "I expect you all to enjoy yourselves."

She doesn't wait for a response. She turns and climbs the dais again, every movement smooth and assured. The guards begin to move. The court does not speak. Not yet.

Amarantha does not wait for applause. She turns and walks toward the back of the throne room, skirts sweeping behind her, each step unhurried and deliberate.

"Attor. Rhysand," she says without looking back, "With me."

They follow without hesitation. Cassian doesn't wait for instruction. The moment Rhysand turns to follow Amarantha, Cassian rises from his kneel and falls into step behind him.

The guards at the rear open the doors, and the four of them disappear into the hall beyond. The sound of the court behind them fades, replaced by the echo of boots on stone and the soft rustle of fabric.

They walk in silence. Cassian keeps his head slightly bowed, but his eyes stay sharp.

They round a corner and enter the same room they were in before. The fire has been restoked. The mirror glows softly in its frame. Cushions are arranged. Wine has been poured.

Amarantha moves to the vanity and picks up a brush. She meets her own gaze in the mirror and smiles faintly.

"That went well, don't you think?"

After brushing her hair for a bit, Amarantha sets the brush down and reaches for a vial of scented oil. She dabs it at her neck, watching herself in the mirror, then glances sideways.

"Well?" she says lightly, "You've been quiet."

Rhysand stands near the fireplace, perfectly at ease. His hands are folded behind his back, shoulders relaxed, posture regal.

He meets her gaze in the mirror, calm and even, "I thought it was effective."

Amarantha smiles faintly and turns toward him, "You didn't hesitate."

"I had no reason to."

She watches him a moment longer, then reaches for her wine and takes a sip. Her eyes drift to his slightly ruffled clothing.

"Change your clothes before the ball. You look like you've been working."

Rhysand bows his head slightly, "Of course."

Amarantha waves a hand, "Go. You've done your part for the evening. I want you looking polished and lovely when I show you off."

Rhysand turns to go. Cassian moves to follow, instinctive now, his body trained to trail behind.

"Not you," she says, lifting her goblet.

Cassian stops. The air around him tightens.

Amarantha sips again, unhurried, "I'm not quite done with my entertainment yet."

Rhysand pauses midstep, but doesn't turn. Amarantha's gaze flicks briefly to his back. The edge of her smile grows.

"Go on," she says to Rhysand, "Get cleaned up. You're filthy."

There's no reply to her, but his voice floats through Cassian's mind, I am so sorry I can't be here with you. Cassian is too terrified to even think a response.

Rhysand makes a slow, composed walk through the door. It closes behind him with a final, decisive click.

Amarantha turns back to the room. Cassian is still standing, still silent, every instinct screaming.

"Down," she says, like she's instructing a dog. He kneels.

She crosses the room, trailing her fingers along the arm of the couch before sitting with a sigh. She reaches for her goblet and takes a slow sip, then pats the cushion beside her.

"Here." Cassian crawls forward. She pets his hair. Light strokes. Idle. Possessive.

Her gaze never leaves the fire, "So quiet. So well trained," she murmurs, "He really has done beautiful work."

The Attor remains near the mirror, arms folded behind his back. He watches. He always watches.

"Do you think he's nervous yet?" she asks, glancing toward the door Rhysand vanished through.

The Attor tilts his head, "He knows how you reward loyalty, my Queen. And how you test it."

She hums her approval and rises to her feet, "Let's not keep our guests waiting."

With no hesitation, she undoes the clasps of her gown and lets it fall. Cassian stays kneeling, eyes fixed on the floor. He hears the fabric drop. Hears her rummage among the hangers and wardrobe doors.

She steps across the room naked, fully unbothered. She selects a new gown for the ball, something decadent, commanding, gilded. She dresses without shame, adjusting her bodice, sliding rings onto her fingers, selecting a new crown of deep obsidian glass.

When she sits again, she sips from her cup, "Do I look ready to host?"

The Attor bows slightly, "You look like a queen."

Her eyes flick back to Cassian, "And my escort?" She reaches down, smooths a strand of hair from his face, then tilts his chin up with two fingers, "Yes. I think Rhysand will enjoy this."

She rests her hand on Cassian's head, fingers toying absently with his hair as if stroking a pet. Her attention turns to the Attor, who remains upright and unmoving near the mirror.

"How are the messages being received?"

"The packages arrived at all seven courts," the Attor replies, "Caelan delivered each one personally. Rhoven reports the wording was followed exactly. As instructed."

Amarantha hums, pleased, "And?"

"The courts received them with appropriate gratitude. No resistance. Day and Autumn were especially… receptive."

"Of course they were," she says, swirling her goblet.

Cassian remains still beneath her touch. Her fingers twirl into his curls, drag down, release. Over and over again.

"Let them wonder what it all means," she murmurs, "Uncertainty is the best leash."

The Attor inclines his head, "Shall I begin circulating the new protocols?"

She smiles faintly, "Not yet. Let them dance. Let them drink. Then we tighten the noose."

She finishes the last of her wine and rises, "Come. I've made them wait long enough," she leans down to speak to Cassian, "I am sure Rhysand is eager to see you."

She puts down the empty goblet and sweeps toward the door. Cassian knows better than to hesitate. He stands and follows one step behind her.

The banquet hall is already filled with sound when the doors open for them.

Cassian follows a single step behind Amarantha as she sweeps into the room. Light glows from floating orbs clustered near the high ceiling, their golden shimmer spilling over polished stone and velvet drapery. Music flows from a raised platform where a string ensemble plays something quick and fluttering, too delicate to cover the voices. Fae of every court line the edges of the room, gathered in loose clusters around tables laden with jeweled fruit, crystal goblets, and silver towers stacked with desserts.

Cassian keeps his eyes forward, his bare chest exposed under the warm lights. He hears the court before he sees their reactions. He hears laughter faltering, sees forks paused in mid-air, and conversations slip into silence as Amarantha crosses the threshold.

The hush spreads.

The court parts without being told. Amarantha strides through the center of the room and the space reshapes itself to suit her passage. Cassian moves in rhythm behind her, his head held steady, his face blank.

Along the far wall, the punished are lined in a silent row. They stand facing the stone wall with backs exposed. Eris's brothers, Aíne, Helion, and Nostrus are all stripped to the waist, their lash marks vivid under the glow of the floating lights. Blood has dried in long, splintered lines. No one speaks of them, but no one looks away.

Cassian glances toward them once, then refocuses ahead.

There's a stirring near the ballroom's center. Someone is moving with purpose through the crowd. Cassian doesn't need to lift his eyes to know who it is. Rhysand is crossing the room.

He feels a shift, like someone gently caressing his mind. It feels far away at first then gets steadily stronger. As it grows in strength he hears Rhysand's voice ever so faintly in his mind, Cassian?

Cassian hears the soft but certain sound of Rhysand's boots over the marble floor. The crowd makes space for him just as they did for Amarantha.

Cassian, can you hear me? Louder now. He's easier to hear.

I hear you, Cassian responds.

When Rhysand draws close, the presence between them sharpens. Cassian doesn't look, but he feels something like the pull of gravity, like Rhysand is the only steady point in a spinning room.

Are you okay? Did she do anything to you?

I'm okay. She just pet me.

Rhysand approaches them. Amarantha stops and lets Rhysand come near.

She drags a hand down Rhysand's arm, "You've been quite useful today," she says.

"Enjoy yourself," she adds, her voice smooth and light, "I'm sure you'll find someone eager to sing your praises."

She doesn't wait for a response, instead she waves her fingers dismissively at him and steps away. Her gaze is already shifting, her steps already angling toward the edge of the room. Cassian follows her gaze and sees Tamlin stands near a banquet table surrounded by members of his court. He pretends to not see her.

Amarantha walks in Tamlin's direction her skirt sweeping the floor and the crowd bending around her. Cassian stays still, intending to remain with Rhysand.

"Heel."

Fuck. Her command slices cleanly through the air. She doesn't raise her voice. Cassian doesn't hesitate. He moves behind her, falling back into position. Fuck. Rhysand is left behind. Fuck.

My daemati powers have a limited range, Rhysand's voice grows fainter with each word. Apparently, with each step Amarantha leads Cassian away their line of communication runs thinner. Fuck.

I'll try to check in with you regularly, Cassian hears just barely.

Tamlin stands framed by members of his court and a few cautious onlookers who pretend not to watch him. His posture is casual but contained. One hand loosely holds a goblet. The other rests at his side. He sees Amarantha coming but does not move to greet her.

She slows as she nears, and Cassian can feel the shift in her attention. This moment matters to her.

"High Lord," she says, her voice low and velvet smooth, "I am pleased you grace us with your presence."

Tamlin dips his chin, not quite a bow, "Queen Amarantha."

Her smile widens at the title. She closes the final steps between them and places her fingers lightly on his arm. It's a familiar gesture, subtle, almost affectionate. He does not flinch, but he also does not respond. His arm remains still beneath her touch.

"You've kept to yourself this evening. I worried that you'd vanish with the wine."

"I wouldn't miss your gathering," he says. His voice is even. Formal. Measured with care.

"You honored me today," she continues, her tone warm, "Your court's offering was generous. Your presence was... radiant."

Tamlin doesn't acknowledge the compliment, "I trust the presentation met your standards."

"It did," she replies quickly, as though rushing to fill the silence, "But it wasn't the presentation I most enjoyed."

Her fingers trail slowly down the length of his sleeve before lifting away. She looks up at him from under her eyelashes, "You've always had a gift for making things grow. The tree was beautiful. Delicate, but strong."

Tamlin does not answer. Amarantha lets the pause stretch. Cassian watches her carefully. This isn't flirtation for spectacle. She's trying. She studies Tamlin's face the way she studies a map. She's desperately searching for something she can use.

"I hope you'll let me thank you more personally before the evening ends," she says at last with a gentle smile.

Tamlin sips from his goblet, "I'm here to represent my court. Anything beyond that would be... inappropriate."

Amarantha tilts her head slightly. Her smile falters at the edges, but she keeps it intact, "You always were so careful with your words," she murmurs.

Her smile twitches, just slightly. It's barely there, but Cassian catches it. The faint hitch at the corner of her mouth, the way her fingers pause mid-motion before curling back into the air between them. Amarantha smooths her features again. It takes her only a breath.

"But isn't that the beauty of courtship?" she says, voice low and soft, "To test what might once have seemed... unthinkable?"

Tamlin does not answer. He watches her with the same calm expression he's worn since she approached. The lack of response is its own kind of answer.

Cassian sees it. He's certain Amarantha does too. She shifts closer, just slightly. Not enough to alarm. Just enough that the hem of her gown brushes Tamlin's boots.

"You've grown more reserved over the years," she murmurs, "I remember a time when you could be quite warm."

"I remember a time before this," Tamlin replies, his voice remaining steady, "A great deal has changed."

Amarantha's smile doesn't move, "Yes," she says, "But I remain unchanged in one thing."

She raises her hand and smooths a nonexistent wrinkle from his sleeve, "I keep my promises. Always."

Tamlin doesn't move, unblinking.

Around them, the court carries on its performance. Musicians play. Laughter floats from a nearby table. Servants drift through the crowd with silver trays and practiced smiles.

Cassian stands behind her, still and alert. He can feel the way the air has changed. It has become thinner, more fragile. The balance here is precise. One wrong word and it shatters.

Amarantha lets the silence stretch just long enough to press. Then she draws back half a step and lowers her hand.

"But I'll not keep you," she says. Her voice is lighter now, touched with playful apology, "I've a room full of nobles to greet."

Tamlin only inclines his head again, that same shallow nod. She lingers one second more, searching his face for anything. Regret, softness, a crack. Something. Anything. She finds nothing.

Amarantha holds the smile a moment longer, then turns with practiced grace. The motion is fluid, effortless, a swirl of crimson and gold. The air seems to breathe again as she steps away. Cassian follows.

They walk slowly, drifting through the crowd. She nods to familiar faces, brushes fingertips along arms and shoulders, gives a low, smooth compliment to someone's dress or hairstyle. She moves like nothing has touched her. Like her desire hasn't just been flattened in front of the entire court. Cassian knows better.

She doesn't speak at first. She only walks, and he follows. Her shoulders are relaxed. Her chin is high. Her hands stay loose at her sides.

But then, quietly, without turning her head, she speaks to him, "Did you see his eyes?"

Cassian keeps his gaze forward.

"He looks at me like I'm a storm he once survived," she says.

She lifts a goblet from a passing tray and sips it without slowing her stride. She stops and turns, her other hand finds Cassian's hair. She brushes her fingers through it gently, like calming an animal. Or rather, calming herself.

"Ungrateful," she murmurs.

Her hand lingers at the back of his neck, "After everything I've spared him. After how hard I've tried to make this... pleasant."

Cassian stays silent. She pets him again. Slower this time. Her nails graze lightly down his nape.

"Say something comforting."

What?! Fuck! Cassian lifts his eyes just enough to glance at her jawline. He struggles to find words and then speaks carefully, "Your generosity was clear."

She hums, pleased, "It was, wasn't it?" Relief washes over Cassian that he didn't piss her off.

Her hand leaves his hair and settles lightly on his shoulder, "I'll give him more time," she says, loud enough for nearby courtiers to overhear, "He's just... shy."

The courtiers nod politely, smile at her with well-rehearsed admiration. She walks again, her posture looser now. Her smile has returned to its full shape. And Cassian stays exactly one step behind.

The crowd flows gently around them as they walk. Courtiers part to make way, then drift close again, drawn by the scent of her attention. Cassian stays just behind her shoulder, eyes forward, ears open. This close, he sees what most others miss. He sees the subtle tension returning to her spine, and the way her fingers brush her goblet as if she's considering shattering it.

They pass the musicians, who brighten their tempo as she moves past. A table of Summer courtiers offer her wide smiles and low bows. She glances toward them but does not slow. Further along, a trio of Dawn emissaries bow their heads and avert their eyes entirely.

No one has greeted her casually. No one speaks to her first. And then Eris breaks the invisible barrier.

He steps slightly ahead of his group as she approaches. He bows at the waist, lower than formality requires, then rises with a smile already in place.

"Your Majesty," he says smoothly, "Autumn is honored."

Amarantha stops. She lifts her chin and lets her eyes settle on his face, "Eris," she says, tasting the name as if it's a fine wine, "Always so polished."

Eris's smile deepens, "I strive to reflect the season."

Amarantha takes a slow sip of her drink and lets the silence linger. Her eyes flick briefly to Cassian, then back to Eris, "Your brothers showed discipline today. I admit, I had my doubts."

"They were raised well," he replies.

"Then I suppose I'll have to pass along my compliments to your mother."

Cassian feels the weight of the comment, but Eris shows no reaction.

Amarantha's smile tightens just a little, "And to you, of course. Your offering was a delight."

"Only the best for our Queen."

She hums as if satisfied, then turns and walks on. Cassian follows, and Eris bows once more to her back.

They continue through the press of fae. The crowd subtly shifts to accommodate their path. Some conversations pick up again once she's passed, others quiet further. A few faces still glance toward Cassian, but most eyes stay locked on her.

She doesn't pause again until Thalion steps forward from the Day Court's delegation. His posture is upright, formal, but calm. There's no bow, only a respectful nod.

"Queen Amarantha."

"Thalion," she replies with a small smile, "I see you've recovered from your earlier service."

"It was my duty to uphold the court's honor."

"A noble sentiment," she says, her tone pleasant, "One I hope spreads to the rest of your bloodline."

"Helion acted without the court's sanction," he lies effortlessly.

"Yes, I believe that was clear. Still, he screamed so prettily. You should be proud."

Cassian watches Thalion incline his head again, his expression unchanged. She holds his gaze a second longer, then continues on.

Thesan is already standing slightly apart from the Dawn delegation. He does not approach, but bows as she comes near.

"Queen Amarantha."

"Thesan," she says, "Always so careful. So thoughtful."

"I aim to serve with steadiness."

"And I aim to enjoy myself," she replies with a smile.

Cassian doesn't miss how her voice shifts, it's lighter, but edged with something colder.

"Your offering was accepted," she says, "but not memorable. You'll want to address that."

"Yes, my Queen."

She moves on without another word. They pass the Winter delegation. Oberon stands in quiet stillness as she nears. He bows, not too low, not too shallow.

She does not look at him. She does not speak. She walks directly past without pause. Cassian watches Oberon straighten again, his face unmoving.

They continue on, Amarantha's dress catching the light like flame. They slow near the edge of the dance floor. Courtiers part just enough to make space. Amarantha surveys the open stone and touches Cassian's shoulder.

"Kneel." Cassian complies. The floor is clean but cold, smooth under his knees.

"Stay," she says, fingers drifting through his hair, "Look lovely."

He holds still. She turns and walks away. Cassian watches her approach Tamlin.

The High Lord of Spring stands near a banquet table, surrounded by members of his court. He's tall and immovable, posture squared, hands loose at his sides. He sees her coming. He does not move to greet her.

She closes the distance with slow steps, her chin high, smile fixed into something bright and soft. The warmth in her expression is calculated, and Cassian can see it falter just briefly before she schools it into something sweeter.

I'm here, Rhysand's voice says in his head. It's a relief to hear him. To know he isn't alone.

I'm okay, Cassian sends back. Are you okay?

I had a bit of business to address, but nothing I can't handle.

Cassian continues to watch Amarantha. She tilts her head at Tamlin and steps around him. She makes a slow, sweeping gesture toward the dance floor. He gives no visible reaction.

Then her hand lifts and brushes down the front of his coat. Cassian notes the tightness in Tamlin's jaw.

Amarantha's shoulders rise slightly with a breath. She steps back half a pace and extends a hand. Tamlin takes it. His fingers only lightly graze hers.

Together, they walk toward the center of the room. The crowd adjusts around them, making space. Amarantha keeps her gaze forward. Tamlin's remains level. Cassian watches their backs as they move into the lights, the silk of her gown catching gold with every step.

Cassian settles into stillness. His knees ache. The music swells around him.

The music shifts again, slow and sweet. Amarantha steps close to Tamlin. His touch is flat, unmoved. She doesn't care. She glows under the attention.

Cassian watches their bodies move. She smiles and tilts her head toward him. He doesn't return the expression. They turn together in time with the music, every step precise, deliberate, mechanical. Cassian has seen better chemistry between a grunt and the lord who forgot his name.

The crowd opens around the dancers, but behind that ring the court is still moving. Thalion passes beside Cassian. He doesn't pause, but his eyes flick down as he walks by. Just a nod. A quiet acknowledgment. I'm a person to someone at least.

I always see you, Cassian, drifts through his mind. But I get what you mean. It's great that they see the real you.

On the dance floor, Amarantha leans in closer. She places her head near Tamlin's shoulder, her hand drifting a fraction higher on his chest. Tamlin does not shift. He doesn't meet her gaze, doesn't flinch away. He moves through the steps with the same rhythm as before. Like he's dancing with obligation.

A servant walks past, placing a goblet of wine on a nearby table. Another follows with a tray of sugared fruit. Cassian is not offered either. But the movement gives cover for someone to step near. Vaelith. She doesn't stop. Doesn't face him directly. She adjusts her bracelet as she walks past.

"She likes you quiet," she murmurs, "That helps you survive."

Then she's gone, her stride measured, her posture perfect. Cassian keeps his face blank. The room spins slowly with the dance.

Tamlin spins Amarantha under his arm. Her dress flares like a curtain of gold. She comes back to him with a practiced smile, her arm trailing across his shoulder. He adjusts the hold with no change in expression. She says something. He doesn't answer.

Morrigan is brought through the continuous wave of courtiers passing by. She stops near a tray of wine goblets.

She speaks without turning her head, "Still with us?" Cassian gives a single, small nod.

"Good," she says, lifting a goblet she never drinks from, "Stay that way."

Then she's pulled back into the wave of courtiers.

Amarantha places her hand over Tamlin's heart. He allows it, but his body doesn't respond. The space between them should be intimate, but it isn't. She steps closer. He doesn't match the movement. He doesn't recoil either. It's as if she's dancing with a statue that happens to follow the beat.

A pair of foreign courtiers approach Cassian's side. He doesn't look at them. He keeps his gaze trained on Amarantha, posture straight. He hears their whispering.

"Look at the wing joints," one says, "So much like bats."

The other crouches, eyes glinting, "I wonder how it feels."

A hand reaches forward.

Before the fingers make contact, a shadow coils around the reaching wrist and yanks it back with enough force to stagger the courtier upright.

Rhysand appears from the crowd like smoke. He approaches slow, elegant, dangerous. He doesn't smile. He's calm. Controlled. But Cassian sees the fury in his eyes.

"Touch him again," Rhysand says, voice soft, "and I'll shove shadow down your throat until your lungs forget how to breathe."

The courtier backs away fast, nearly tripping over a passing servant. His companion vanishes without a word. Rhysand watches them until they disappear. He glances once at Cassian, then turns and blends back into the crowd.

Cassian exhales once, silent and slow. The music continues. Amarantha and Tamlin are still dancing, but she's no longer smiling.

She leans in, lips brushing near his ear. Tamlin's jaw tightens and no other response. No nod. No shift in posture. Just silence.

Her smile never returns.

They keep moving, slow and smooth, but the rhythm between them falters. She tries again. She runs her fingers from his shoulder toward his jaw. He catches her wrist. Gently. Firmly. He lowers her hand with care and returns it to his shoulder. Then he looks away.

Cassian holds his breath in anticipation.

Amarantha doesn't react for a full second. Then she laughs. It's soft and forced. She presses briefly against Tamlin's chest in something that might look like affection from far away.

The music fades. She steps back with a curtsy sharper than necessary. Tamlin bows just enough to be polite.

She turns and walks off the floor. Cassian watches her approach, her gown dragging behind her like a slow-burning fuse. She crosses the floor without speaking to anyone. Her steps are sharp, controlled, each one landing just a little too hard for someone pretending not to be angry.

She stops in front of Cassian. Her hand settles on his head, fingers curling into his hair. She doesn't pet him at first. She's just gripping his hair.

"You're the only one who listens," she murmurs. Cassian doesn't respond.

She releases a slow breath, then crouches down next to him. What is she doing? Lowering herself? Here? In front of everyone? Next to me?

Her knees don't touch the stone. Her skirt pools thick beneath her, a cushion of molten fabric. She turns her body toward the room, facing the dancers again. Her hand moves to the back of Cassian's neck. This time her grip is soft. She strokes his neck like calming a restless animal. She's the restless animal.

"He'll come around," she says lowly so only Cassian can hear, "He's stubborn. But he'll come around."

Cassian remains still. Her fingers move slower now, more thoughtful.

"I am offering him everything," she whispers, "Peace. Power. A throne without war. Yet he still looks at me like I'm the one holding a knife."

She continues to pet him. Cassian can feel her calming. She's using him like a tether. She's looking for something steady, something that won't reject her.

She straightens up to standing, "Heel." He pops up and his knees yell out to him. Fatigue threatens to make him unsteady.

They begin to make their way around the room. He's following again. She speaks to someone, maybe Thesan, maybe Lazhar. He can't even tell friend from foe anymore. The light has gone hazy, too golden, too warm. Sounds blur together. The music, the laughter, the glasses clinking. It only reaches him as a blur of sound drowning out anything specific.

She stops. She smiles. He watches her mouth move, but the words melt in his ears before they form meaning.

His legs ache. His back hurts. There's sweat along his spine even though the room isn't warm. His wings itch and he can't adjust them. His knees still burn from the long kneeling, and now the soles of his feet feel swollen. There even may be a blister forming.

She greets someone else, maybe Rhoven. She laughs too brightly, or maybe she's just showing her teeth. Cassian tries to keep track of how many people she's spoken with, but it all just slips away. He is damn tired.

A tray passes close and his stomach clenches at the smell of roasted meat. He hadn't noticed how hungry he was until now. It makes him dizzy.

They stop again. She brushes a loose curl from her shoulder and gestures at someone across the room. He doesn't see who. Everything feels dim and sharp at once.

Her hand touches his shoulder and her fingers press just a little. Like checking if he's still present, still functional. He is. But just barely.

Her hand slips from Cassian's shoulder and she steps forward, claiming the space around her. She lifts one arm, palm open and high, and with a snap of her fingers the music stops with a practiced diminuendo that hushes the strings in a graceful bow.

Conversations fade with it. The murmur of a hundred fae falls into silence. No one moves. The quiet stretches just long enough to turn uncertain.

She lowers her arm and picks up a random goblet of wine from a nearby table and raises it with a slow, deliberate elegance.

"To tonight," she says, and the words settle over the room like silk, "To the restoration of order."

Her eyes drift across the gathered crowd. She does not raise her voice because she doesn't need to.

"To the glory of peace," she continues, turning slightly as she begins a slow, deliberate path through the crowd, "Not the sort dreamed up in ballads, but the kind carved into stone. The kind written in blood, and sacrifice, and unwavering loyalty."

Cassian watches her from just behind her left shoulder, following her movements with his body more than his mind. The ache in his legs has become a constant throb. The flickering lights make his vision pulse. Her voice, though, cuts through the blur.

"You've all served well this day. Your gifts have been... memorable," a brief pause, just long enough for the word to linger, "and your eagerness to adapt does not go unnoticed."

Her gaze slides toward the far wall. Cassian follows it, and so does the rest of the room. Those who were punished earlier still stand in a line, their backs flayed and bloodied, facing the stone with heads bowed. The silence around them is louder than applause.

"And may we all remember," she says, voice still warm and lilting, "what it looks like when that lesson is not learned."

She turns away without flourish. She walks, unhurried, toward the edge of the ballroom.

"Enjoy what remains of the evening," she says over her shoulder, the barest glint of amusement in her voice, "I'll leave you to your wine. And your memories."

Cassian falls in behind her without being called. The crowd parts in silence as they go.

Cassian has no choice but to follow Amarantha through the hallways. She leads to her suite. He gets nervous because nothing good ever happens here.

As she passes the guards to her suite she says, "Get someone to fetch Rhysand for me." The guard nods and promptly leaves.

They enter the suite and she heads straight to her bar and pours herself some wine. She downs it in one shot, then pours herself another.

She leads them into her bedroom and Cassian's steps start to slow. This room is frightening. She sits in one of the two plush sitting chairs by the hearth and gestures to the floor next to her, "Sit here, Cassian dear." As he sits, she pulls on him so he's resting against her leg.

She gently runs her nails through his hair and watches the fire. Cassian is still and nervous. This is the first time they've ever been completely alone, just the two of them. What is she going to do?

Apparently nothing. She grazes her nails along his jaw and scalp but nothing more. She appears lost in thought while absentmindedly petting him. I really have taken on the role of a pet.

Are you there? Rhysand's voice is faint. He'd have missed it if it weren't so quiet and boring.

I'm here.

Are you okay? I'll be there in a moment.

I'm fine. She's only petting me.

The door to the bedroom opens and an escort guides Rhysand in before closing the door behind him. The sound of the door shutting sends a shiver down Cassian's spine. Amarantha's games will begin.

"Rhysand," Amarantha gestures to the chair next to her, "Please join me."

Rhysand crosses the room and lowers himself into the chair. Cassian lowers his gaze, careful not to look at Rhysand too long. Not here. Not in this room. He breathes through the heat of the fire, and feels the silk of her skirts brushing his shoulder.

She stares into the fire and swirls the wine in her goblet, "I had planned to have another lesson tonight, but my heart just isn't into it right now."

"I believe I can guess where your heart is, my Queen," Rhysand says smoothly.

She flashes her eyes towards him, almost angry, but then she sighs and sips her wine.

"Tamlin didn't even pretend to want me. Not one word. Not one moment. I let him dance with me and he moved like I was a duty."

Rhysand crosses his legs, "He moved like he was terrified. You could have split him open with a look."

She shakes her head and shifts her gaze to the fire, "No. Terrified would've been something. This was worse. It was like I didn't even register to him. It was like I wasn't even there."

He shakes his head in disappointment, "Then he's dumber than I thought."

She purses her lips and looks at him from the corner of her eyes, "You say that like it's supposed to make me feel better."

Cassian watches the fire, letting its crackle drown the weight of her voice. He knows better than to react. To blink. To exist too loudly.

Rhysand uncrosses his legs and leans forward with his elbows on his knees, "I say that because it should've mattered. If he were anyone else, you'd have broken him for that."

Amarantha scoffs, "I don't want to break someone who won't bend. He doesn't resist. Doesn't fight. Just stands there and lets the wind decide."

He looks at her with intensity, "My Queen, he doesn't deserve to be in the same room as you."

She turns her head to partially face him but her gaze is on the floor, "Then why do I still want him to look again?"

He doesn't answer immediately, and Amarantha uses that moment to turn back to the fire with her face hardening.

"Because you're not made of stone," Rhysand says gently, "You're made of fire, and fire wants to be seen."

Her breath hitches, and she promptly covers it with a huff, "Careful. You're starting to sound sincere."

Something shifts. The air grows thinner. Cassian doesn't understand every word, but he feels a coiled thing between them drawing tighter.

She fingers the stem of her goblet and says lowly, "He didn't even look at me after our dance. Not even once."

He sits back and crosses his legs again, "I did."

She waves a hand dismissively, "You're supposed to."

"No," he asserts, "I'm expected to bow. To obey. Not to watch. Not like that."

She turns to face him fully, "Then what did you see?"

"A female who gave him every opportunity to rise and he chose to sink instead."

She looks back at the fire and waves a hand flippantly as she growls, "I gave him a chance to worship me, and he acted like it was an obligation."

He lets a breath pass before quietly saying, "That was the first time I envied him."

She looks at him puzzled, "Why?"

"Because you looked at him like he might be worth your time."

She scoffs, "You're not a jealous lover."

"No. But I've spent long enough beside you to recognize what you look like when you're reaching."

"... and?"

"You never should've had to."

She looks back at the tire, "You think I humiliated myself," a muscle in her jaw twitches.

"No, my Queen," he says soothingly, "I think he humiliated himself by not rising to the moment."

Her expression changes from anger to indignation, "He rejected power itself!"

She softens and turns to Rhysand, "You understand more than I thought."

"I listen more than I speak," he cocks a hand, "You've always preferred the ones who do."

"And yet you're still speaking," she furrows her brow, "You're not usually this talkative."

"You don't usually ask questions you want answered," he says with an open expression.

"I always want them answered," she insists then sighs, "I just rarely believe anyone."

"Then maybe the problem isn't the answer."

"And you think you're different?"

"No," he exhales deeply as he settles back and drapes his arms on the chair, "But I think I'm tired enough tonight to not care how it sounds."

"Tired of what?"

He sighs and tilts his head back to rest against the chair, "Of surviving well enough to be called obedient, but never well enough to be trusted."

"And you want to be trusted?"

He lolls his head forward to look at her, "I want to not be tested for once."

Amusement crosses her face, "You know who you're talking to."

"I do. That's why I said it."

She studies his face closely, and her gaze shifts up and down his body.

She rests back against her chair, "Fine. If we're being honest, then tell me how you felt today. You stood beside me while I ordered lashes on traitors. While I made Aíne whip her own sons. Did you hate me for it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I hated myself more."

She rolls her eyes, "How noble."

"It wasn't. It was practical. I knew what I had to do. I just didn't expect it to cost as much as it did."

She cocks her head to one side, "And what did it cost?"

"The ability to lie to myself," he says without hesitation.

"About what?"

He sighs and tilts his head back against the chair looking at the ceiling, "About who I am. What I'm capable of. I always thought there were lines I wouldn't cross."

"And now you know better."

He blinks and exhales slowly uncrossing his legs, "Now I know I never really had lines. Just luxuries. And you took those away."

"You poor thing," she says in mock pity with a mock pout, "Did I ruin your self-image?"

He shakes his head, "No," he tilts his head back to look at her, "You showed me the truth underneath it."

She lifts an eyebrow, "What did you find?"

"A mask," he says slowly, "And under it, there was another mask. And under that," he inhales and exhales deeply then shakes his head, "just a male who didn't want to watch her bleed, but did anyway."

She smirks, "Spoken like someone who's finally learned how to survive."

He shrugs, "Or someone who stopped trying to lie about what survival looks like."

Amarantha hums in approval. She swirls the wine in her goblet and studies it.

"Most men lie to me to please me," she looks at him and studies his face before continuing, "You lie to yourself to survive me. I think I prefer that."

She takes a sip of her wine, "You're easier to look at now that you've stopped pretending to have morals."

Amarantha kicks off her shoes and places a bare foot on the opposite chair nestled up against Rhysand and between his thighs. Cassian stiffens, just slightly. Not from shock. From the memory of how quickly she can pivot from touch to punishment.

She caresses him with her foot while she says lowly, "Tell me what I am."

"A tyrant."

She hums a negative, "Try again."

"A predator. A symbol. A consequence," he takes a hand to graze his fingers along the top of her foot, "Take your pick."

"And do you fear me?" she nudges her foot further up his thigh.

"Yes," he breathes.

"Good," she smiles, "Now say something true."

He runs a finger from her toe to her calf, "You make me want to kneel and bite back in the same breath."

She edges her foot closer, just grazing the apex of his thighs, "Have you ever imagined killing me?"

"Yes."

She smirks, "How would you do it?"

"Sometimes quickly. Sometimes slowly," he waves his other hand, "But always alone. No audience."

She slowly runs her toe down the bars of his cock cage that can be felt through his pants, "And why haven't you tried?"

"Because the moment I did, I'd be another man who underestimated you. And I'd rather kneel than fail."

She turns her head and looks at him from the corner of her eyes, "That's the first answer I almost believed."

He shakes his head, exhausted, "It's been too long of a day to be anything but honest right now."

"And yet you still managed to survive it with your tongue intact."

"Because I used it carefully," he smirks and says lowly, "And because you like it where it is."

She rolls her eyes and scoffs, "Don't flirt when you're trying to sound sincere."

"That wasn't flirtation," he shakes his head, "That was fatigue."

"Poor thing," she gives an exaggerated pout, "Exhausted from standing next to power?"

"No. From holding still while pretending it doesn't affect me," he leans forward and grazes the fingers of both hands along her calf, "Today, you looked like a storm standing at the top of those steps. Every court bent their heads, and I thought, 'of course they did'."

"Because they feared me," she looks into the fire and sips her wine.

"Because you were..." he inhales and exhales slowly, "... magnificent."

She slowly turns her head to face him again with an indignant expression, "You've called me cruel. A tyrant. A predator," she waves a hand, "And now I'm magnificent?"

He grips her calf, "You're all of it. That's the point."

She studies him carefully, eyes gazing across his face and down to his hands. She slowly retracts her leg and stands. She nudges his knees open and stands between them, staring down at Rhysand.

"And what do you see now?" she asks softly.

He looks up at her in awe, "Power that doesn't need permission."

She lowers herself into his lap and looks at his face. Cassian looks down. Not out of shame, but discipline. This isn't his story now. It's Rhysand's turn to survive.

"Tell me you want me," she whispers.

"I do," he places a hand on her thigh.

"Why?" she asks softly.

His hand slowly glides up her thigh as he takes a breath to center himself, "Because you terrify me. And I want to be inside what scares me."

Cassian closes his eyes. Not from emotion. From exhaustion. From needing to not be in the room for just one breath.

She tilts her head and looks at him curiously, "Is that desire or defeat?"

He grips her thigh, "Does it matter if it gets me closer?"

She slowly smiles, "You're good at this."

He shakes his head, "I'm not trying to be."

She raises an eyebrow, "No?"

He tilts his head to really look at her fully, "No. I'm trying to survive."

She runs a finger up his throat and along his jaw, "And?"

"And maybe..." his eyes dart down then back up to her face, "... maybe I want it, too."

She leans her head towards Rhysand's and whispers breathily in his ear, "Show me."

He lifts his other hand to her waist and pulls her tightly to him, "Then tell me what you want."

She noses along his cheek, "To feel worshiped."

He turns his head so their lips barely graze each other, "Allow me to worship you tonight."

Cassian opens his eyes for just a breath, because for one heartbeat, the room feels hollow. As if no one here actually wants what they're about to do.

Rhysand watches his hand as it glides up her side, behind her shoulder and to her neck. He pulls her head over and captures her in a kiss. Amarantha melts into his touch.

The two of them paw at each other and Cassian shifts his gaze to the fire. He wills himself to be invisible. A log spits as it breaks in half. Bloodied backs of people lined up along a wall enter his mind. Aíne's screams provides the soundtrack.

He hears the rustling of Amarantha's skirts and then she hums in satisfaction. The chair creaks.

He remembers the moment Rhysand raised the whip. He remembers Aíne’s hands shaking. He remembers Helion’s face, barely able to meet the room.

Amarantha hums lustfully then stands. Cassian dares a glance out of the corner of his eyes. She pulls Rhysand up and leads him away. He eventually hears the plops of clothing dropping to the floor.

Cassian remembers the sound his own body made when it gave out. The taste of vomit. The roar of silence that followed. Amarantha's delight at his break in composure.

From behind him, he can hear her chuckle lightly, "Did it remind you of who owns you today?"

"I'm always aware you own me."

"You stood up there next to me, everyone's eyes on you, with this just out of sight under your pants," amusement drips in her voice.

"I'm sure you'd like it off," she coos.

"Only if you have a use for me," he pauses, "Is that what you want from me?"

There's a click sound, like a latch being unfastened. A hitch can be heard in Rhysand's breath. Metal slides against metal. There's a thud as something hits the floor. A moment later something lighter bounces and rolls before stopping.

"How's it feel to have it off?" she murmurs.

"Freeing," he returns softly.

The bed creaks as they crawl onto it. Cassian hears the sounds of mouths on skin and gentle moans.

He lays his head onto the cushion of the plush chair he's seated next to. He doesn’t look behind him. The fire is still flickering in his vision. It doesn't care what's happening behind him.

But he cares about what's happening behind him. He knows Rhysand is just trying to keep them alive. He'll sacrifice everything to preserve Velaris.

Her moans intensify before she exclaims, "Don't you dare fucking stop!" After more panting and moaning she cries out in pleasure.

Cassian honestly doesn't know how much was truth and how much was lie during Rhysand's conversation with Amarantha earlier. Maybe Rhysand doesn't know, either.

She hums satisfied, "I do like where this tongue is. I'll keep it there."

He remembers all the times people have assumed or suggested his own tongue be cut out. The most recent being the Attor. He's suspicious.

The bed creaks rhythmically.

What will Rhysand need from him tonight? This is the most gentle of encounters he's had so far. Maybe it'll be easier. Maybe he'll be less stunned.

Cassian hears thrashing and the sound of something hitting the mattress hard. He instinctively whips around to see.

Amarantha is riding Rhysand with her hands tight around his throat. He's clutching the sheets with his hands and kicking his feet. Shadows leak from his hands and pool on the floor. His face has turned another color and blood vessels are lumps of lines beading up from his skin around his face. He's silent. Too silent. No air is passing through for him to even groan.

Cassian's eyes pop open wide. Fuck fuck fuck! Are you okay? Are you okay? Fuck fuck fuck! What do I do?

He flashes back to this morning. They updated The Agreement. We help each other within reason. His breath quickens. He remembers what Rhysand said. She won't kill him. She wants him. He's not going to die. He's going to be okay. Harmed. Exhausted. But can recover fully.

Rhysand releases a gasped exhale and strained inhale before going silent again. Amarantha throws her head back and groans as she grinds against Rhysand.

All Cassian can do is watch. Terrified. Reminding himself that she wants him alive. Please please, want to keep him alive, please.

She cries out loudly and her body convulses. Rhysand exhales and inhales choppily as her grip falters. Her head hangs forward and her hands relax and fall limply. Rhysand is panting deeply.

She steps off the bed and rolls her neck and shoulders then walks into the bathing chamber like nothing strange just happened. The door shuts behind her.

Are you alive?

I'm alive, his voice sounds weak even mind to mind.

Rhysand lays completely limp on the bed breathing deeply. There is nothing Cassian can do.

I'm here, Cassian pushes to him. His presence is all he can offer.

We're both here.

The door to the bathing chamber opens and Amarantha steps out.

"I'm finished with you both. Leave," she flicks her hands to dismiss them.

Rhysand rolls off the bed and gets to his feet unsteadily.

"Put the cage back on before you leave," she walks past Rhysand and climbs back into the bed.

Rhysand picks the two pieces up off the floor. He carefully, with trembling hands, puts the ring around his cock and balls, then slips the cage over his cock. He closes the four latches in place, clicking them closed one at a time.

He swipes his pants off the floor and puts them on, stumbling a bit. He picks up the rest of his clothes and heads to the door. Cassian pops up to follow him out.

Rhysand goes through his routine of putting his clothes back on to be as polished as possible considering they were just crumpled on the floor. He turns to face Cassian, and Cassian sees that his eyes are bloodshot. So bloodshot they're practically glowing red.

Fuck, Rhysand, your eyes!

I'll see the healer in the morning. He jerks his chin towards the suite's main doors.

They walk the hallways that are not as quiet as they usually are. Footsteps and murmuring echo from all directions. They pass a few courtiers along the way. Rhysand and Cassian either left the ball early, or the ball has run late.

They turn a corner and see Eris' unmistakable clothing from way down the hall with Morrigan's unmistakable blonde hair next to him. They approach to pass each other. Their faces are in a sneer as they draw near, but then suddenly Eris' face drops and he stops while putting a hand on Rhysand's arm.

"You've been strangled," Eris says matter-of-factly. Rhysand provides one curt nod.

"She did it." Rhysand nods again.

Eris and Morrigan look at each other, then back to Rhysand. "I understand you better now," he studies Rhysand's face, "Or you're even more of an enigma than I imagined." Rhysand just stares back, unmoving.

Eris releases Rhysand's arm, and he and Morrigan continue their way down the hall.

They reach their room and the click of the lock on their door feels like safety. It's like tension Cassian held was released all at once at the sound.

Rhysand wordlessly turns Cassian so he can remove the arm binding.

"I thought you might actually get away with an easy night tonight," Cassian sighs. Rhysand shrugs and tosses the binding on the chest of drawers.

"Bath?" Rhysand nods. He begins unbuttoning his shirt.

"Does your throat hurt too much to talk?" Rhysand nods.

"Well, at least you can speak mind to mind again!" Rhysand smirks and tosses his shirt in the bin.

"Gods, Rhysand, you have your magic back. It must feel great!"

Just a little bit. Rhysand raises the palm of his hand. Shadow pools in it and spills over the sides.

Cassian approaches with his hands out and catches some of the spilling shadows reverently, "Just a little bit is just great," he smiles up at Rhysand.

"Do you have access to the pocket realm again?"

Rhysand closes his eyes and concentrates. His brow furrows after a moment. But then he opens his eyes and shakes his head.

"That sucks. There is so much stuff in there we could use."

That's probably why she didn't give that much magic back. He shucks off his pants and heads towards the bathing chamber.

"Do you want any help?"

He shakes his head, I'd like to just soak alone for a bit.

"I'm here if you need anything." Rhysand turns his head to smile before entering the bathing chamber and shutting the door over. The door is still broken, but the message is clear. Rhysand wants alone time.

Cassian flops on the bed. He hears the water running in the tub. The din raises and raises, louder and louder. He hears murmurs and laughter of voices. It reverberates in his ears. He hears Amarantha laughing in delight. He hears a scream and a crack of a whip. He hears the thumping of Rhysand's feet thrashing on the bed.

He covers his ears and closes his eyes tight. He sees bloodied skin-torn backs. He sees the blood vessels popping out on Rhysand's face. He sees despair in Helion's eyes. He sees his vomit on the polish stone floor. He sees Eris trying to teach his own mother how to whip his own brother, her son. He sees Aíne scream and collapse against her restraints.

He feels warmth pressing in and turning his stomach. He feels Amarantha's nails running through his hair. He feels the arm restraint rubbing against his skin. He feels the stone floor beneath his aching knees. He feels his wrists restrained. He feels them being pulled. He tugs back. He doesn't want to be pulled around anymore!

He hears a hoarse sound with a hiss. It barks and hisses again. The sound is too close. Too real. He tries to scramble away but his wrists are restrained.

Cassian! He hears Rhysand's voice in his head again. Cassian! They can speak mind to mind again. Cassian! It's such a relief they have that back. They can now talk to each other and check in with each other when in public. It's this extra way they can be there for each other that is such a relief.

He lets out a long exhale as the relief eases his tension. He opens his eyes and... there's Rhysand's face. He glances about. Rhysand is holding his wrists tight.

"What?" Cassian is completely confused.

You were screaming.

Cassian sits up and Rhysand releases him, "I was what?"

Just all of a sudden you started screaming. I came running out and you were clutching your ears screaming.

"I..." he feels a drop of water hit his chest. He wipes his face. Not water, tears. He wipes both sides of his face. "What the fuck..." he whispers. He is drenched in tears. "I don't remember any of that."

Rhysand sits next to him and takes one of Cassian's hands into both of his. Were you seeing things?

Cassian furrows his brow, "Yeah, I guess. Just a bunch of flashes of memories."

You were probably having flashbacks. Your body was holding onto too much stress and needed to get it out.

Cassian looks up worried, "I can't afford to just black out and start screaming in front of people."

You won't, don't worry. It only happened because you were alone and felt safe.

Cassian scoffs, "Felt safe?" he glances around, "In this palace?"

This room is the safest room you have access to, and your body needed to release its pain.

"Well, fuck. What do I do?"

Acknowledge your pain for starters.

Cassian sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose, "Today sucked."

It fucking sucked.

"They were whipped. These people who care about me, look out for me, they were whipped and I just knelt there."

And I just stood there. Then whipped my peer.

They flop backwards onto the bed as if they planned it together. They stare at the ceiling. All four eyes leak tears.

"I was terrified She'd kill you."

I was afraid She might kill me by mistake. And I would have just laid there and let Her without a fight. He sighs. Here lies Rhysand, the High Lord who just allowed himself to be strangled to death.

Rhysand continues, I was scared She'd hurt you when She made me leave you alone with Her.

"I was scared, too. Anything imaginable was on the table for Her to do to me."

Cassian turns to his side to look at Rhysand and prop up his head on his hand, "She used me to self soothe, like I was a dog." Rhysand turns his head to look at him. His cheeks are covered in tears now, too.

"I don't think She wants to hurt me. I am literally a pet to Her. She wants to vent Her frustrations to me and run Her fingers through my hair," he blinks, "She may actually like me."

We're fortunate if that's true.

"You need to finish your bath." Rhysand nods. "But, I'm nervous of blacking out and screaming again."

Come with me.

"You were looking forward to being alone."

As you keep saying, we're in this together. Rhysand sits up and holds out his hand.

Cassian smiles bashfully, "Thanks," and takes his hand.

Rhysand leads them into the bathing chamber. Together, or take turns?

"Take turns. The tub is too small for two males and my wings." Rhysand nods and steps into the tub. Cassian sinks down to the floor and sits leaning against the tub. He can hear the water swish behind him as Rhysand washes.

Anything interesting happen at the ball?

"She said I was the only one who listens to Her," Cassian chuckles, "As if I do anything else but just listen and watch."

Rhysand snickers, then groans, then there is a small splash. Ugh, laughing is very unpleasant right now.

"What about you? Anything interesting?"

I have to admit I enjoyed threatening that fae who tried to touch you.

"You were pretty impressive."

I had to talk to Keir to remind him I'm still his High Lord. I told him his tithe was satisfactory and will help to keep the Night Court relevant.

"You complimented him?"

Briefly. Then I reminded him that one good performance doesn't prove his loyalty. He'll show his dedication to the Night Court by showing up quarter after quarter to keep the Hewn City in good standing.

Cassian hums his understanding.

Keir thinks he just bought leverage. I needed to remind him that competence isn’t currency. It’s duty.

"You really think he’ll keep performing?"

He'll perform because he wants to be seen. I just made sure he remembers who holds the spotlight. And as long as he thinks staying in it keeps him safe, he’ll keep dancing.

Rhysand steps out of the tub and grabs a towel. Cassian stands and gets into the tub. He'd like it nice and hot, so he plucks the plug out and turns on the hot water.

The din of the running water rises and rises, growing louder and louder. He hears the murmurs and laughter of voices. He's surrounded by fae. High fae, lesser fae, grey skin, red skin, Illyrian wings. Faces sneer and laugh at him. People try to touch his wings. He flinches and spins and tries to get them away but he's surrounded. Groping him. Dragging fingers through his hair.

Cassian! Rhysand is talking to him mind to mind. He's always there. Always in his mind. Reading his thoughts. Cassian! He has no privacy, not even in his own damn mind. Cassian! He owns nothing, has nothing. Not even his own body. He's used and used and used.

The crowd pulls and shakes him. He screws his eyes shut and tries to get them away, "Go away, leave me alone!" he screams at them all.

He opens his eyes and there's Rhysand, "Fuck!" He flings himself backwards and he falls over a ledge onto a hard floor. Rhysand is approaching him naked. Fuck fuck fuck! "No no no no no!" he scrambles backwards, "Don't, I can't, no more. Please. No more."

Rhysand steps backwards and crouches behind a tub. It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you.

"You always hurt me!" Cassian screams.

Rhysand's face turns pained, I know. I did. I hurt you enormously. But I work very hard to protect you now.

Cassian looks around the room. This isn't the House of Wind. This place is dark. Ever dark. Because we're under a mountain.

"Fuck," he wipes his face with both hands. His cheeks are freshly drenched with tears. He looks up at Rhysand who appears extremely concerned, "I blacked out again."

Yes. I think you went back ten years.

"Fuck."

Rhysand turns the water off in the tub. The water slowly drains.

"Fuck. It's a never ending stream of problems to deal with," Cassian sighs.

Cassian examines the tiling of the floor while Rhysand just keeps watch. "Maybe I need sleep. I'll bathe in the morning."

Sounds reasonable. Rhysand looks at him longer, Do you feel safe now? Can I stand up?

"I'm going straight to bed," he clambers to his feet and lumbers out of the bathing chamber and over to the bed. Rhysand follows.

They both climb into bed simultaneously, both lay on their backs, both stare at the ceiling.

"It happened even though you were with me."

It's a good thing I was there so you didn't inhale any water.

Cassian rubs his eyes, "What if I start screaming in my sleep?"

Then I’ll wake you up.

"I might hit you."

Then I’ll dodge.

Cassian huffs a tired sound that might be a laugh. They both stare at the ceiling in silence.

Eventually, Cassian whispers, "Goodnight."

Goodnight.

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.

Chapter Text

Cassian wakes several times in the night, the ache in his spine matched only by the one in his chest. Each time, he props himself up on an elbow just to check. Amarantha never lets go of Rhysand. Not once. She has been draped across him one way or another all night.

Cassian is alerted when Amarantha stretches with a soft purr. She appears to be in a good mood. Maybe she won't hurt Rhysand this morning.

She traces a finger down Rhysand's chest and murmurs, "You were beautiful last night. You wept so sweetly. I've never seen anything more honest."

Rhysand summons a smile that's thin and shaky at the edges, and says softly, "I live to please you, my Queen."

She presses a kiss to his throat as she whispers, "That you do."

Then she looks toward Cassian curled on the rug and says playfully, "You two looked like a painting. One torn open… and one quietly watching it bleed."

She stretches again, scooches off the bed and walks across the room while still nude.

She looks over her shoulder, "There's a banquet this morning. Go on. Be lovely. Be admired. You'll be fetched from your quarters. Be ready on time."

She doesn't dress in front of them. She stays naked. She's comfortable, imperial, worshipped.

Both Cassian and Rhysand stand. Rhysand puts back on the cock cage while Cassian gathers their clothes. They both silently slip out her door as is their new routine.

And as part of their routine Rhysand finishes dressing and checks himself in the mirror to smooth out the wrinkles as best he can before he makes his appearance to walk through the hallways.

Cassian wraps the binding around his arms and holds it loosely behind him and shows Rhysand. What if I walked back to our room like this? Then we don't have to put it on and off and on again.

That should work. Try it.

Rhysand leads them through the hallways back to their room, She didn’t even do anything this morning. Why do I feel like I’ve still lost something?

The layers of who you thought you were are still pealing away, Cassian explains

Painfully.

Yes, it's painful.

They listen carefully to the sounds in the hallways as they head back to the room. There is faint distant sounds of the kitchen and no one else is walking around. They should have time to take quick baths.

They enter their room and work like a well oiled machine. Neither speaks. There’s too much weight beneath the surface.

Cassian chucks the arm bindings onto the bed and heads straight into the bathing chamber. He turns on the tub and shucks his pants. He gets in, quickly washes the places that matter and gets out again just as Rhysand enters the room with his clothes already removed. He steps into the tub and spends more time washing as he ritualistically tries to remove Amarantha and her slick from his skin.

Cassian towels off and pulls his pants back on. He heads to the wardrobe and paws through the clothes. He's not fashionable like Rhysand, but maybe he could try saving him time by picking something. He pulls out the first good looking tunic he finds and hangs it on the wardrobe's door.

Rhysand comes in and sees the tunic hanging on the door. He shrugs, "It can work, thanks."

Cassian leans on the bed and watches Rhysand dress. He's just started running his hands through his hair while looking in the mirror when there is a knock on the door and it opens.

"I'm here to escort you to breakfast," the servant says.

We just barely made it on time, Cassian thinks as he presents his folded arms and back to Rhysand. He swipes the bindings off the bed and loosely secures Cassian's arms.

Then out they go to follow the escort without even having had a breath to gather their thoughts.

They're escorted through the inner corridors and into a chamber Cassian hasn't seen before. Smaller than the salons used for balls or statecraft, but still lush. The stone has been softened with thick rugs and tapestries. The air smells like clove and roasted fruit.

No long tables, just cushioned benches, armchairs, and velvet divans scattered in loose clusters. Small trays of meat and honeyed bread are set out, alongside pitchers of wine and citrus water.

Amarantha is already seated on a wide couch, one leg tucked beneath her, her crimson robe open enough to flash bare thigh. Around her are familiar faces: Saelwyn and Eryx, Lazhar and Malric, Rhoven and Vaelith, and Caelan. A handful of Hybern courtiers dot the edges of the room, sipping from fluted glasses and pretending not to gawk.

There are others, too. Some of the inner circle have brought partners. Some Cassian has seen briefly in passing. Eryx lounges beside a fair-haired female in black silk who eyes Cassian like she's sizing up a slab of meat. Saelwyn's consort, a quiet male with golden skin and jeweled fingers, leans lazily over her shoulder. Lazhar's date is already half-drunk and nibbling on a fig like it's scandalous.

Rhysand walks in like he owns the room, face bored. Cassian follows two steps behind, arms loosely folded and bound behind his back.

Rhysand sits on a low-backed chair near Amarantha. Cassian moves after him and sinks cross-legged to the floor beside him, thigh just touching Rhysand's boot, posture relaxed but watchful.

Amarantha lifts her goblet, "Rhysand dear, you're radiant this morning."

"Your praise is my sun, my Queen," he says smoothly.

"You'll pour for everyone today," she declares, waving lazily to those in attendance, "It pleases me to share you."

He bows his head in acknowledgement. As he rises to serve the first glass, Cassian watches the slight pause in his hand.

You okay? he asks, soft.

I can do this, Rhysand replies, it's practiced.

That's not what I asked.

There's a pause. Every word scrapes at something raw, Rhysand admits, but I still know the script.

Speak it like you wrote it, Cassian sends back, no one here knows you're bleeding.

Rhysand's lips barely twitch. Then he straightens, lifts the wine, and moves to pour for Lazhar and his date with a courtier's grace.

Cassian leans against the chair leg and watches him work, calm on the outside. But he can feel it in the line of Rhysand's shoulders. The fracture lines deepening. The cracks beginning to show.

And the Queen, watching from the couch, sees everything and says nothing. Yet.

As time spreads, the salon grows looser. Wine flows freely, courtiers lounge with languid grace, and Amarantha's laugh has grown softer, more dangerous.

Cassian remains seated on the floor beside Rhysand's chair and watches. A young male courtier, glossy-haired and flushed with drink, leans forward from a nearby couch. His eyes glide over Cassian with open hunger.

"I don't know what I envy more," he purrs, "his obedience… or his shoulders."

Soft laughter stirs from the courtiers nearby. Cassian doesn't react. He keeps his eyes on the floor, the line of his mouth flat.

The courtier doesn't stop, "He looks like he could snap a male in half," the words roll slowly from his lips, "or hold him perfectly still. Which do you prefer, pet?"

A murmur of amusement rises from the room. All eyes shift.

Cassian lifts his gaze just enough to meet the courtier's eyes, "I do what I'm told," he says simply.

The courtier's smile widens and eyes everyone, "Lucky us."

Amarantha's voice cuts through the hum of amusement, silk wrapped in steel, "Careful, dear," she says with a slow grin, "That one already has a throne."

Cassian lowers his gaze. Rhysand doesn't move, but Cassian sees the flicker in his jaw.

Amarantha lifts her goblet, "Jealousy," she sighs, "is such a petty thing," she lets her gaze fall on Cassian, "But perhaps I am jealous," she muses, "so many eyes on my King."

Cassian stiffens.

"Come now, my King," she calls sweetly, "Don't just sit there looking beautiful. Show them what those hands of yours can do."

Cassian blinks. He looks to Rhysand instinctively. Rhysand doesn't look back.

"I learned last night," Amarantha continues, "that he gives exceptional massages. Didn't I, Rhysand?"

Rhysand forces a smile, "Unforgettable," he says, too evenly.

Amarantha claps once, "Wonderful! Cassian, go on. Give each of my favorites a taste. A minute or two for each. Be sweet about it."

Cassian rises slowly and he pauses as Rhysand removes his arm bindings. He walks toward the nearest seat, Lazhar, and moves behind him. He places his hands gently on the treasurer's shoulders.

Lazhar grins wide, "Oh, what a luxury."

Lazhar's date asks nervously, "I thought he was dangerous."

"That part of him has been broken away," Rhysand says with a gesture of his goblet.

Amarantha grins, "My King here is as sweet as a kitten."

Cassian works in silence. His hands move in practiced rhythm. He presses into tension. Rotates thumbs across tendons.

Amarantha leans her head on her hand, watching him with idle pleasure, "Don't be shy," she coos, "Use those strong fingers. Maybe one of them will cry."

Cassian moves to Lazhar's date. He carefully hovers his hands over her shoulders as a silent request for permission. She nods once and he begins. She melts into his touch, "On my, you're right. His hands are exceptional."

Rhysand hasn't moved. His goblet sits untouched beside him. His breathing is tight. His smile hasn't returned. He sits poised, composed, but there's a stillness in his limbs that Cassian recognizes. He's too measured, too contained.

Across the room, Cassian stands behind a dainty chair, his hands on Eryx's shoulders who is groaning in satisfaction as Cassian presses into the muscle beneath his collarbone.

"Harder," Eryx says, then adds with a grin, "Our King really does have golden hands." Laughter rises around them.

Amarantha watches from her cushion, lips curled lazily at the corners. Then her gaze flicks sideways.

"You're quiet, Rhysand," she croons, slow and indulgent, "More serious than usual."

A few heads turn. Eryx chuckles again. Vaelith watches too closely.

Rhysand lifts his goblet in answer, smiling faintly, "Enjoying the show, my Queen."

Amarantha hums, "Are you? Because you look… jealous."

The word drops like a pebble into still water. Ripples spread instantly. Rhysand doesn't blink. He holds her gaze. But Cassian sees the barely-there shift of his spine, the clenched fingers on the goblet stem.

Amarantha tilts her head and drags a nail along the rim of her glass, "Perhaps I should keep him in my bed tonight," she muses, "See if those hands of his can make me purr."

The court murmurs with delight. Rhysand's smile doesn't falter. But the pause is too long. A single beat too late.

"I only want what pleases you, my Queen," he says at last.

In Cassian's mind, his voice is tight and cold with shame, I didn't hesitate. Did I?

Only a breath, Cassian answers, but it shook.

Someone whispers across the room. Rhysand's goblet remains frozen midair. His mask is still perfect but the crack beneath it is visible now.

Amarantha watches him for a beat too long. Then she stretches like a cat and reclines again, sighing with pleasure.

"Well," she drawls, "You're certainly not boring me, Rhysand dear."

The tension breaks just enough. The court resumes its lazy murmurs of conversation. Rhysand does not sip his wine.

"He's your pet, Rhysand?" someone asks from across the room. Rhysand just nods.

"Where did he come from?" someone else inquires.

Rhysand picks up his goblet, "His people started a rebellion against my reign. I took their strongest warrior as recompense. I broke him to force them to face the consequences of their unwise tendency to war."

Cassian continues on from courtier to courtier as they chat.

Another voice pipes up, "How did you break him?"

"It's a long and complicated process," Rhysand swirls his wine.

"He's giving me lessons," Amarantha adds proudly, "His theories on the breaking process are... thorough."

Cassian finishes going around the seated group, then sits quietly once more beside Rhysand's chair. A silence settles long enough for everyone to notice how quiet and still Rhysand is being.

Then Amarantha lifts her glass, "Lovely," she sighs, "So obedient. So useful."

She sips her wine, "You can keep him, Rhysand. For now."

Conversation drifts in soft, buzzing circles around the salon. The room warms with laughter and becomes perfumed with wine. Amarantha reclines with her wine, legs draped over one arm of her chair, smiling like a queen presiding over her playhouse.

Cassian sits cross-legged on the floor beside Rhysand's chair. Rhysand lounges above, one arm resting along the back cushion, his expression serene. But Cassian feels the tension leaking through him like steam from a cracked vessel.

A courtier across the room lifts her glass and purrs, "My cup's nearly dry, Rhysand."

The moment lingers too long. Amarantha glances sideways. Cassian tilts his head, waiting. Rhysand doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Cassian gently taps the back of his ankle.

Rhysand startles, only slightly, then rises smoothly from his chair, "Forgive me," he says with his signature warmth, "I was momentarily lost in the beauty of this gathering."

He sweeps forward and refills her cup. Then the next. And the next. He moves gracefully again. Mask flawless.

But Cassian saw it. But even worse, so did Amarantha. Her smile hasn't shifted, but her eyes gleam with something colder.

You with me? Cassian's voice touches Rhysand's mind.

A beat of silence before his voice comes through, No. But I'm trying.

Rhysand returns to his seat. His body is elegant. Still. But the mask is beginning to rattle. Cassian rests a gentle hand around Rhysand's ankle.

The salon is glowing now with rich indulgence. The wine is deep, the cushions warm, and the air thrums with the kind of lazy cruelty only comfort can breed. The performance has lulled into soft conversation and idle glances.

Amarantha stretches like a cat in the sun. One arm reaches over her head, the other drapes lazily across her lap. Her gown slips just far enough to reveal the top of her thigh.

"Well," she sighs, "That was delightful."

She stands with a slow, liquid motion. Her bare feet whisper against the rug. As she passes behind Rhysand's chair, her fingers drift through his hair, just enough to muss it.

Then she stops before Cassian. He keeps still as she leans down, her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

"A little sweetness," she murmurs, wiping away the faint smear of pomegranate juice left behind. She licks her thumb and hums, "My King always leaves a taste."

Cassian lowers his eyes. Rhysand doesn't move.

Amarantha turns back toward the chamber doors, not looking at them as she calls over her shoulder, "Be ready by dinner. I'm hosting another salon. And tonight…" she pauses just long enough to let curiosity bloom, "… I want dancing."

With a sweep of her hand, she's gone. The salon is suddenly quiet. Dimmer. As if the shadows have reclaimed the corners now that their queen has gone.

The rest of the court filters out in her wake, laughing softly, adjusting cuffs, draining their cups. Rhysand and Cassian follow the crowd and exit into the corridor. The Attor takes up the rear of the crowd, stalking out silently.

Rhysand and Cassian walk in silence because it's too soon to speak of what's underneath it all. And the day has only just begun.

They reach Rhysand's office and his steps immediately slow when he enters the room. Cassian almost bumps into him. Cassian looks around him and notices the plush bright green rug sprawled across the floor in front of the hearth and under the sitting area. But then he sees what has really captured Rhysand's stare.

The tapestry. It's hanging behind the desk in it's resplendent night sky glory. They both approach it reverently.

The tapestry is as tall as the chamber itself and woven so finely it could be mistaken for paint. Stars stitched so delicately they seem to pulse. A dense river of light cuts across the tapestry, that glowing band where the night thickens and reminds anyone who's ever looked up that they are inside something infinite. The seam of the universe itself.

There's depth to this tapestry, like you could fall forward and keep falling, past velvet dark and silver starlight, past constellations named in childhood and forgotten in grief. It isn't just a sky. It's home.

The clarity of the stars, the emptiness between them, the wind that isn’t there but feels like it should be, all of it sings of freedom. Just freedom.

To someone from the Night Court, it feels like remembering a lullaby you thought had been buried with your mother’s bones. Like looking into the sky and realizing it was a mirror all along.

They've been taking slow steps across the room approaching the tapestry. They stand at the desk just staring in awe.

Zibri zips in holding a painting practically as large as he is, "Good morning, good morning, good morning!" he sings, "As you can see I've started bringing things in. I started with the rug since you said it was your first priority."

Cassian turns around as soon as Zibri's voice started, but Rhysand stays facing the back of the room. He wipes at his face furiously then takes a moment to clearly compose himself before turning.

"Thank you, Zibri, your service has been satisfactory," Rhysand says coolly.

Rhysand's eyes have become red rimmed. Cassian has never seen him so moved, but it's likely because he was rendered so raw from yesterday. Now today the the mask is slipping.

Zibri swiftly crosses the room despite the unwieldy painting he carries, "I was going to put this one on the wall next to your desk, and then I'll be done with your desk area giving you a place to work while I move things in."

Rhysand nods, "Cassian and I will carry a load of books here while we wait for you to finish."

He puts down the painting and protests, "Oh no! I can get it all!"

Rhysand puts up a hand, "It's alright. We'll just carry one pile each. You can get the rest." Zibri nervously agrees.

Rhysand and Cassian return to the abandoned library and see their piles of books remain undisturbed.

"Pick out a couple books that would keep your interest over the next few days," Rhysand suggests as he unbinds Cassian's arms.

Cassian goes to his pile of adventure novels and pulls out the most interesting three. Rhysand peruses his stacks and puts aside a few books for himself.

They each take their selected books and collect as many as more as they can comfortably carry. Cassian's bindings balance on the top of his stack. They walk carefully back to the office with their arms heavy laden with books.

They enter the office and see Zibri on a ladder finishing up hanging the painting. "I'll be done in just a moment!" he calls out.

"Take your time," Rhysand places his pile of books on the low table of the sitting area. Cassian mirrors the movement.

Rhysand looks around the office and his eyes settle in the corner of the room behind the desk, "Zibri, when you're done with the painting, I want you to next bring a couple fur blankets and plush pillows."

Zibri is startled a moment but then exclaims, "I'll get right on it!" then starts to zip out the door.

"Did you finish hanging the painting first?" Rhysand cautions.

"Yes yes yes! It's done! I should move the ladder out of the way. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry!" he zips back and folds up the ladder then leans it on the wall next to the door, "I'll be back with furs and pillows!" and he zips out.

Rhysand and Cassian chuckle simultaneously. They also simultaneously walk to the far end of the room to gaze at the newly hung painting.

The painting is done in shades of deep indigo and charcoal, a nighttime coastline rendered in sweeping strokes. A cliff juts into a dark, moonlit sea. The waves below are blurred with motion, almost abstract, like they’ve been crashing there forever. There are no ships or stars. Just the silent, relentless meeting of stone and water.

But at the very edge of the cliff, nearly hidden in shadow, is a small figure with wings half-open just standing, watching the horizon, as if waiting for the world to change.

It's the kind of painting no one would comment on. But it lingers. A portrait of endurance without victory. The kind of beauty found in holding still.

Rhysand clears his throat then walks behind the desk and points to the corner, "That's why I asked for furs and pillows. I realized that if you had a spot mostly hidden from view then you could spend your days unbound and reading. If people don't notice you, they'll be less apt to ask questions."

"Well, I certainly love the idea of being kept from clear view."

Cassian picks a book and gets comfortable on the plush rug in front of the hearth. Rhysand moves the books onto the bookshelves and then selects a book for himself and sits in the chair next to Cassian.

They read in quiet calmness for a period, the first they've had since two nights ago. Cassian isn't even really reading, he's just allowing his brain to go blank and decompress.

That calmness is broken as Zibri zips in, "I've found the furs and pillows!" he exclaims triumphantly.

Rhysand snaps his book closed, "Must you be so loud!" he snarls.

Zibri halts mid-step. His wings jitter once, then still. "I'm sorry," he whispers. Then the trembling starts in his fingers.

Rhysand softens. He stands and carefully takes the pillows and furs from Zibri's arms and places them on the couch. Zibri continues to tremble.

Rhysand places his hands on Zibri's shoulders, "I shouldn't have snapped at you, Zibri. You bring light into this darkness. I should never dampen your light."

Zibri's eyes envelop his face and his trembling stops, "I... I have light?"

Rhysand nods slowly, "You're a light. Saelwyn has assigned you to me full time. You're going to be my light from here on out."

Zibri throws his arms around Rhysand, face buried in his chest. "No one's ever called me a light before," he mumbles.

Rhysand huffs a small laugh and gently pries Zibri off, "And now I've made history. But we'll skip the hugs, alright?"

Zibri jumps back and nervously plays with his fingers, "Sorry sorry sorry."

"Now, my little light," Rhysand changes to a firmer tone, "Go back to work."

Zibri gives a curt nod and zips out the door.

"That was nice of you," Cassian comments, "It was mean of you, but good recovery."

Rhysand clears his throat and swipes up the furs and pillows, "Let's get that spot for you set up. Let's make you something comfortable."

He carries the things to the back of the room and kneels by the corner. Cassian follows and watches Rhysand fussing with the furs to lay them out just right. Then Rhysand fluffs the pillows and rests one leaning on each wall of the corner.

Rhysand looks up at Cassian with raw hopefulness, "Will this do? Will this be comfortable? If not, we can try something else."

Cassian looks down at him with a sad smile. Rhysand is trying so hard. Cassian kneels down next to him, "Thank you for thinking of me."

Rhysand runs a hand down Cassian's cheek, "I'm always thinking of you."

Cassian crawls over to the made up corner and settles himself in. The pillow is large and supportive. The furs are soft and comfortable.

He looks over at him with a true smile, "This will be great, Rhysand. Thank you."

Rhysand pops up and goes to the sitting area and picks up their books. He returns behind the desk and hands Cassian his book, "Let's give it a test run."

Rhysand and Cassian read. Cassian makes himself comfortable on the floor amongst the furs and pillows, while Rhysand tucks himself into the desk and reads with the book laid out on the desktop in front of him.

Zibri zips in and out as he moves things into the office. He hangs another painting on the other side of the hearth. This painting is a moonlit garden enclosed by a crumbling stone wall. Half-bloomed flowers push through frost-bitten earth. A cracked bench slouches in the center, an old pair of boots tucked beneath it. No figure is shown, but a long shadow stretches across the path, like someone just left, or is about to return.

It's a portrait of survival in quiet spaces. Of returning. Of what's left behind when someone loves a place hard enough to make it sacred

A knock raps at the office door, brisk, controlled, and not tentative. Rhysand doesn't look up from the page he's pretending to read.

Rhysand waves a hand, "Enter."

The door swings open to reveal Rhoven, dressed not in robes of court, but in a fitted vest and loose sleeves rolled to the elbows, ink already smudged across one cuff. His hair is tied back in a scholar's knot, and a scroll case is tucked under one arm.

"Good morning, Rhysand," he says evenly, stepping inside without waiting for welcome, "I've been assigned to design the first phase of Amarantha's census."

Rhysand finally lifts his eyes. Rhoven moves to the center of the room, gaze drifting once to the night sky tapestry, then to the desk, "Specifically, I've been directed to design a skills registry. Combat ability, flight, brute strength, magical gifts. She wants a complete picture."

Cassian's stomach clenches.

Rhoven continues, "Before drafting structure, I'd like a precedent review. My understanding is that the Night Court maintained excellent records of its populace and magical stratification," his eyes flick to Rhysand, sharp and expectant, "I'd like to know how you did it."

Rhysand closes his book with slow precision, "Of course," he says coolly, gesturing to the seat across from the desk, "Please. Sit."

Rhoven does not hesitate to sit. He lowers himself into the chair, scroll case already resting atop his knees. Cassian watches them both, heart beginning to crawl up his ribs.

They're going to start with the Night Court, Rhysand says quietly, his voice threading into Cassian's mind like a chill, If they notice what's missing, they'll come looking.

Of course they are, Cassian replies. You're the easiest to catalogue. Already broken. Already theirs.

And I'll be the one helping them do it, Rhysand's mental tone is bitter iron. How can we possibly get a census of Illyria? How can we keep a city as large as Velaris hidden?

Then control the frame, Cassian urges. Make it yours. Make sure they walk where you lead.

A pause before Cassian continues, because if you don't, someone worse will.

Rhoven spreads the parchment across the desk, smoothing the creases with deliberate care, "For this precedent study," he says, not looking up, "Show me how the Night Court managed its census."

Cassian, seated on the furs in the corner behind the desk, goes still. Rhysand doesn't speak yet.

Rhoven continues, oblivious or pretending to be, "I need to know how you handled classification. Especially for fae with clipped magic. Wings. Minds. That sort of thing."

Cassian shifts his weight. Watches Rhysand's hands. One lies still on the desk. The other curls, barely perceptible, into a fist.

Rhysand answers too evenly, "Diminished function was categorized by primary loss: wing, spell, memory. We used controlled language. It reduces panic."

Rhoven nods and makes a note, "And how did you ensure participation in the census?"

"Food," Rhysand replies, "Medical access. Legal standing. We built the illusion that registry meant protection."

His voice is smooth, but Cassian hears the thinning beneath it. A note stretched too far.

Rhoven glances up, "What about noncompliance?"

"Loss of access. Isolation," a pause, "Public penalty, if necessary."

Rhoven's quill scratches, "And dissenters? Especially in the more… unstructured regions, like Illyria."

Cassian feels Rhysand freeze. It's brief, barely a breath, but it's there.

Fuck, Rhysand says silently, if they poke into the outer territories they'll see the hole that is Velaris. They'll see something huge is missing.

Cassian pushes in fast, Focus on the Hewn City. Keep the rest muddy.

Rhysand's voice shifts when he speaks again. He's colder and more precise, "The Hewn City has the infrastructure. The outer territories… no. No such systems. It is chaos by design. Unmonitored, unruly. Data collection is impossible."

"You ran it," Rhoven says mildly, "Surely you tracked something."

"Our focus is on troops, our fighting force," Rhysand lifts his gaze, "As for the support population, we track attendance. Absences. Who bartered what, with whom. Patterns. Patterns are louder than gifts."

Rhoven frowns, "But powers--"

"Don't tell you who will rebel," Rhysand cuts in, sharper than before, "Only who can. That's not the same thing."

Silence follows. Not just awkward, it's charged. Rhoven's pen hovers. Cassian watches Rhysand's hand on the desk. It's trembling.

You're fine, Cassian pushes gently, steady and warm, You steered it. You did exactly what you needed to.

Rhysand doesn't respond. He forces the hand still. He curls it into a fist and squeezes like he's sealing it shut.

In his mind, Rhysand's voice finally breaks through, thin and splintered, I knew what to say. I always know what to say, another breath, So why the fuck did my hand shake?

Cassian doesn't try to answer. There's no comfort that would land right now.

Rhysand's jaw tics once. Then he flicks his gaze up at Rhoven, smooth as ever, "Is that all?"

Rhoven blinks, caught by the shift in tone. He straightens his parchment and nods once, "For today."

Rhysand rises slowly, posture perfect, even as the tension coils through his spine like a drawn bow. He moves to the door, opens it without ceremony. Rhoven walks out without thanks.

When the door closes, Rhysand stays where he is, back to Cassian, shoulders tight.

In the quiet that follows, Cassian finally says, "You don't need to punish yourself for a hand that shook."

Rhysand doesn't turn around.

"I wasn't afraid of him," he says, more to himself than to Cassian, "I wasn't afraid. I was ready."

"It wasn't fear," Cassian says softly, "It was grief pretending to be fear. It's just your body reminding you it's still yours."

A pause. Rhysand finally turns, eyes dark and searching, "I'm going to need to be perfect, Cassian."

Cassian meets his gaze, "Then you'll have to start by not unraveling when you're not."

Rhysand lets out a quiet breath, half exhale, half surrender, and leans back against the door. The hand doesn't shake anymore. But it's still curled tight, like he's trying to hold himself together from the outside in.

After Rhoven's visit, Cassian settles back on the furs and pillows reading, and Rhysand settles back tucked into the desk reading the book laid before him.

Zibri continues to bring items in. He puts a delicate armillary sphere on the low-lying table in the sitting area, with circles upon circles tracking the night sky. He sets an ornate inkwell stand and wax seal set on the desk. Crystal and obsidian bookends on the shelves. Some additional candle holders to ensure the artwork has adequate lighting.

An escort finds them here in the office and informs them of lunch. Cassian presents his folded arms and Rhysand merely wraps the bindings around his arms rather than fastening it.

It's not fastened, so be careful. But you should be able to take it off yourself, Rhysand's voice informs him.

They file out the door and follow the escort to lunch.

The private dining chamber is quiet, dimly lit, firelight flickering against stone walls. No servants. Just a long wooden table laid with silver platters, ceramic bowls, and goblets already half-filled. The air smells faintly of roasted root vegetables and spice.

Everyone else is already seated. Cassian enters behind Rhysand, who takes the empty seat at the head of the table. Cassian silently slips by to kneel at the floor next to him.

The conversation is already mid-flow.

"… if the registry is open, they'll lie," Saelwyn is saying, her fingers curled loosely around a goblet, "Make it a test, not a form. Then they don't think they're giving anything away."

"We're not worried about honesty," Rhoven replies, slicing a bit of meat, "We're worried about clarity. If you can fly, you can fly. If you can't…" he shrugs.

"We half expected you to come crawling in again," Caelan cuts in smoothly, directing it at Rhysand with a wolfish grin, "considering how she had you crawling last night."

Light laughter around the table. Rhysand doesn't flinch. Just pours himself a glass of wine, serene as still water. Cassian feels it, though. The first tightening beneath his ribs. Not from anger. From effort.

The conversation shifts as food is passed. Rhysand serves himself quietly and offers food on a fork for Cassian.

"I always admired how you managed it, Rhysand," Eryx says again after the lull. He's speaking softer now, contemplative, "Every court was drowning in blood, and there you were still sharp, still untouched."

The air tightens. Rhysand cuts into his meat. His knife doesn't waver. But Cassian sees it. The flick of muscle in his jaw. The stillness of his shoulders, bracing them for something.

"I was lucky," Rhysand says, too even, "And good at pretending."

Vaelith leans in, wine swirling lazily in her glass, "Is there anything you miss from the Night Court?" she asks, tone silky with false innocence, "Something you didn't bring with you?"

Cassian freezes. So does Rhysand.

"I try not to miss what I chose to leave behind," Rhysand answers, after a beat too long.

Then, quieter he adds, "Just the silence after snowfall. Nothing here stays quiet long."

It's soft. Too soft. Eryx laughs, missing it, "Romantic as ever."

But Vaelith tilts her head slightly, smiles, and says nothing. Cassian watches Rhysand's hand. Thumb pressing hard against the stem of his goblet. His knuckles have gone white.

Still breathing? Cassian asks silently.

… Yeah, Rhysand replies, I didn't mean to say that.

You were probably speaking to yourself about a truth you're suppressing.

The moment passes. Conversation drifts on. Someone makes a joke about Caelan's diplomatic tour. Malric says nothing but smirks at all the wrong times.

Rhysand eats slowly. Barely. He keeps his mask on, but Cassian feels how tightly it's affixed now.

You don't have to prove anything to them, Cassian says quietly.

I do, Rhysand returns, It's the only way they won't ask the wrong questions.

Cassian doesn't argue. Just watches. Just stays close.

After dessert, they rise. Rhoven lingers near the door, watching Rhysand just a beat too long before slipping out with the rest.

Only Cassian remains, still kneeling and watching. Rhysand exhales. A breath like something caged finally loosening.

"I didn't falter," he mutters, "My body did."

Cassian looks up at him, "You treat your body like it's a soldier to command," he says, "But maybe it's a friend that's been screaming to be heard."

Rhysand doesn't answer. Just looks away. But he doesn't argue.

They remain to eat their fill since they've barely eaten since yesterday's lunch, then make their way back to the office.

They arrive at the office and Rhysand pushes the door open revealing Zibri standing on the ladder carefully sliding a stack of books onto the highest shelf. More volumes are scattered around him, organized into half-shelved rows. The scent of parchment and candle wax has settled into the room.

Rhysand enters and stops short. A new mirror hangs near the door, tall and polished. Its presence is subtle, yet impossible to ignore. Rhysand stands before it, staring. Cassian turns to look, then stills beside him.

The mirror reflects the full room: desk, tapestries, flickering firelight, and Rhysand himself, immaculate clothes, gold thread at the cuffs, the line of his jaw too sharp from stress. His eyes linger on his reflection like he's seeing something unfamiliar. Or something he's been trying not to see.

Rhysand voice comes to Cassian's mind, quiet and dry, Wonderful. Just what I needed. A monument to unraveling.

Cassian doesn't answer aloud, he just moves past him. The room stills again.

Rhysand finally turns away from the mirror. His steps are smooth and practiced. He walks to the desk, lowers himself into the chair, and opens the book he'd left earlier.

Cassian settles onto the piled furs behind the desk and pulls one of his adventure novels into his lap. He doesn't open it yet. He just lets his spine loosen and his eyes rest, safe enough to pretend he's alone.

Zibri is the only sound, his soft footsteps and careful shelving. The office breathes around them. And for a little while, nothing has to hurt.

The office settles into an easy rhythm. The only sounds are the whisper of turning pages and Zibri humming faintly under his breath as he moves back and forth across the shelves.

Cassian lies half-curled on the rug, book open in one hand, the other cushioning his head on the pillow. He's not really reading. His eyes flick over the words, but his mind drifts with the warmth and stillness of the space. He hears the occasional scratch of Rhysand's pen or the faint sigh when he pauses too long over a paragraph.

Zibri doesn't interrupt. He moves with care, sorting books by color and size with a kind of methodical joy. Every time he finishes a shelf, he takes a step back, squints, adjusts something, then continues.

Rhysand stays at the desk, reading slowly, steadily. His posture has softened slightly. He's still straight-backed, still composed, but not braced anymore. The silence stretches long and unbroken. No urgent knocks. No demands. Just the weight of the day beginning to fade into the hush of pages and candle light.

Eventually, Zibri lowers a final book onto the lowest shelf, steps back, and looks around proudly. His chest rises with a deep breath like he's surveying a finished work of art.

Then he pads over to the desk, clasping his hands behind his back.

"All the items you selected have been delivered, and all the books are shelved," he says brightly, trying to keep his voice low but failing slightly, "What would you like me to do next?"

Rhysand looks up from his book. Blinks once. Then glances at the newly filled shelves, "You've done more than enough for today. You may be dismissed."

Zibri's smile flickers, "Saelwyn would not be happy about that..."

Rhysand gestures toward the sitting area, "Then use this time to relax. Sit. Pick a book. Read."

The brightness in Zibri's expression dims. His fingers fidget, "I… can't read," he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

There's a pause. Rhysand raises one brow, "I can't possibly have an assistant who's illiterate," he says evenly.

Zibri freezes, face crestfallen, "I'm sorry I'm sorry. Shall I tell Saelwyn--"

"I mean," Rhysand cuts in, "I'll have to teach you."

Zibri stares. His mouth opens, then closes, "You'll…?"

"Obviously," Rhysand says, already walking to the bookshelves, "I can't have someone misfiling reports because they thought ‘petition' said ‘potion'."

Cassian watches this unfold from the corner, amusement curling through his chest.

Rhysand scans the titles briefly, now understanding why the books are sorted by form and not content, then turns, "Have you seen any children's books?"

Zibri blinks, "Books for children?" He frowns in thought, "I don't usually pay attention to books. But… I remember once seeing something that looked like a play area. There were little chairs. Brightly colored banners. Maybe there?"

Rhysand nods, "Show me."

Zibri brightens, bouncing once on the balls of his feet, "It's a few floors down. Lots of turns. But I remember!"

Rhysand glances at Cassian, who's already setting his book aside, "Let's go," he says simply.

And just like that, they file out. The three of them -- High Lord, his barely leashed weapon, and a trembling assistant with a heart full of sunshine -- on a quest for alphabet books.

Zibri leads these three adventurers out of the office with a spring in his step, practically vibrating with the importance of his task, "This way, this way! I think it was near the lower west wing? Or maybe the bathhouse with the tiles shaped like turtles. But definitely this way!"

Cassian raises a brow as they follow him down the corridor, Are we about to get lost?

Absolutely, Rhysand answers amused, but I'm strangely optimistic about it.

They descend one floor. Then another. Then two more. Zibri chatters the entire time about how he once got lost in this hallway but found a secret garden, about how he accidentally broke stained glass art and replaced it with colored paper ("it was very convincing"), and how this place used to have far too many wardrobes.

At last, he stops in front of a set of wide double doors painted sky-blue and faded with time, "Here!" he says proudly, flinging the doors open.

It's a wonderland. The room is large, the stone softened with layers of old rugs and wall hangings. Shelves line every wall, stacked with books in every size and color, most of them with battered covers or missing corners. Wooden letters hang on strings across one side, and the walls are papered with faded illustrations: animals, stars, shapes, and colors. In one corner, a low table surrounded by bean cushions holds a stack of chunky, brightly drawn books. In another, a worn plush gryphon leans against a crate of wooden puzzles.

Cassian breathes out slowly, "I didn't expect to find something like this here."

Rhysand nods once, eyes scanning the space, "This palace is millennia old and used to be full and bustling with people before it was abandoned. A little of everything is likely here."

"It's perfect," he adds after a moment, "We'll take what we need."

They each grab a stack of books. Rhysand is more methodical, Cassian gravitating to ones with animals on the covers, Zibri grabbing whichever ones have the brightest colors. He keeps trying to balance too many at once and dropping them, muttering apologies each time.

They leave with arms full, trekking back up the stairs with uneven loads.

"Rhysand is a good teacher, Zibri," Cassian says, "He taught me and now reading is my favorite pass time."

Zibri stumbles on a step and gawks at them, "He taught you? I thought you were, you know, a pet."

"Rhysand can be very generous," Cassian whispers, "Stay on his good side."

Rhysand smirks without looking at them. Careful, he murmurs into Cassian's mind, You'll damage my reputation.

They reach the office again. Rhysand sets his stack down on the low table by the couch and begins sorting through the books. He selects one with bold block letters on the cover, 'A is for Asp'.

"Let's start here," he says, patting the couch cushion beside him.

Zibri flops down eagerly, legs crossed, eyes wide.

Cassian returns to his corner, smiling faintly as he flips open his own book. He can hear Rhysand's voice gently guiding Zibri through the first page, deliberate and calm.

"The letter 'A' makes sounds like asp, apple, above..." Rhysand instructs.

And for a little while, it's just the three of them. The crackle of firelight. The turn of pages. The shape of a letter held carefully in the mouth of someone who's never said it before.

Then a knock on the door: the escort for dinner. Rhysand sighs softly. Cassian groans.

Zibri grins, "Can I take the book with me?"

Rhysand nods, already rising to his feet, "We'll continue tomorrow, so don't forget to bring it back."

Rhysand walks towards Cassian and Cassian presents him his folded arms behind his back. He loosely buckles the binding around Cassian's arms.

"If he's so gentle," Zibri's curiosity gets the better of him, "Why do you tie him up?"

"She wants it," Rhysand replies. Zibri's wide eyes grow wider in understanding.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Zibri."

"Yes yes yes, tomorrow tomorrow. I'll see you tomorrow!" he clutches the book of letters to his chest.

The three of them exit the office. Rhysand and Cassian follow the escort while Zibri zips off down the hallway as swift as the wind and disappears.

The escort leads them through the hallways to the dining hall. The doors open on a whisper of magic and silk. Rhysand enters first, his expression carved from midnight -- composed, unreadable, shining faintly in the glow of a hundred candles. Cassian follows two steps behind, bare-chested, bare foot, and arms bound. He walks with steady, practiced grace. Chin lifted. Eyes low.

The dining hall has been transformed into a theater of elegance and spectacle. Banquet tables curve around the perimeter of the obsidian-tiled room like a wreath, their surfaces gleaming with silver, crystal, and deep red linens. Cushions and low-backed chairs are arranged for lounging and display. Platters of steaming food scatter the tables. Every detail designed to suggest indulgence, intimacy, and scrutiny.

The center of the room is left open to reveal an onyx dance floor. A string quartet of fae plays soft, eerie music from a low dais at the far end of the room. They wear masks that cover their expressions, turning them into ambiance instead of people.

The ceiling soars above, lost in shadow. It's enchanted to resemble a starlit sky. There's no moon, it is just the smear of stars across velvet dark. It is like looking up from the bottom of the world.

Cassian sees it all and says nothing. Rhysand doesn't pause, but he walks more slowly now, each step measured for effect. Around the edges of the ballroom, courtiers from Hybern in jewel-toned finery watch them arrive with open interest. Some laugh too loudly. Some whisper behind raised hands. At the far edge of the room, Amarantha's inner circle lounges like they belong to the room, because they do.

Cassian's own name is not whispered, but his presence is noticed. Bound. Beautiful. Dangerous.

Rhysand leads him across the ballroom toward the empty seat at the largest curved table. He doesn't glance sideways, but his voice touches Cassian's mind, low and steady, Eyes on me.

Got you, Cassian answers, no hesitation.

Good, Rhysand says after a breath, Then I can breathe too.

They reach the seat. Rhysand sits with a rustle of fabric. Cassian kneels beside him, back straight, chin slightly dipped. He does not meet the room's gaze. He doesn't have to. They've already seen everything they came to see.

The ballroom flickers with low candlelight and illusion-fed stars. Rhysand has one leg crossed loosely over the other, the image of calm indulgence as he feeds Cassian from his plate.

From the cluster of arriving courtiers, one peels away. Slender and elegant in slate-gray robes, he approaches with his wine already half-drained. His eyes don't stray to Cassian. They land directly on Rhysand.

"High Lord Rhysand," the courtier says smoothly, voice like polished marble, "You always look so composed. Almost radiant."

Rhysand inclines his head just enough to acknowledge him, the ghost of a smile playing on his mouth, "Radiance is a matter of lighting."

The courtier chuckles softly, "And angles, of course. But you've always known how to choose your angles." He lets that linger.

Rhysand's smile remains fixed, but his fingers tighten faintly on the goblet's stem. Cassian notices his fingers twitch.

The courtier steps closer, voice low now, not intimate, he's surgical, "Still pretending it doesn't bother you?"

Rhysand doesn't reply.

"All these eyes," the courtier continues, "Her eyes. His," He gestures vaguely at Cassian, "The way she drapes you in red and drags you behind her like a pet. And yet… you always smile. That must be exhausting."

Rhysand meets his gaze evenly, "I find smiling less exhausting than bleeding."

The courtier hums, noncommittal, "I wonder which one will make you crack first."

Rhysand doesn't answer. But Cassian feels the way his breath changes just slightly. The way his shoulders hold a little too still. The goblet in his hand doesn't rise for a drink.

The courtier smiles like someone who's made a note for later and bows with exaggerated politeness, "Enjoy your evening, High Lord." He drifts away.

Rhysand doesn't move.

Cassian gently presses, He thinks you're slipping.

He's right, Rhysand replies, too flat, But only by a bit.

Cassian leans in a fraction, not enough to be noticed, Then keep slipping in the direction you choose.

Rhysand finally lifts the goblet to his lips. Sips. Masks. But Cassian knows he's rattled. The smile, when it returns, is just a little too precise. And far too late.

The towering double doors at the far end swing open and every head turns.

Amarantha enters like a goddess descending. Her gown is crimson poured in silk, long enough to trail behind her like liquid flame. Her lips are the color of spilled wine. Her hair gleams. And her eyes are alight with pleasure.

She walks the room in a slow, deliberate arc. Flanked by two guards in matching scarlet and black, she moves like the eye of a storm, calm and terrible.

She passes tables. Touches shoulders. Leans down to whisper in ears. One Hybern courtier shudders visibly after she murmurs to him. Another flushes. She laughs quietly and moves on.

The crowd parts for her like a tide. She lets her fingers trail across arms, backs, necks. A female drops into a curtsy mid-laugh. A male from Eryx's unit doesn't dare meet her eyes. Her scent, jasmine and copper, lingers in her wake.

And then she reaches the high table. She steps behind Rhysand's chair, but doesn't look at him right away. Her nails skim lightly over his shoulder then stop at the base of his neck. She leans in.

"Let's see what poetry your lies can make tonight," she breathes.

Rhysand doesn't flinch. He inclines his head in quiet acknowledgment, his smile smooth as lacquered stone.

Amarantha steps around him and stops before Cassian, who keeps his head bowed. His arms are folded neatly behind him in their loose bindings, posture still and present.

She runs one finger up his jaw, slow and lingering, "So quiet, my King," she murmurs.

Cassian doesn't move. Doesn't answer. She smiles as if he did.

Then she takes her place at the center of the crescent-shaped high table. Her chair is larger, higher-backed, adorned with blood-dark carvings. She sinks into it like a throne.

Her goblet is filled instantly by one of the servants. She raises it up and doesn't immediately speak, but the room inhales.

Rhysand lifts his goblet in a mirrored motion, and a wave flows through the room of courtiers matching the movement with their own goblets.

"I believe," Amarantha says, voice smooth and lilting, "a celebration this fine deserves a toast."

Her eyes land on Cassian. Her smile sharpens, "And my King," she purrs, "has something to say."

Cassian freezes. His mouth parts, then closes. He looks at Rhysand, who doesn't turn his head.

Rhysand's voice is in his mind, calm and deliberate, Repeat after me. And breathe.

Cassian stands and murmurs of confusion change in to tittering of laughter. Cassian swallows. His heart is a drum in his chest.

Rhysand's voice floats through his mind slow and sure, feeding him words: To our Queen…

Cassian lifts his head, "To our Queen…"

… whose fire burns so brightly…

"… whose fire burns so brightly…"

… it scorches the world into obedience.

"… it scorches the world into obedience."

The words feel like ash in his mouth. But they're steady.

A murmur ripples through the crowd. Some chuckle. Some raise brows. One or two clap.

Amarantha raises her glass, delighted, "Beautiful," she says, her voice like honey on a blade.

She drinks and the court follows.

Rhysand's voice in Cassian's mind is softer now, You did fine.

Cassian exhales slowly, You got me through it.

We're not done yet, Rhysand returns, But you didn't crack.

Across the table, Vaelith watches them both too closely. Cassian lowers his eyes. Rhysand takes a measured sip from his goblet, fingers steady. For now.

Once the laughter from Cassian's toast has ebbed, Amarantha rises with her goblet in hand. The room quiets immediately, the air tightening with anticipation.

She smiles, slow and delighted, "And now, a gift for us all."

She turns toward where Rhysand sits in still perfection.

"Our High Lord has prepared a recital," she purrs, "A little piece of his heart… rewritten in my image."

A few courtiers chuckle. Rhysand inclines his head.

"Whenever you're ready, Rhysand dear," Amarantha says, returning to her seat with a graceful swish of red silk.

Rhysand stands slowly. He steps out onto the open obsidian floor, the candlelight painting his shadow behind him. Silence pools. All eyes are on him.

"I used to think love was stars and silence and the stillness of snowfall. But then I met fire.

"Fire that peels back your skin and shows you what's beneath.

"I learned to love the branding iron, The way it marks you, makes you hers.

"Love is cruel when it's true. You showed me that."

His voice cracked on the last phrase. He swallows and completes his piece:

"And I will never again mistake mercy for devotion."

There is silence. Utter stillness. Cassian holds his breath. Rhysand stands at the center of it all, a perfect lie sculpted in verse. But there was a crack and a pause. His body betrayed him.

Amarantha sees it. Cassian sees her see it. Her smile stretches wide, gleaming and hungry.

The room erupts in delighted applause. The courtiers laugh softly to themselves. A few tap their goblets against the table in appreciation.

Rhysand bows and walks back toward his seat with the same liquid grace as always. But Cassian catches the way his fingers twitch at his side. The tiny flex of his jaw. The breath he takes before sitting.

Still breathing? Cassian asks softly.

Rhysand's answer comes slower this time, Barely. But breathing.

Cassian doesn't reach for him, just leans slightly closer. Steady as gravity.

Across the room, Amarantha lifts her goblet and drinks. Her eyes glitter above the rim. She's pleased. But she's also waiting. And Cassian knows she smelled the weakness. She'll want more.

Amarantha walks slowly from her chair, scarlet skirts cascading like blood around her as she walks.

"Now," she purrs, sweeping her eyes across the gathering, "We dance."

The music begins at her signal, velvet strings are coaxing and warm. Courtiers part like petals in bloom as the center of the ballroom clears. She passes goblets and sidelong glances, until she reaches Rhysand.

"You owe me a dance, Rhysand dear," she says sweetly, tracing a nail down the front of his jacket.

Rhysand inclines his head, rising smoothly to his feet, "Anything to serve you, my Queen."

As he offers his hand to her, Amarantha's gaze drifts sideways.

"But what's a court without its King?" Her smile stretches, "He'll dance, too."

Cassian stiffens, still kneeling beside Rhysand's chair, bound.

Amarantha waves a careless hand, "Unbind him. I want to see how gracefully he moves."

Rhysand doesn't hesitate. He leans down and quietly releases the binding from Cassian's arms, his hands steady. No words are exchanged, only a glance. Cassian rises to his feet.

"Hmm," Amarantha muses aloud, "Who shall be the lucky partner?"

Her gaze flicks through the crowd and lands on a striking noblewoman in a golden corset and heels far too high for comfort. "You," she says with a gesture, "Dance with my King."

The woman's eyes go wide, "My Queen, I... I would be honored," she manages, but there's tension in her voice.

Cassian walks toward her. He doesn't know what he's doing, and she knows it too. They meet at the edge of the dance floor.

"I don't know how to dance," he says under his breath.

"I'm aware," she mutters.

The strings rise, ushering them forward. He takes her hand, large fingers wrapping awkwardly around her delicate ones. The other finds her waist. Her entire body flinches.

"I suppose it's foolish of me to ask if it's even safe to be this close to you," she hisses.

"You're safe with me. Except maybe from my clumsy feet," Cassian replies grimly.

They step into the rhythm. Or try to. Cassian's feet are too slow, too heavy. He steps left when she turns right, nearly collides with her as they spin. Her heel catches his foot and she stumbles.

The crowd is laughing. Whispered amusement, hidden smiles. Amarantha and Rhysand are watching while he twirls her across the floor in flawless, liquid circles.

The Lady clutches tighter at Cassian's shoulders, her breath short, "Gods," she mutters, "I'm going to die."

"You're not," Cassian says, but he doesn't sound sure.

She yelps as his foot brushes hers again.

From the center of the floor, Rhysand meets Cassian's eyes just briefly. He's still dancing, still perfect. But Cassian sees the strain. The mask, held just a little too tightly.

This is going well, Cassian sends dryly.

Flawless, Rhysand replies.

Amarantha laughs loudly, spinning in Rhysand's arms.

The Lady clinging to Cassian finally lets out a short breath, "No offense, but I hope I never have to do this again."

Cassian doesn't take it personally.

The music slows. They stumble through a final turn. Cassian releases her with a bow just barely graceful enough to pass. She curtseys, pale and shaken.

They return to their places. Rhysand sits first, cool as ever. Cassian kneels beside him again, cheeks flushed but spine straight.

"You both survived," Rhysand murmurs aloud, too softly for anyone else to hear.

"Small victories," Cassian replies.

Across the ballroom, Amarantha reclines on a cushion and claps once, delighted.

"What a charming display," she says, voice syrup-thick, "Shall we have another round?"

The musicians begin again, this time with something more lilting, sweet and glittering on the surface, but slow enough to grind beneath the court's skin.

Amarantha doesn't rise right away. Instead, she lifts a lazy hand toward the tall red-haired courtier nearest the wine table.

"You," she purrs, "Dance with me."

The male bows too deeply and hurries to the floor with her. They spin, dramatic and theatrical. She laughs when he nearly stumbles keeping up with her.

Cassian, still on the floor near Rhysand's empty chair, watches as the Queen twirls past them. He shifts his weight, savoring the rare comfort of his unbound arms.

When Amarantha finally releases her partner, she circles the floor again and returns to Rhysand, hand outstretched. He rises smoothly, takes her hand, and they dance and dance. Again, and again.

She calls for him every few songs, and in between, other brave souls ask for their turn with Rhysand. A pale court lady with silver-threaded braids approaches him during a pause. She's nervous, she blushing as she reaches for his hand. He dances with her gracefully, though Cassian sees how tight his jaw has grown.

Later, a second woman, bolder and laughing at her own audacity, pulls him toward the floor while Amarantha is locked in conversation. Rhysand obliges, bowing like a court-trained gentleman. She stumbles once and he catches her with a smile no one believes.

And always, Amarantha returns. Sometimes she spins in his arms like she's starring in a dream of her own making. Other times she clutches him close, whispering things that draw sharp smiles and hidden tension through Rhysand's spine.

Cassian doesn't move. He kneels, posture careful, watching. Each time Rhysand returns to his chair, it's only long enough to drain half a glass of wine before Amarantha calls him again. The dance floor churns with silks and jewels, but Cassian sees only the growing stillness in Rhysand's face.

Over time, laughter softens into languor. Movements slow. Even the cruelest games dull when weariness sets in.

Finally, Amarantha waves the musicians to a stop with one curl of her fingers. The final note fades like incense.

She turns toward the room, hair wild from motion, lips parted from laughter, "Well," she announces, voice sweet, "That was refreshing."

Her eyes flick toward Rhysand, "You dance beautifully," she says, "Almost as if you enjoy being watched."

She doesn't wait for his reply. She simply turns and begins walking toward the doors at the far end of the ballroom.

"Drink deeply," she calls behind her, "Dance well. And remember: your Queen is always watching."

Then, without a glance back, she beckons, "Come along, Rhysand dear. And bring your King."

Rhysand stands. Cassian rises beside him, stiff from kneeling, but still silent.

The ballroom doesn't hush when they leave. It purrs. It pulses. But the eyes that matter most follow them out.

Rhysand's mask across his face is still perfect, but Cassian, walking behind him, sees how his hands have started to tremble again.

She leads them through the bustling hallways, through her suite, and into her bedroom. Rhysand flinches when the door clicks shut.

She pulls on the collar of Rhysand's tunic, "You're slipping, Rhysand dear." He stills under her words.

She steps away, "Strip," she commands.

He tries to unbutton his tunic, and his hands tremble. He just pulls it off over his head to try to hide it. He uses stiff controlled movements to untie his pants and remove both them and his underwear in one swift movement.

He places the hand with the twitching fingers behind his back as he awaits Amarantha's next command.

"Both of you, come with me," she beckons, "I want to show you something."

She enters the bathing chamber and Rhysand and Cassian follow. She stops at the counter which has a large mirror behind it.

She gestures towards the mirror, "Look."

Rhysand and Cassian approach and look into the mirror. Cassian doesn't know what he's supposed to be looking at.

She moves to press herself against Rhysand's side and strokes a hand down his back, "Look at you, Rhysand," then turns to whisper in his ear, "You're slipping."

She steps back, "I want you to watch just how far you're slipping away."

She leans against the counter, "Cassian, fuck him. Make him cum. We're going to make him watch himself slip away."

Cassian's eyes widen and dart between Rhysand and Amarantha. Rhysand offers no support, he isn't even breathing, barely holding himself together.

"Go on, Cassian," she coos.

He clears his throat then asks softly, "Oil?"

"No oil." Fuck.

He moves behind Rhysand and runs his hands over the globes of his ass. He's incredibly tense. He's always so tense with Amarantha around. He takes a deep breath and runs his fingers down Rhysand's cleft and to his hole. He massages it gently.

Just focus on me, Cassian tries to soothe, it's just you and me.

Rhysand doesn't respond. Fuck.

He massages a bit more then tries to insert a finger and meets resistance. Fuck.

"Gods," Amarantha rolls her eyes and waves a hand flippantly, "You're always so slow. Just take your cock out and stick it in. It shouldn't be so time consuming."

No oil. No prep. She really wants Rhysand to suffer.

Cassian unties and lowers his pants. He takes his flaccid cock in hand and begins to stroke it. It's really not working because he's really not into this.

He takes a deep breath and thinks. They fuck all the time. He just fucked him three mornings ago. It was great being the one doing the fucking. He gets a little harder. To reverse the roles. To get back at Rhysand a little. He becomes more hard. I haven't forgiven him. I'm still angry. He's fully hard but lost in his thoughts. His audacity. His entitlement to do that to someone. To do it to me!

"Fuck him, not yourself, Cassian," Amarantha says tiredly.

Cassian snaps back and realizes he's been stroking his hardened length fervently. His old anger is freshly swirling in his chest. He looks at Rhysand's face in the mirror and his anger spikes.

He lines up his hips with Rhysand and positions his cock. He pushes forward and meets resistance. He pushes harder and Rhysand's hole starts to give way.

"Eyes open, Rhysand," she coos.

Cassian looks up in the mirror and sees the grimace on Rhysand's face. His lips parted, panting lightly.

"Go faster!" Amarantha slaps Cassian's ass which causes him to jerk forward. The two males gasp. Cassian because it feels great, so tight and so warm. Rhysand because it hurts, so violating and so overwhelming.

Cassian thrusts shallowly trying to work up to full depth. Rhysand clenches his fists so tight his knuckles are white and he digs them into the counter top. His brows are furrowed, eyes squinting, and nose wrinkled. His jaw is slacked open. Rhysand has no mask now. He's just trying to survive.

Just like I had to survive, thinks Cassian. He snaps his hips just once but it earns a yelp from Rhysand. I had to deal with this several times a day. every. single. day. He snaps his hips on each word. Rhysand punches the countertop. Cassian looks up and sees Rhysand's eyes have become red rimmed and drops of tears wet his cheeks.

He made me cry. He grabs hold of Rhysand's hips tightly as he thrusts. He liked to make me cry. He would put kohl on my eyes and make me cry then parade me around in my tear filled shame.

"Cassian! You look so angry!" Amarantha says delightedly. Cassian's eyes flick to her with an expression of hardened stone.

"Look at that face, Rhysand!" she turns Cassian's face towards the mirror, "Look how angry he is at you."

I am angry. Cassian snaps his hips and Rhysand yelps.

I'm sorry, floats through Cassian's mind with Rhysand's voice.

"Sorry is. not. enough." Cassian growls aloud as he snaps his hips. Rhysand sucks in a shuttering breath. Cassian looks up and sees Rhysand is dripping in tears and snot.

"Sorry for what, Cassian dear?" Amarantha purrs. He snaps his head towards her angrily.

"Is Rhysand sorry for breaking you?" Cassian grunts an affirmative and clenches his jaw as he continues his relentless pace on Rhysand.

"Oh, Rhysand! You regret the work you did?" she exclaims.

Rhysand's head falls and he sobs.

"Eyes on the mirror, Rhysand dear," she says sweetly, "You just must see this."

Rhysand looks up and sees his own deep frown from his gasping sobs. He sees his tear drenched cheeks and snot running down his lips. His chest convulses with his sobs. His nose and cheeks are red while the rest of him pales.

"Make him cum, Cassian," she commands.

Cassian yanks himself out and Rhysand punches the counter again in response. Cassian then sticks two fingers into Rhysand eliciting whimpers in response.

He looks for the prostate. He's just going to milk him like all the times Rhysand had milked him. He finds it and tries to reign in his anger so he can gently caress it just right.

Rhysand's breathing deepens. Cassian looks up to watch Rhysand's face in the mirror. His jaw is slack and panting. He sways a bit with each breath then suddenly he tilts his head back and groans as he shudders. His cum drips to the floor.

Cassian removes his fingers and stands aside. His anger still simmering but receding back bit by bit.

Amarantha presses up against Rhysand's side again and reaches an arm around to squeeze him into her.

"This is the real you, Rhysand," she says softly, "Look closely. This is you. A sniveling child. That's what you are when everything else is stripped away."

She steps back and lets Rhysand just stare at himself.

Cassian and Rhysand don't speak. Cassian reflects on his residual anger. Rhysand reflects on his true self.

Amarantha heads to the door, "Come out when you're done," then slips into the other room.

Rhysand continues to stare at himself. Cassian recovers first.

Ready? Cassian asks, but gets no response.

He looks up and sees Rhysand frozen with his eyes locked on himself. Cassian nudges Rhysand's side. He flinches and looks down where they had touched then back up to Cassian's face.

"I'm sorry," Rhysand whispers.

Cassian pushes himself off the counter, "I know," he whispers back.

Cassian walks out of the bathing chamber and Rhysand slowly follows, partially limping.

Amarantha is tucked into bed, "You two are dismissed," she says coolly.

Cassian swipes up his bindings off the floor and walks out of Amarantha's bedroom. He waits outside for Rhysand to slowly limp his way to his clothes and pick them up to bring them out. He shuts the bedroom door behind himself.

Rhysand continues to move slowly as he performs his ritual to redress and prepare for the walk back to their room. He grimaces when he bends. He looks in the mirror when he finishes dressing and sees his face is a wreck. He waves a hand and a glamor sets over him to hide the pain.

He jerks his chin to the door to indicate he's ready to go. They exit the suite. He's still slowly moving. He's sore, so they take a languid pace back to their room.

They enter their room. Rhysand walks in, takes two long strides then sinks to his knees with his head hanging, back hunched, and arms limp. Cassian shuts the door behind them and paces the room while running his hand through his hair.

I don't know what to say to you, echoes in both of their minds simultaneously.

Cassian stops pacing to look down at Rhysand coldly, and Rhysand looks up at him grief stricken. Cassian resumes his pacing, Rhysand drops his head again.

Cassian stops, flails out one arm and holds his heart with the other, "I have an impulse to apologize, but I'm not sorry!" he exclaims.

He paces again, then stops and speaks to the ceiling more softly, "There is a part of me that is satisfied that you can understand more deeply what you did to me."

He paces some more, sighs and kneels down in front of Rhysand, "As a ruler with a tenuous grip of morality, you need to understand your effect on people more clearly."

Rhysand limply nods his head. His breath shudders as he inhales.

Cassian gently lifts Rhysand's head with a finger under his chin, "Hopefully it's sinking in."

Rhysand nods and says hoarsely, "I hope so, too."

Cassian releases Rhysand's chin and sits back and crosses his legs. The two stare at each other.

"I have an impulse to say I'm sorry, too," Rhysand says gravelly, "But I know it isn't enough."

They stare at each other longer, then Rhysand lowers his eyes and says barely above a whisper "I'm just a sniveling child underneath it all."

"She was wrong about that." Rhysand looks up at him confused.

"Being hurt doesn't make you a child. You've been stripped raw, unused to feeling everything unfiltered. But the fact that you can survive it... unarmored..." he presses a hand against Rhysand's heart, "... is a sign of maturity."

They look at each other in silence, Rhysand's eyes rimmed red.

"Thank you," Rhysand whispers. Cassian merely nods.

Cassian taps Rhysand's knee, "Let's wash up."

They head into the bathing chamber together. Rhysand strips off his clothing while Cassian turns on the tub. The din fills the room. The crowd closes in. He's being made to dance but doesn't know--

The din stops. A hand is waving in his face. He looks and sees Rhysand's worried face.

"I think the noise of the tub is your trigger."

"Trigger... What?" Cassian steps back confused.

"You turned on the tub then froze. I had to turn off the tub to get you back."

Cassian is extremely confused. Rhysand runs his hands up and down Cassian's arms, "It's okay, we'll figure it out."

"Let's sit," Rhysand gently tugs Cassian down to sit on the floor with him, "Tell me about the book you're reading while I turn on the tub."

Cassian is puzzled but does so anyway. He tells Rhysand about the story of a fallen knight trying to rescue a kidnapped princess from a fortress hidden deep within the Wyrmwood. The tub fills up and Cassian remains black out free.

Rhysand squeezes his hand, "It worked," he jerks his head to the tub, "You go first."

"You sure?"

"I'd like to just relax, and you can go to sleep."

Cassian nods. He shucks his pants and gets in the tub. He washes his body, washes his hair, then gets out. While he's toweling off, Rhysand gingerly lowers himself into the water and leans against the back of the tub with his eyes closed.

Cassian brushes his fingers across Rhysand's shoulder as he passes by and out of the bathing chamber. He crawls into bed and snuggles into the soft fluffy blankets.

Cassian had always thought he’d been shattered beyond recognition. But watching Rhysand come apart, seeing the person who emerged, made him wonder if breaking wasn’t the end of identity, but the beginning of it.

Seeing someone else stripped to their rawest self made it easier to name his own. To understand what had been done to him. What he had survived. Rhysand hadn’t been reduced to nothing, he’d been revealed. And maybe Cassian hadn’t been destroyed either. Just… uncovered.

Chapter Text

Azriel waits kneeling in the corner hidden in the shadows. This is his nightly routine, just to be here with them. They're approaching and should be here any minute.

Amarantha opens the bedroom door and Rhysand and Cassian follow. Every night they come. Every night she tortures them. Every night Azriel hides in the corner bearing witness. He kneels here in the corner because the weight of the room is too heavy for him to stand. He comes because he feels they shouldn't be alone.

Rhysand is like a brother. He is a brother in every sense of the word except for blood. Rhysand's mother basically adopted Azriel. They were raised together. They're each other's longest, dearest friend. No, they are brothers. They are.

His brother, one of his two most dear people alive, is being tortured every night and he can't stop it.

Azriel is trying so hard to find a way out for them. He has been scouring the palace, mapping it, mapping their security, monitoring Eryx. He's searching and searching, trying to find a weakness. But he's only one person.

He could whisk Rhysand away, but then the Night Court would fall and Rhysand's soul would fall with it. In order to save Rhysand, he needs to protect the Night Court. And Azriel is only one person.

Amarantha has the two of them strip as she takes off her own clothes. Azriel's breath hitches. The only reason she has Cassian strip is to have him forcibly fuck Rhysand. His heart bleeds for what Rhysand needs to endure tonight.

Azriel has seen his brother endure the most excruciating situations. He's been fucked every which way, and made to fuck every which way. Amarantha finds how to make Rhysand cry and pushes on it again and again until he grows numb. Azriel had never seen his brother cry before. Not even after his mother and sister died. But Amarantha weasels into Rhysand's soul and pulls it out of him.

The three of them get on the bed. Amarantha props herself up against the pillows and headboard with her legs wide. She wants Rhysand to use his tongue and fingers. She wants Cassian to fuck him while he does it. Of course, she hopes he'll cry. She's always trying to get him to cry.

Azriel never even imagined the situations Amarantha has put Rhysand through. He thought he had sexual tastes that were a little extreme. But he's tame when compared to Amarantha.

He hasn't been with anyone since this all began. It's day one hundred and twenty one. He's been with no one, not sexually, not casually, absolutely no one. Rhysand erased him, and he needs to stay erased. He's alone and just watches and writes reports. Watching and writing and eating and drinking. Very little sleeping. How can he sleep after watching this? Of course he needs a drink after watching this.

Amarantha has tested Azriel's resolve to stay hidden. It's a regular occurrence that it seems she may just kill Rhysand. Often she suffocates him too far, but she's also bled him and drugged him to extremes. She likes to bring him to the brink then bring him back. Azriel fears one day she'll kill Rhysand by mistake and Azriel would have just knelt here and watched it happen.

Amarantha has been successful. Rhysand has started to cry. Azriel wipes a tear from his own face. He wants to jump out of the shadows and save Rhysand desperately. But it would be folly. His shadows can't even touch Amarantha. He doesn't know what would kill her and knows it would be a death knell to Prythian if Azriel was captured.

So he can't jump out. He can't. He has to stay here hidden in the shadows and silently bear witness.

"Don't you dare fucking stop!" Amarantha exclaims in between moans.

Azriel watches as her moans grow louder and then her body convulses and bucks as she holds Rhysand's head tightly to herself. She settles down then unceremoniously pushes Rhysand away. Cassian stills his thrusting waiting for her next command. Azriel digs his fingers into his thighs as he dreads what's next.

"Make him cum, Cassian," she says so easily for something so terrible.

Cassian extracts himself and switches to using his fingers inside. Rhysand is wearing a cock cage so the only way to make him cum is by milking his prostate. Rhysand is on his hands and knees and Amarantha holds his head up so she can watch his face. She loves to watch his face. Azriel can't stand to see him so wrecked. She wipes his tears and licks the salt off her finger.

A shudder wracks through Rhysand as he cums. He pants heavily and looks exhausted.

"Come here next to me, Cassian," she coos, "Come look at this face with me."

Cassian crawls across the bed and kneels next to Amarantha. Rhysand's cheeks and nose are bright red while the rest of his skin is pale. His face gleams from sweat, tears, and slick. His lips are parted and panting. His eyes are heavy lidded and dazed.

Azriel wipes his own tears again. He's so frustrated for feeling so helpless. He wants to reach out and just hug Rhysand.

"Isn't his face beautiful?" She purrs, "Let's make it more beautiful, shall we? Cum on his face."

Cassian slowly strokes himself and Amarantha guides Rhysand's head to be over his cock. Cassian closes his eyes and works himself.

Azriel doesn't know how Cassian does it. How can he possibly stay hard, let alone orgasm in front of her? He's seen Cassian get angry many times before. Maybe Cassian is pulling his old anger towards Rhysand forward so he can perform for her.

Azriel has no fucking idea what is going on with those two. He's watched them for 4 months straight, and still can't wrap his mind around their relationship. Rhysand held Cassian prisoner for two years, used him as a sex slave and made him act like a pet. He even paraded him around Illyria and the Hewn City butt naked. High Lords gathered to free Cassian, and then a year later he moves back in with Rhysand?! What is going on with these two?!

Azriel never asked. He figured it wasn't his business. Cassian had always been silent whenever Azriel visited the House of Wind. He'd just sit at Rhysand's feet allowing Rhysand to scratch his scalp or disappear elsewhere when Azriel was around.

Cassian grunts and ropes of cum shoot from his cock and drape lines across Rhysand's face.

"Yes, isn't he beautiful?" Amarantha admires, "One day perhaps I'll have him sit for a portrait. What do you think, Rhysand?"

Rhysand's throat bobs as he swallows, "I'm at your service, my Queen."

"So unwavering in your service," she runs a nail through the cum on his face, "One day I'll find your limit. One day, you will say no. And on that day..." she reaches a hand around Cassian's neck and slides a sharp nail straight across leaving a scratch behind.

Azriel doesn't understand why Rhysand is so incredibly devoted to Cassian. Although these past four months have shown that Cassian appears to be equally devoted. He's been there for Rhysand in all the ways Azriel wishes he could. He's bathed him, held him, and watched over him. He's been a steady presence for Rhysand.

What would have happened to Rhysand if he had to endure all of this alone?

Amarantha gets out of the bed and walks towards the bathing chamber, "You two are dismissed," then she closes the door behind her.

Rhysand slowly gets off the bed and Cassian helps him. Rhysand wipes his face with his hands then wipes his hands on his thighs. Cassian picks up their clothes and opens the bedroom door and Rhysand slowly limps out of the room. Cassian closes the door behind them.

Azriel doesn’t follow. He stays in the corner, breathing shallow, fists clenched. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep watching. But he knows he will. Because someone has to.

Azriel stands and steps back into the shadows and steps out into Rhysand and Cassian's bedroom. They have their ritual to make the trek back to their room, and Azriel has his own ritual to prepare the room for them.

Azriel can't help them. He can't save them. But he can make their sanctuary a little better for them.

He stokes the fire and adds another log. He replaces the spent candles and lights new ones. He fluffs their pillows. He ensures dry towels are in easy reach of the tub. It's not much, but it's all he can do.

He goes to the corner and stands, hidden in the shadows. The second phase of his nightly routine. Watching them bathe and decompress.

Rhysand and Cassian enter the room. Cassian closes the door and as soon as he turns Rhysand falls into his arms, clinging to him crying. It's rare when he cries here. But tonight was particularly degrading. Cassian just holds him silently, running soothing circles on Rhysand's back.

Azriel wishes he was the one holding Rhysand. He wishes he could be there for his brother. He aches to be the one holding him. But he isn’t. He never is.

Cassian never offers hollow platitudes. He never tries to fill the silence. He allows silence to sit, and doesn't speak frivolously. Azriel has been learning from him. Azriel is the quiet one because he doesn't want to engage, but Cassian is quiet because he is comfortable in silence. He only speaks when his words will matter.

"I did that to you," Rhysand says hoarsely. Cassian just nods.

Rhysand sinks to the floor and Cassian goes with him.

"What was I? What am I?" Rhysand looks at his hands like they could have answers.

"You were a product of your father and ancestors," Cassian says softly, "Now you are emerging into someone better."

"Is it really possible to change?"

"Your questioning is proof you can change."

Rhysand embraces Cassian again, "Help me?"

"I'll continue to help you," Cassian whispers. He caresses his hand up and down Rhysand's back, "Let's get you washed up, okay?"

Rhysand sits back and nods. They stand and head into the bathing chamber. Rhysand strips off his clothes, and Cassian tells him about the book he was reading today while turning on the tub.

They discovered loud droning noises, like a tub faucet running, trigger screaming black outs for Cassian, but if he has his mind on something else he can prevent it from happening. So, he talks about something that is away from this buried palace, fantasy lands of his adventure novels.

Rhysand sits in the tub and leans back against the side.

"Do you want me to stay?" Cassian asks.

"Please," Rhysand says softly.

Azriel has seen they alter their routine based on what they need that particular day. Sometimes Rhysand needs care, sometimes Cassian needs care, and sometimes they're both equally wrecked and they hobble together. Sometimes Rhysand sits in the tub alone for hours, long after the water has gone cold. And sometimes, like tonight apparently, he doesn't want to be alone.

Cassian sinks his hand into the water and takes Rhysand's hand. Azriel wishes he could take Cassian's place.

This shadowsinging gave him a place in the world, but now it's taken him out of the world. Before the shadows came to him he was just a youngling alone in the dark in a cell in the basement. Now he's alone in the corner in the shadows. He can't hide his abilities, the shadows are too unruly. So he has to hide from the world.

He can't be here for Rhysand because of these godsdamn shadows. He grinds his teeth.

Rhysand is in a stunned state tonight, so Cassian helps wash him. Azriel can't quite grasp how Rhysand is able to allow Cassian to wash him back there when Cassian was the one who wrecked him. But somehow Rhysand is able to see Cassian the person as separate from Cassian the tool of Amarantha's.

If he can see Cassian as separate from what she makes him do, maybe he can still see himself that way, too. He allows Amarantha to wield him like a tool. He's killed for her. Tortured for her. Spoken for her. That's not easy to do without those actions sinking into your identity. And yet, Rhysand is actively bucking against those functions from clinging to his self perception.

Azriel was a tool for Rhysand's father for hundreds of years. But he never separated his identity. He became his function. He feels in his bones that he is a torturer, an assassin, a spymaster. This is who he is. This is the tool Rhysand's father forged him into. He can't comprehend himself as anything else.

Rhysand is trying to choose who to become. He's not accepting who he is. He is choosing who to be. It's fascinating to watch.

Cassian helps Rhysand out of the tub and then towels him dry. He escorts him to the bed and tucks him in, then returns to the bathing chamber to bathe as well.

Azriel watches Rhysand curl up in the blankets, his eyes blank and glossy. He impulsively reaches out a hand just wanting so badly to be here for him. But he snatches his hand back. He was ordered to absolutely not be here. Rhysand was extremely clear about that. He's breaking his orders already. But he can't help it. Something deep inside of him drives him to be here and bear witness.

Cassian finishes washing up and joins Rhysand in bed. He curls up facing him. Rhysand scooches closer and runs his nose along Cassian's cheek, and then their lips join.

Azriel doesn't understand this, either. They don't seem to do this to raise passion levels. It does the exact opposite. Their heart rates slow, and their blood pressure lowers. Their muscles relax. And they usually fall asleep shortly after they start.

Gods, sleep. Azriel is a little envious as their kissing slows and their breaths lengthen. He watches them fall asleep every night, and is shocked every time they do. Azriel rarely sleeps.

Azriel shadow walks back to his apartment in the Hewn City. His apartment is so securely warded, he figured he didn't need to give it up. So far, no one has even knocked let alone attempted to enter. But they'd probably need High Lord Thalion himself in order to get through his wards. He's safely hidden here.

He swipes a bottle of whiskey off his mini bar, takes a swig, then plops himself down into his chair and stares into the fire. He can't sleep. He couldn't possibly after that. So instead, he just drinks until he passes out. Usually in this chair these days.

Gods, four fucking months. Who would have thought Amarantha would have Prythian by the balls for so long? He scrubs his face with his free hand. How much longer is this going to last? Fucking forever at the rate it's going.

A small group of them thought they figured it out. But they didn't. The plan was sloppy. It wouldn't have worked. Azriel had watched oh so hopeful that their idea would work, but even if he exposed himself and joined their plan it wouldn't have worked. They're lucky they got away with only being whipped.

So much has happened in the past four months. He takes another swig of his whiskey. Amarantha first sacked the capitol city of Winter, and every town and village on the march there. Just because Winter didn't give enough during the tithe. They didn't wantonly kill, instead they kidnapped. They captured entire towns and marched the inhabitants under the mountain. They're being kept in the lowest levels, mostly in the dark and barely fed.

Last month, she decided the Day Court lost the tithe. He takes several gulps from the whiskey bottle then shakes his head. This has nothing to do with the tithe. She's using it as an excuse, keeping the courts guessing that they could possibly save themselves. But Azriel foresees it: Every court is going to 'lose' the tithe so she can sack each capitol one by one.

It's brilliant, actually. If every court raised their armies simultaneously, they could swarm the mountain easily. But there is enough discord amongst the courts to prevent them from working together. If she wantonly sacked courts, it might convince the High Lords to work together. But because Amarantha gives the illusion of buying safety through the tithe, it keeps them from attempting to rebel together. He drinks some more. Fucking brilliant.

Day absolutely 'won' the tithe this time. They offered so much more in their detailed accounting than Autumn did. But, Amarantha said they didn't provide enough 'light' that they are holding back on their magical resources. So she marched on Day's capitol. Burned so many libraries. It was utterly tragic.

Day's citizens were swept up, too. Whole families were dragged into the dark like livestock. Nearly a thousand now rot in the lowest levels, crowded, starving, barely clinging to light. Azriel thought of trying to bring them food, but it's just too many mouths to feed, and he's having enough trouble feeding himself.

He can't access his bank accounts, so he has no money to buy anything. He has to steal his food. He steals his whiskey, too, but it's just from Rhysand's stores at the Moonstone Palace. Azriel has access to a lifetime supply of wine, whiskey, and bourbon just at the Moonstone Palace alone.

Azriel has tried not to hit the same vendor twice, but he's running out of vendors. And word has gotten around of a thief. He's going to have to start hunting for his food and raiding farms directly to expand his nutritional diet. He flicks his eyes up to his tiny kitchen. He's going to have to build a space to butcher animals soon. He drinks even more of his whiskey.

Like he needs even more work to do. Just being a one fae spy network keeps him busy enough as it is. He has been spending every day meticulously studying the palace under the mountain, it's wards, and it's security. He glances at his desk. It is piled high with piles of parchment detailing everything. His shelf is growing fill of notebooks for his raw fieldnotes, then he sorts and complies the information in organized categories. He scrubs his face. At the rate he's going, he's going to run out of places to steal parchment from. Am I going to have to make my own parchment, too? Fuck.

He doesn't have time for everything that is needed of him. He is constantly getting swarmed with information from his shadows and cannot keep up with documenting it all. Nighttime is the only time he gets some semblance of a reprieve because most of the people he's keeping tabs on are sleeping.

Except for Eryx. He's out cheating on his wife right now. Thanks for the imagery, I didn't need to see that. He swipes at the pesky shadow that just showed him Eryx's naked ass. Eryx needs to learn to keep it in his pants and just sleep like everyone else so Azriel can get some time undisturbed.

He stands and lumbers over to his desk while taking another swig from the whiskey bottle. He falls down into the desk's chair and tucks himself in.

Tracking Vaelith has been his top priority. Spymaster spying on the spymaster. She's the best source of information. He can just use her work for his own. Well, she's using his own work for her own. She's ended up uncovering many of the spys from his network and folding them into her network. Of course, they don't remember working for him. His spy network is falling apart from memory loss and disuse, and Vaelith is right there vacuuming up the pieces.

Vaelith is keeping a close eye on Rhysand and Cassian. She has meticulous logs tracking all their movements and even their emotional states. Azriel fudges some of her records or steals entire notebooks just to keep her off track.

But Vaelith is smart. She's getting suspicious of her missing notes. She's started writing in code, and the cypher is in her mind. Elegant. Obnoxious. Dangerous. She's good. Too good.

Her interest in Rhysand has lead her to have an interest in the Night Court. She's asking the right questions, which scares the fuck out of Azriel. She is asking why the land is so unpopulated, and why the only city is carved under a mountain.

The upcoming census has them all on edge. Rhysand has been trying to redirect eyes off the outer regions of the Night Court, and Cassian is helpless to do nothing but worry silently. Azriel can't do anything but worry, too.

Fortunately, their concern isn't over mapping the land, it's just been about mapping the abilities of the population. But even still, they may notice the Night Court is strangely depopulated. Fuck. How is Rhysand going to figure his way out of this one?

Azriel leans back in the chair and stares at the cracked ceiling overhead. The question echoes too loudly in the quiet. How is Rhysand going to figure his way out of this one?

He always does. That's the myth, right? Rhysand always has a plan.

But Azriel has seen his face when the doors close. He's watched him unravel night after night. There is no plan. There's endurance. There's performance. Everything else seems to have been pealed away.

And Cassian… Gods, Cassian. Azriel had assumed Rhysand shattered him years ago. But what Cassian has become is not shattered. It's something carved down to the bone and still standing.

Azriel swallows hard and gulps down more from the bottle. He doesn't remember when his hand started shaking, but now he needs both hands to hold the bottle steady. He stands up and paces the room.

Under the Mountain has become a machine. He expected chaos under a sadistic reign, but it is ordered. A structure of sadism. A nightmare clockwork. The punishments are regular. The salons, the tithes, the fucking games. She's built herself a court, piece by piece, and it runs because everyone's too afraid to stop it.

Four months ago, there was fire to push back and overthrow her. People met in secret, whispered resistance in shadowed halls. He kept tabs on them, hoping one plan might be worth risking his cover. But now? The whispers have dulled. Hope is thinning. Too many plans unraveled. And Amarantha smiles wider every week.

He turns toward the fire, “What's left of us?” he mutters aloud, voice rough and quiet, “When she has broken everything, what remains of us?” The shadows stir but offer no answer.

The courts are fractured. Thesan retreats into pacifism. Tamlin is too stupid to realize he's being given special treatment. Eris plays a long game Azriel can't decipher. Rhysand is keeping her eyes off the Night Court. And the rest… the rest are being fed into the mountain piece by piece. A thousand prisoners. Hundreds of families in the dark.

And he can't even bring them food! He smashes the bottle into the fire, and the flames burst out as it rapidly consumes the alcohol.

He's the best spy in Prythian, and he's feeding himself on stolen bread and stolen wine. Writing his reports by stolen candlelight, knowing no one's reading them but him. It's like he's become a ghost. He doesn't speak to anyone. Doesn't touch anyone. He exists only in margins, between shelves and shadows and ward lines no one else can see.

He's seen too much to believe in rescue. But he can't stop looking for one. There's something in him, something wild and stubborn and unbearably young, that still believes in breaking the system from within. That if he maps enough, watches enough, waits long enough, perhaps he'll find the loose thread that brings it all down.

But it's been four fucking months. And he's unraveling faster than Amarantha is.

He scrubs at his face again, tries to breathe. The fire is too warm now. His body hurts. His shadows whisper like guilt.

He glances toward the ceiling. There's no night sky here. Just stone. Just mountain. But he imagines the stars anyway. He imagines the wind. He imagines being more than a watcher.

"Fuck it," he marches over to the mini bar, swipes another bottle and shadow walks to a mountain top in Illyria. He pulls out the cork with his teeth and chugs from the bottle with his eyes fixed on Ramiel.

He stumbles forward as the relentless wind messes with his inebriated balance. He conquered that fucking mountain all by himself. Lord Devlon held him back a year to force he and Rhysand to do the blood rite alone.

Rhysand survived and made it to the top. And the following year Azriel did the same. The year before Rhysand's achievement, Cassian had also made it to the top. The only time there were ever two winners in a row, there were three in a row. And now those three have intertwined their lives.

We conquered Ramiel. We can conquer Amarantha.

"Your days are limited, Amarantha!" he screams into the wind.

He stumbles, but promptly drinks more from the bottle anyway. He flares out his wings and braces against the wind. It's been four months since Rhysand was able to fly. He had barely ever gone four days without flying before. Rhysand loves the sky as much as any Illyrian can.

Azriel doesn't fly much these days, either. It's too slow and visible to travel by flight, so he shadow walks everywhere. He shadow walks back and forth between the underground city and the underground palace. Underground, underground, underground. Illyrians aren't built to live underground.

Tonight. Well, tonight, he's just too godsdamn drunk to fly. He's too drunk to fly every night. So he'll just stand here and let the wind blast against his wings.

He falls to his knees and chugs from the bottle. He leans forward into the wind as the wind tries to push him back.

He looks up at the perfectly clear sky. The seam of the universe cuts across it. He reaches up a shaking hand and traces the seam. It feels less lonely while looking into the infinite. We're one dot amongst many trillions. What does it matter if I've spent four months alone?

Azriel laughs and laughs and wipes the laughing tears from his eyes. If he was asked five months ago how he'd feel about spending four months alone, he would have said it'd be a great experience. He has always wanted to get away from people. But he always had reports to give and spys to check in on. And Rhysand always insisted on having dinner with him regularly as just friends. And of course he has to visit with his mother.

But even this fucking loner has his limits. The first month was totally fine. After two months he started to long for someone to chat with as he drank in the evening. After three months his heart started to ache as he watched Rhysand and Cassian talk and soothe each other at the end of the day. Now every day he wishes someone, anyone, would just fucking talk to him.

He takes a few more gulps from his bottle, then stands and shadow walks back to his apartment. He plops the bottle onto his mini bar then stumbles over to his bed. He falls face first on top of it.

He can't even go to a pleasure house and buy company. He misses having someone occasionally in his bed. He used to hate when someone spent the night, and now he'd give anything for someone to spend a night with him.

Rhysand and Cassian's intimately close relationship allows them to hold, caress, and even kiss each other. Azriel remembers a former lover who had wanted to hold, caress, and kiss him. He thought it was suffocating at the time. But now, gods, but now his body aches for it. There are days he wishes he could step out of the shadows and crawl into the bed between Rhysand and Cassian and have them hold him to sleep.

It's just him and his shadows again, buried in the dark. Underneath it all, is he still just that child held in a cell in the basement longing to belong to the world in some way? He had so much longing he eagerly went with his brothers when they let him out, even though he knew they'd just hurt him.

He brings a scarred hand in front of his face. He remembers that day so clearly. He remembers being so desperate for contact that he was thrilled his brothers wanted to play with him.

But what really churns his stomach is remembering how months and years later, he still wished for his brothers to come and ask him to play. They burned the skin off his hands. He remembers screaming and rolling in pain. And yet he still wanted to play.

Back then, he just didn't want to be alone anymore. And right now, he just doesn't want to be alone anymore.

Without others he's been reduced to watching and documenting. Is that all he is? When everyone is pulled away from him, he's just the watcher. His place in the world is to bear witness.

 

***

 

Azriel wakes slumped sideways in his bed, still wearing most of last night’s clothes. The whiskey bottle from the mountaintop sits uncapped on the mini bar. He blinks blearily at the ceiling, throat dry, head heavy.

His shadows are already moving. Whispers about patrol rotations. A change in the guard outside Amarantha’s suite. Vaelith crossing paths with Rhoven near the eastern records hall. He doesn’t move. He lets the information pass over him like waves.

Eventually, he sits up. Every joint aches. His wings are stiff. He doesn’t bother lighting the hearth. The room is cold.

He eats a piece of hard bread he stole three nights ago. It’s stale. He chews slowly anyway.

He makes his way to the desk. There’s a half-drawn map, notes about passageways, about supply chains, about nothing useful.

He logs everything the shadows brought him during the night. Details of guard rotations. Snippets of overheard conversations. New routes through the mountain’s lower halls. He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t second guess. This is the part of himself that hasn’t gone quiet.

No one will read this. But it has to be written.

He’s filled four pages and sorted two new files. He feels the weight of it in his chest, not accomplishment, just continuation.

He closes the journal, tucks his shadows close, and mutters aloud for no one but the stone walls to hear:

“I used to think I was the one who made the silence. Maybe I’m just the one who lives in it.”

The shadows stir again and whisper in his ear. Rhysand and Cassian have woken up.

Azriel shuts his eyes. He breathes in. Out. Then picks up his journal, pen, and inkwell and shadow walks to the palace under the mountain.

He enters an unused room that he illuminates with his syphons. He sits at the desk, sets up his inkwell and opens the journal. He comes here during the day so he receives information from his shadows faster.

He starts to write in the glow of the blue light:

-------------------------

Day 122.

-------------------------

Chapter Text

Cassian wakes curled around Rhysand's side, their fingers still laced together. There's not much of Rhysand he can touch without hurting him. He glances down at Rhysand's bare chest to see the damage. Amarantha has left him with slices all across his chest, abdomen and thighs, and bruising everywhere, even down his arms.

Last night, Rhysand broke down so hard he couldn't speak. Not even Cassian had ever seen him come undone like that, but Amarantha has gotten good at breaking Rhysand apart. It's almost like he's been conditioned now to be laid bare once that bedroom door clicks shut.

Rhysand groans and his eyes flutter open. Cassian caresses his hand to let him know he's awake, too.

"Hey," Rhysand croaks.

"Hey," Cassian says softly, "How are you feeling?"

He groans, "Like I've been sliced and tenderized."

"Emotionally?"

Rhysand sighs deeply. He goes to move his other arm but then winces and lets it rest back at his side.

"It's effortless for her now. She pulls me apart like toppling a stack of bricks," his breath hitches, "But what's getting to me is that in all that wreckage I'm seeing parts of myself that..." he says just above a whisper, "... that I didn't want to admit were real."

Cassian squeezes Rhysand's hand. There's nothing really for him to say. All they can really do is be there for each other.

Rhysand's breathing became tense during his confession so Cassian waits for Rhysand's nerves to settle back down and get into a relaxed state again.

Cassian sits up, "Let's get you to the healer."

Rhysand nods and grimaces as he sits up. He slowly swings his legs off the side of the bed.

Cassian hops up and puts on his pants. He goes to the wardrobe and takes out a button up tunic and loose pair of pants and brings them to Rhysand. Rhysand tries to bend to put on his pants but stops and grimaces. Cassian kneels in front of him and helps Rhysand step into his pants and pull them up. Cassian can't help noticing the raw gouges along his hips and thighs, too close to tender places, too many to ignore.

Cassian helps Rhysand get his bruised arms into the shirt and buttons it up for him.

Rhysand slowly walks to the door. Cassian can't imagine how excruciating it must be for Rhysand to move his hips right now.

He opens the door, lets Rhysand ease through it, and shuts it quietly behind them. He folds his arms behind his back and hopes no one notices that he's not actually wearing any bindings. Rhysand's arms are just too sore to put on that show this morning.

They walk excruciatingly slowly to the healers. Cassian wishes he could just drag Rhysand on a stretcher. But Rhysand has to make this walk on his own two feet. He's pretending he's taking a leisurely stroll with his hands in his pockets.

They enter the infirmary and see the healer standing at the foot of a cot taking down notes. On the three cots in front of him are the whipping victims from yesterday, their backs bandaged and covered with poultices.

The healer sees them come in and gives a grim smile, "You're later than usual. I was beginning to think she let you off easy last night."

"The opposite," Rhysand replies smoothly, "I'm covered in slices and bruises from my shoulders to my calves."

"I see," the healer turns and hangs the board of notes back on the foot of the cot, "Strip and lay down on the procedure table."

Cassian immediately steps in front of Rhysand and starts to unbutton his tunic. He drapes it on the chair while Rhysand slowly unties his pants. Cassian returns and crouches in front of him and starts to carefully lower Rhysand's pants.

The healer clears his throat, "Forgive me. Four months of seeing the two of you interacting here breeds questions."

Cassian freezes and shifts his eyes up to the healer. His throat bobs as he swallows.

"And what questions would those be?" Rhysand asks smoothly.

The healer narrows his eyes at them, "Your pet here seems to care deeply for your well being," he cocks a hand, "For a former warlord, that seems... odd."

"My breaking process is quite effective," Rhysand says dismissively.

The healer hums his doubtful understanding. Cassian returns to helping Rhysand step out of his pants then helps the nude Rhysand get up onto the procedure table.

The healer pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, "I assume this is... mandated."

Cassian shifts uncomfortably as he's clearly referencing the cock cage.

Rhysand clears his throat, "Yes."

"I should cease asking questions," the healer straightens and the mask of professionalism slides across his face.

The healer examines Rhysand's injuries. He has slices and gouges across his chest and abdomen, deeper punctures on his thighs and groin. Bruises bloom everywhere -- shoulders, arms, calves -- like he was worked over with precision.

"Your injuries are too extensive to heal before breakfast," he presses gently to a bruise on Rhysand's ribs and he hisses with a wince, "I don't even think I could finish this by tomorrow morning, either," he shakes his head, "If she adds more tonight, we may never catch up."

Cassian's heart clenches. Those chances are slim.

"I'll close the bleeders, then focus on maximizing your range of movement," says the healer, "We'll just have to see how far we get." Rhysand nods.

The healer sets to work closing Rhysand's bleeding wounds. He then works on his hips, knees, and elbows so it's easier for Rhysand to move, and his ribs so it's easier to breathe.

A servant comes in bringing the healer breakfast.

"That's our signal that time is up. You need to get going. Hopefully you can move easier today. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

Rhysand nods, "Thank you."

He sits up slowly and swings his legs over the edge. He's unable to hide his grimace. Cassian goes to help him put on his pants, but Rhysand waves him off.

"I want to know how much I've got to fake today," he takes his pants and slowly bends over to put them on. He is moving easier, but still slowly. He's able to move his arms enough to put his shirt on himself.

They say their final goodbyes to the healer and head back to their room. Rhysand is walking quicker, but not at his normal brisk pace.

Back in their room, Rhysand heads straight to the wardrobe while Cassian settles on the edge of the bed to wait. Rhysand moves slowly as he sorts through the wardrobe and pulls out an outfit. He's running a subcommittee meeting today and needs to look just right.

Rhysand dresses in silence. Cassian watches without a word.

While Rhysand is tying his shoes, he speaks up, "You're quiet."

"You have enough noise in your head," Cassian says softly, "You don't need more from me."

Rhysand nods slowly. "You've gotten to know me well." Cassian smirks.

Rhysand loosely wraps the bindings around Cassian's arms so they look secure, but Cassian can slip out of them easily. They're only heading into Rhysand's office, where Cassian plans to curl up in the corner with a book while the meeting runs.

Rhysand and Cassian arrive in his office and Zibri is already there with a breakfast tray. One tray, but two plates of food. They've taken to eating in the office so they can more easily prep for meetings that inevitably start after breakfast, like the subcommittee meeting today.

Over the months Zibri quietly changed how he served them breakfast. First he provided one plate with double portions, then added an extra empty plate, then just started preparing a second plate of food. Rhysand and Cassian silently adapted to these changes, and now the routine is for Cassian to sit on his furs eating from his plate of food instead of Rhysand hand feeding him.

They're still feeling out if Zibri is trustworthy. They don't want to talk about openly defying Amarantha's expectations of Cassian just in case Zibri is spying or even may mistakenly let something slip. They've talked about it and decided the small comfort of allowing Cassian to eat by himself privately around Zibri was a low level risk.

"Good morning good morning good morning!" Zibri cheerily exclaims in his typical bright manner. He really is a light in this darkened palace.

"I've been working to get everything ready for today's meeting."

Cassian sweeps his eyes around the room and sees that Zibri has been working. The low lying table is prepared with four writing boards, a pile of parchment, three inkwells, and four pens. Rhysand's desk is covered in piles of parchment. Zibri explains how he organized the documents when Rhysand approaches the desk.

"Your work is satisfactory, Zibri," Rhysand says coolly. What he actually means is, 'Wow, you're impressive'. But he needs to keep that detached mask even around Zibri. Cassian suspects Zibri is understanding Rhysand better because he beams proudly at him.

Cassian takes his plate and settles on his furs in the corner listening in on Rhysand and Zibri's conversation. Rhysand is giving Zibri a run down of his expectations of him during this meeting. Primarily he's to be available in case anyone needs something fetched. In his downtime he is to practice taking notes by listening to the meeting and writing down what he thinks is important. Rhysand will take his own notes, but has been working on Zibri's skill development by encouraging him to practice various reading and writing tasks.

Zibri's reading and writing skills are steadily improving. He still needs heavy practice, but he's getting plenty of it every day. Rhysand has gotten too busy to work with him regularly, so Cassian has taken over being Zibri's guide on his quest for reading proficiency. They've become rather close as a result.

They finish up breakfast and Zibri brings the tray and dirty plates back to the kitchen.

"It's just Prythian folk, so this should be a more laid back meeting." Cassian nods.

Rhysand goes through the piles on his desk as he prepares for the meeting. Rhoven is forging ahead on Amarantha's desire for a full accounting of the people of Prythian and their powers. Rhysand has been appointed to develop and propose how to verify skills and handle false reporting. As Rhoven said, "I'm sure the Hewn City is filled with census dodgers."

The first committee member arrives, some delegate from Dawn. Rhysand rises, greets her and they get comfortable in the sitting area waiting for the other two members to arrive.

Cassian settles in and gets lost in his book. It's nice that it's just Prythian delegates this time so he can just read. He and Rhysand have decided it's too risky to have him unbound in front of Hybern-associated fae, let alone engaging in a leisure activity. But today should be a nice relaxing day for him.

Zibri returns and sets up a note taking area for himself at the desk. Then the other committee members arrive: someone from Summer and Morrigan representing Autumn. Cassian is a little tense about her showing up. She clearly cares about Cassian a lot, but she doesn't understand why Cassian went back to Rhysand and they haven't had an opportunity to talk freely.

They start the meeting with just a little seditious commentary complaining that this census is taking place at all, and why should they care because Amarantha isn't going to last. Fortunately, they got to real work discussing their own court's methods when there's a knock on the door and someone just comes waltzing in.

"Rhysand! You're running the meeting on how to verify census data right now, correct?" Rhysand nods.

"Rhoven assigned me to join and provide insight on how Hybern handles verifying its reports."

Cassian immediately hides his book under his pillow and folds his arms behind his back. Fuck!

"A late addition," Rhysand taps a finger on his writing board, "Unannounced."

The Hybern delegate steps further into the room, "Take it up with Rhoven. He just assigned me now."

Rhysand gestures to one of the chairs facing his desk, "Pull one of these chairs over to join us."

The delegate approaches the desk and eyes Cassian. Fortunately all he can see is a male sitting cross-legged in a corner with his arms behind him. The chair scrapes across the floor as he pulls the chair to the seating area.

Cassian leans back against the pillow and tilts his head back to rest on the wall. So much for my peaceful day. Godsdamnit.

The delegate's back is towards Cassian, and the book is calling his name like a siren's song. I could be reading right this second and he wouldn't know! But what if he stands up. Would I be able to scramble and hide the book and my arms in time? Fuck, I don't know.

Cassian imagines himself groaning in frustration. His boredom isn't worth spreading whispers that could lead to Amarantha asking questions. Fuck. Just a boring ass day today then.

He watches Zibri struggle to write notes. He's really just practicing his writing and listening skills, not trying to provide anything useful for this meeting. Cassian listens to the light scrape of the pen as it passes over the parchment. It surprisingly lulls him to sleep.

 

***

 

"Cassian. We need to talk," says a female voice.

He startles awake at the sound of his name. He had inadvertently fallen asleep sitting up against the wall.

He looks up. Zibri is still seated at the desk, and Morrigan stands behind it, arms folded. Rhysand hovers a few steps behind her. Cassian stands and rubs his arms. He sees the three other delegates have left.

"You want to talk to me?"

"Cassian, are you okay?" she says in an authoritative sternness.

A strange tingling sensation comes over him and he starts to speak without thinking, "I'm here, no one here is okay. Otherwise, I'm merely bored but okay." Why did I just tell her I'm bored?

"Do you want to be with Rhysand?"

The tingling wave across him occurs again, and again his mouth starts moving without thought, "I'd prefer we were back in the House of Wind together." Why am I talking like this?

Morrigan's jaw drops. She looks at him puzzled, like an enigma.

Rhysand clears his throat, "We appreciate that you have Cassian's best interest in your heart, Mor."

Morrigan whips around and stares down Rhysand furiously, "You actually thoroughly broke this poor male's soul. I can't believe you would do such a thing to someone," she grinds her teeth then exclaims, "We were supposed to be better than our fathers!"

"I know I have failed Cassian horrifically, and have vowed to always protect him forever more," Rhysand says solemnly, "And I know it isn't enough penance."

"You shattered someone to make him your pet, and as recompense you get to continue to keep him as your pet because he's shattered?" Morrigan flails her arms outwards, "How is that justice?!"

"Cassian is not my pet any more. My primary concern is with his happiness," he shakes his head and says softer, "I don't know how justice can be achieved."

She turns back to Cassian, "Do you know why he took you?"

"To prevent another civil war with Illyria."

She hums, "Rhysand, tell him exactly why you took him."

His pupils dilate and starts talking in an eerily calm tone, "To prevent another civil war with Illyria. And because I was excited at the opportunity to do anything I wanted to a person."

Rhysand's eyes widen and he steps back with his hand on his heart.

Morrigan smirks, "She's weakened you so much I can pull the truth out of you."

She steps closer to him and he steps back, "How did you feel about breaking him?"

"I loved it, I still fantasize about the things I did to him," he says calmly.

Rhysand gasps and walks backwards, panicked, "Mor, please, stop."

"And what are your true feelings about Cassian now?"

"He's my rock in this darkness. I wonder if I'm in love with him." Rhysand slaps his hand over his mouth and continues to step backwards.

Morrigan pauses at that confession and cocks her head, but Rhysand interrupts, "Mor, please," his eyes line in silver, "Please stop."

Her face hardens and she growls, "Did you stop when Cassian would ask you to stop?"

"No," he backs into the wall.

"And how did you feel when you went against his wishes?"

"Powerful. Possessive. His whole being was all mine." A tear falls down his face.

Cassian has had enough. He gets out from behind the desk and says sternly, "Please stop, Morrigan."

She turns and looks at him sympathetically, "What do you think of Rhysand now that he's confessed his truths?"

The tingling wave returns and Cassian's mouth speaks, "I feel the same because I already knew all of this."

Her eyes widen and her mouth gapes, "I... I don't understand."

Cassian sits on the couch and pats the seat beside him to invite Morrigan to sit. She sits. Rhysand slides down to the floor with his face in his hands. Zibri watches in confusion.

"Both Rhysand and I changed over the experience," he places a hand over Morrigan's hand, "I'm not a shattered soul. I'm not damaged. I just have a better understanding of myself and my place in the world than I used to."

"But why go back to him?" she asks softly.

"I wasn't happy living on my own and I couldn't find a situation where I could be happy. Rhysand and I talked extensively and I believed I could be happier if we lived together with strict boundaries on our relationship and interactions. I was right, I've been happier."

Morrigan furrows her brow and thinks for a time before she continues, "Think about it from our perspective. We all got together to free you. We felt your treatment was so despicable and horrendous that we gathered all the High Lords for the first time in centuries just to free you. Do you realize how momentous that was?"

Cassian shakes his head.

"A High Lord died as a result of the gathering. You made history, Cassian. Your story will be remembered and retold and it's going to leave everyone forever more questioning why you returned to Rhysand."

Cassian's jaw drops. He never considered how other people would feel about his decision. He was just thinking about himself, his needs and his desires.

The room tilts. The weight of her words feels like stone dragging him under. He can't breathe through the thought of all those eyes.

He swallows and asks hoarsely, "History will question me?"

Morrigan nods.

Cassian's breath deepens. An uncountable amount of people questioning him. Forever more. Generations and generations questioning and analyzing his decisions. He just wanted the stress to go away. He just wanted his peacefulness back. He just wanted to be happy. But all these people crowding him surrounding him judging him questioning him pressing in on him all these eyes on him and hands pulling on him and people calling his name and shaking him.

"Cassian!" a male and female exclaim simultaneously.

He blinks furiously and sees Morrigan and Rhysand struggling against each other to get to him.

"What happened?" Cassian realizes he somehow got onto the floor.

"You blacked out again," Rhysand says soothingly.

"Again?" Morrigan asks incredulously, "How long has he been blacking out?"

"A couple months," Rhysand says dismissively as he kneels to Cassian's side.

"What did you do to him, Rhysand?"

He rolls his eyes and looks up at her with disappointment, "You've only been here a few times. You've not even seen everything that happens here. We're here every single day, all day..." he swallows and says hoarsely, "... and all night," his jaw twitches angrily but makes his voice smooth, "Trauma is bound to occur."

She kneels down and says sympathetically, "What happens here, Rhysand."

He shakes his head, "Not now, Mor. You've caused enough stress today. Please leave."

Her eyes widen and she looks to Cassian. He nods his head, "Please, can we have some time?"

Morrigan stands and looks down at the wreckage she caused. She takes a step backwards, "I'm sorry. I was just so confused."

"We understand, you worry about Cassian," Rhysand says, "We appreciate that you care." Cassian nods.

"It's just..." Morrigan grips her heart, "It's just every time I see you on the floor and your arms bound my heart hurts so much for you."

Cassian nods, "I understand. But can we have some time to recover right now?"

Morrigan nods. She turns and takes a few steps towards the door then turns back. "I'm sorry, I thought I was helping," she practically whispers then quickly slips out the door.

Rhysand stays staring at the door where Morrigan just was.

"I'm going to get you some tea," Zibri says then zips past them and out the door.

Rhysand slowly turns his head to face Cassian, his eyes rimmed in silver. "I'm sorry," he says in a soft hoarse voice.

Cassian sits up on the couch and pulls Rhysand to sit with him. They just hold each other with their foreheads pressed together.

"You didn't say anything I didn't already know," Cassian whispers, "I've lived beside those truths for years."

Rhysand is silent for a time before he says, "I didn't..." he swallows, "I didn't really know."

Cassian pulls back to look at him, "You hid hard truths from yourself." Rhysand nods.

Cassian holds him again and continues in his soft voice, "You see them now, and that's good."

Zibri comes back and surprisingly slowly walks through the room to the low lying table and puts down the tray with a steaming tea set. Rhysand and Cassian break their embrace and somberly watch Zibri. He moves with exaggerated care, like he's afraid even his footsteps might shatter the silence. He pours two cups of tea and offers them.

They each take a cup and wrap both hands around it. They don't sip right away, but enjoy the aroma and warmth.

"I picked chamomile. To calm the nerves," Zibri says in an uncharacteristically soft voice.

"Thank you," Rhysand says.

Zibri stands awkwardly while Rhysand and Cassian sit in stunned silence. Zibri eventually sits in a chair and vibrates a knee up and down as he tries to be patient.

History is judging me, Cassian feels like he's going to be sick. Why can't I live my life for just myself? Why do I need to have history stick its nose in my business?! He clenches the tea cup tightly then takes a deep inhale of the steam and relaxes his fingers.

Rhysand puts down his cup and stands, "I'm going to go wash my face and freshen up," he says coolly then is out the door.

Zibri's knee vibrates even higher, then stops. "I don't understand either," he finally says.

Cassian hums questioningly.

"You and Rhysand. I don't understand," he lowers his eyes and wags a foot, "He's been nice to me. But he used to be terrible to you. Why are you so kind to him?"

Cassian sighs heavily and sits back in the couch. He takes a few deep breaths and sips his tea.

"Yes, it's true he treated me like a pet and sex slave in the beginning," Cassian says lowly. Zibri stills and his eyes widen.

Cassian sips some more tea as he thinks of his words to explain, "But as you've noticed, he is also kind and attentive. At the end of my two years of captivity we had actually created a peaceful life together."

"How could you forgive him, though?"

"I haven't."

Zibri's brow furrows, "How can you care about him without forgiving him?"

He holds his cup with two hands and breathes in the aroma as he speaks, "I don't dwell on it. I was only thinking of ridding myself of stress and satisfying my wants and my desires. I figured out how to shape Rhysand into someone who could give me what I needed."

He looks up at Zibri, "I wasn't thinking of anyone else. Only what I wanted," he shrugs, "And I guess I don't have a drive for revenge."

Zibri shakes his head, "I really don't understand."

Cassian frowns, "And apparently history won't understand, either."

"No," Zibri shakes his head, "I wish it could. I really do."

A heaviness lands like a boulder on Cassian's heart. He becomes light headed so he lowers his arms to rest his cup in his lap.

Rhysand comes back in, the fringes of his hair slightly damp. He flicks his eyes back and forth between Zibri and Cassian, then he straightens as his courtier's mask slides into place.

"So much for lunch. They should be back soon. Let's get ready."

Cassian puts his cup back on the tray. Zibri quickly picks up the tray and exclaims, "I'll bring this back!" and dashes out.

"Are you alright?" Rhysand asks.

"No, but I'll get through the day," Cassian replies, "Are you alright?"

"No," he says, "But I'll get through the day."

Cassian takes a deep breath and nods. He stands and lays down on the furs and rests his head on the pillow. He's exhausted. This has been a lot. He rubs his chest absentmindedly. Gods, my heart hurts. He grimaces. It really fucking hurts.

History is going to question me. His breaths deepen. Why does that hurt? I thought I had shame stripped away from me. I've had my shame paraded in front of crowds and discovered it isn't important to hide from shame. So why does this hurt? And hurt so much, gods!

I've stopped caring what others think of me. At least, I thought I did. He pictures Morrigan's pained face. Aíne's sympathy. Helion checking in on him. Thalion studying his face looking for answers. I care what they think. Fuck. I care about what they think of me.

Alright, I still care about what people who care for me think of me. Why does history judging me seem so terrifying? Aren't future generations just another version of a crowd's stares and insults? He rubs his eyes then looks at the ceiling.

And he sees the Hybern delegate out of the corner of his eye. Fuck! He shifts his gaze. He's staring at me. Fuck! He sees I'm not bound!

The delegate cocks his head to one side, narrows his eyes at Cassian and then turns back to the sitting area.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Rhysand, the Hybern guy saw me with my arms clearly free.

Don't worry about it now, Rhysand's voice says, but don't read your book. Just stay down.

Gods, I'm so upset I'm losing it. Now I've risked trouble with Amarantha because I can't get my shit together. Stupid stupid stupid.

He flashes back to his time trying to make it on his own and how he kept calling himself stupid. Am I regressing? Gods, the stress. He rubs his sternum hard.

I just want to live my life without others meddling. I just want to live my life without history casting its critical eye on me. There is no way history will ever understand me, because I have only a tenuous grasp of understanding myself. He grits his teeth in frustration.

I wanted the pain to go away. I wanted to feel calm and settled again. I... I wanted to feel cared for again.

Rhysand cares for me in just the way I need. I tried to find it in others. But people wanted me in charge. Or they wanted to use me and discard me. Or they wanted to hurt me just for the sake of hurting me. Or they wanted me to do stupid shit like call them 'sir' or 'master'.

What really got me is they saw this as playing. Something to do temporarily then live a different life. This isn't a game for me.

I also couldn't find a single person stronger than me.

It doesn't feel the same to pretend to be wholly cared for. There's something about being actually cared for by someone more powerful than me. It gives me this settled feeling, like I can finally breathe, finally stop bracing for impact. This pure state of emotional freedom because someone is there for me fully in every sense. It's like... like I can find complete rest.

I can barely grasp this understanding and hold on to it. How will history ever understand?

History won't understand. It never will.

I thought I understood myself. That was the point, wasn’t it? Everything I endured was supposed to strip away the lies. All these years building a sense of self, and now it crumbles under a single phrase: history will question me.

He clutches the fur between his fingers and closes his eyes. The pain is still excruciating. He breathes in, hold, and breaths out, hold. He just has to get the pain to diminish.

The meeting drones on, then ends and the door opens and shuts several times. Cassian hears none of it. He's just lying there, hurting, trying to cope.

He vaguely hears his name. It takes a moment to register that he should respond.

Rhysand kneels down in front of him, looking worried. "Are you okay?" Cassian hums questioningly.

"I was calling your name, you didn't answer."

"Oh," Cassian sits up, "Sorry, lost in thought."

Rhysand sits and leans against the wall. A silent signal that he's listening.

"What..." Cassian swallows, "What Morrigan said got to me. About history not understanding my decision to get back together with you."

Rhysand breathes in deep and holds it. Cassian rubs at his heart.

"History won't judge me well," Rhysand shakes his head, "They'll write me a villain. But I'd rather be hated by the future than fail the people of today."

"I don't understand why I apparently care a lot about this," Cassian says softly, "But my heart is aching."

"I'm sorry I put you in this situation," Rhysand says softly.

"I know," Cassian whispers.

They let the silence permeate the room as they think on what Morrigan unraveled today.

"I still believe it was the right decision for me," Cassian says at last, "But now there's this voice in my head asking, 'Is that enough?' And I don't know how to answer it."

Rhysand nudges his hand against Cassian's as an offering. Cassian accepts and grasps his hand. They rest their heads against the wall, close their eyes and just try to process their confusing, complicated life.

Their extended period of quiet contemplation is interrupted by a knock and the door creaking open.

"I am here to escort you to dinner," a voice announces as the escort steps into the room. He glances around, then mutters, "He's not here? Where did he--"

Rhysand rises in one smooth motion from behind the desk, every inch composed, as if this were the most natural place for a High Lord to be found.

"Thank you," he says. "We'll be there in a moment." He retrieves Cassian's bindings from the corner of the desk and wraps them loosely around his forearms, not tight enough to restrict but sufficient to create the illusion of restraint.

Cassian says nothing. He moves on instinct now, silent and steady as they follow the escort through the halls.

The dining hall has been transformed. Small banquet tables line the perimeter of the room, leaving the center floor clear. A shallow wooden platform has been erected on the far end of the room. It has no curtain, no back wall, just a raised space and a few props already set in place: a small table, three chairs, and a painted screen depicting a cherry blossom grove. It's a stage for a play.

They are led to the front of the hall. Amarantha's seat dominates the center table, flanked by two matching chairs. Tamlin is already seated on her right. Rhysand takes the seat to her left. Cassian kneels on a crimson cushion between them, just as expected.

One by one, the remaining guests take their seats. Delegates from all of Prythian's courts and a small cluster of Hybern courtiers, plus a troupe of lesser fae whose only job is to serve wine and applaud at the right time.

Once the final guest is seated, servants begin their circuit through the room. Plates of food are delivered, roasted game birds glazed in honey, lemon-scented rice, and thin-sliced root vegetables arranged like flower petals. Steaming bread is placed in silver baskets. The wine is poured last.

Cassian does not move. He keeps his eyes lowered. Rhysand accepts his glass with a slight nod.

Then the atmosphere shifts. A hush moves across the hall like a chill breeze. Everyone turns as Amarantha enters.

She wears a gown of red silk that spills over her hips and trails behind her like a stream of blood. Her lips are the same color, curved in satisfaction as she glides past the tables, heading straight for the stage.

She steps up onto the wooden platform and turns to face the room.

"My darlings," she begins, voice carrying easily across the room, "Have I not been gracious?"

The crowd murmurs assent. Cassian remains still.

"To mark the close of a productive day," she purrs, "I thought it only fitting to treat you all to a little culture. A little comedy. A little delight. After all," she turns slowly to the actors waiting at the side, "What is life under my rule if not endlessly entertaining?"

She smiles wide, then descends the platform and walks toward her seat. The train of her gown drags behind her like a net of fire. She sinks gracefully into the center chair, directly between Tamlin and Rhysand. She leans back, stretches out her legs, and drapes one hand lazily on the table as if the entire performance is already hers.

The actors move into place. The play begins with a burst of energy. A widowed father juggles life with his three grown daughters, each more willful than the last. The crowd responds with easy laughter. The actors lean into their parts, exaggerated and expressive.

Rhysand watches with his courtier’s mask firmly in place, posture straight, expression pleasant. He chuckles when the audience laughs. He eats slowly, gracefully, always composed. Between bites, he uses his fork to bring morsels to Cassian’s lips, an unspoken rhythm of performance they’ve perfected over the years. Cassian accepts the food without reaction, his face blank, his body still.

The play continues. One daughter introduces her new suitor, someone earnest, charming, and a bit foolish. The audience chuckles warmly. Soon after, he’s caught cheating on his taxes and is arrested. The stage erupts into exaggerated scandal and fake tears.

The scene changes. The boyfriend is brought out again, this time naked, led by a leash around his neck. The actors playing townspeople howl in glee. They jeer and laugh and point as he’s dragged in a circle around the painted grove. His face is painted in garish colors, a caricature of shame.

Cassian freezes, memories flashing back to him, but the hall explodes with laughter. Amarantha throws back her head and cackles. Even Tamlin chuckles into his wine. All the delegates and courtiers smile, laugh, or at least feign amusement.

Rhysand does not laugh.

Cassian glances up and sees the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tighten around the fork. He hasn’t taken a bite since the boyfriend appeared on stage.

Rhysand? Cassian pushes gently. No answer.

Rhysand’s eyes remain fixed on the stage. The cheer, the painted humiliation, the delight of the crowd. Something inside him fractures.

He stands. Without a word, without a glance toward anyone, he rises from his seat and turns from the table. Cassian is on his feet instantly, moving to follow.

Neither of them speak. The hall continues to roar with laughter behind them as they slip out the side door into silence.

They walk the halls in silence. Cassian follows closely. He watches the set of Rhysand's shoulders, the too-straight posture, the clenched fists. Something's wrong. Deeply wrong.

Rhysand? he tries again gently. No answer.

The walk feels too long and too short. When they reach their room, Rhysand opens the door, steps inside, and lets it close behind them without a word. He doesn't unwrap Cassian's arms. He doesn't even look at him.

He walks to the center of the room and stares at the rug. The fire crackles quietly in the hearth.

Then, without grace or warning, he sinks to his knees. He sways, then collapses forward onto his hands. His head hangs low, hair falling over his face. His breathing is loud, uneven.

Cassian rushes to him and drops to his knees. Rhysand doesn't move. He just trembles.

"Rhysand?" No response.

Cassian pulls and struggles with the bindings and after much effort he frees his arms. He gently touches Rhysand's shoulder. Rhysand flinches and then collapses fully to the floor as if Cassian's touch had placed a boulder on his back.

The silence stretches. The fire pops. Rhysand shakes.

And for the first time in all their years together, Cassian sees Rhysand breaking. Truly breaking.

He didn't break under Amarantha. He didn't break under the whip. Something far more personal has grabbed his heart and crushed him.

Cassian doesn't speak. He just stays beside him, steady and still, as Rhysand falls apart.

After a long period of trembling, Rhysand opens his mouth to speak, but then his body is wracked with a sob. He curls in on himself and shakes with cries.

"I'm--" but it's lost in tears.

Rhysand stops trying to speak. He cries until there are no tears left. He continues to lay there until his shaking stops and his breathing settles allowing him to lay limply on the floor.

"I hate what I did to you," Rhysand says in a wet whisper.

"I know," Cassian returns softly. He remains seated at Rhysand's side, still and present.

Rhysand swallows and takes a breath, "Morrigan pulled the truth out of me, and then the godsdamn play held it up like a mirror."

He shakes his head. "I allowed the worst of myself to run free completely unchecked. For centuries," he looks up at Cassian, "I can't take that back. I can't take any of it back."

He looks down at his hands like they're covered in blood. They are.

"I run my court with fear so there is no one in a position to stop my basest impulses from running free. In the two hundred and fifty years I've been High Lord, I allowed myself to slowly slip into extreme hedonistic depravity. No one even told me."

Cassian listens and thinks about what absolute power does to a person when no one dares tell them 'No'. When no one is left who remembers who they used to be. Rhysand lost his entire family, and ruled a court where dissent was terrifying. He had no moral counterbalance. His descent into depravity didn't happen all at once. It was the slow erosion that comes from centuries of power without question.

"But then you came into my life," he looks back up at Cassian, "And I cared about you."

He looks back down at his fingers pressing hard into the floor turning his fingertips white. "I initially thought I 'cared' because I needed to keep you sane."

He takes a deep breath, "When the other High Lords told me they wanted to take you away, I thought I would die, the thought hurt so much. I couldn't hide it from myself anymore. I truly cared for you."

There's a long silence, then he whispers, "It changed everything."

Cassian caresses Rhysand's hair as he says, "One of the reasons I felt safe enough to come back is because you started making changes in how you ran the Night Court," he puts a finger under Rhysand's chin to turn his face towards him, "I could see you were changing for the better."

Rhysand's eyes glisten, "I did it all because of you."

He looks back down and clutches his heart while his breath hitches. Fresh tears fall down his cheeks, "It hurts so much. My regret at how I treated you hurts so much."

Cassian scooches over and puts Rhysand's head in his lap. He runs his fingers gently through his hair, "I know. It's good that you are seeing it more clearly now."

Rhysand trembles with tears again, "I don't deserve you."

Cassian doesn't respond. He just strokes Rhysand's hair, steady and quiet. It’s not about what anyone deserves.

Cassian calms his nerves by running his fingers through that inky hair, slow and gentle, trying not to think too hard. About the play. About the laughter. About the way Rhysand crumpled like he'd finally stopped pretending he was anything more than a male barely holding on.

Cassian looks down at Rhysand's slumped shoulders and tear-streaked face half hidden by shadow, and feels something tighten in his chest. If history could see this, could see how deeply Rhysand cares, how honestly he wants to change, then maybe history could understand even a little bit why I chose to come back to him.

They stay like that, letting their nerves settle and their bodies recover. Then Rhysand takes a deep breath and rolls off Cassian's lap and onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

"I should freshen up," Rhysand sighs, "She's going to summon us for tonight."

Cassian's heart clenches. It happens every night, but the anxiety never dulls.

Rhysand clambers to his feet and lumbers into the bathing chamber. Cassian rises and moves to the small table.

Rhysand returns, walking again with liquid grace, and lowers himself into the other chair. Cassian stretches his hand across the table palm up. Rhysand sees it and clasps it within his own hand.

They look each other in the eyes. They'll be summoned to Amarantha's bedroom soon. They don't know what fresh horrors await them, only that horror is coming.

The dreaded knock on the door occurs and it opens on creaking hinges.

"You have been summoned to the Queen's suite."

Rhysand and Cassian look at each other in the eyes and take a deep breath in and out together. Then Rhysand rises and takes the arm binding off the floor while Cassian presents his folded arms. Rhysand snakes the binding around his arms and loosely buckles it secure.

They follow the escort out of their bedroom and walk the halls like a funeral procession.

The escort leads them through her suite and leaves them in her bedroom. Amarantha is sitting by the fire with a goblet of wine in hand.

She looks up at them, "Pour yourself some wine, Rhysand dear."

Rhysand nods and heads to the bar in the main area of the suite. He takes down a goblet and pours some wine from the decanter. He has to stop because his hands are shaking. He takes a deep steadying breath.

I don't have anything left holding me together, Rhysand's voice slips through Cassian's mind, I'm going to break the moment she touches me.

Cassian doesn't know how to respond, so he doesn't.

Rhysand carefully lowers himself into the chair next to Amarantha, using stiff motions to mask his shaking. Cassian sits on the floor uncharacteristically between the two of them to provide some semblance of distance for Rhysand. He leans firmly into Rhysand's leg to reaffirm his presence.

Amarantha just stares at the fire. Cassian swallows down his mounting anxiety.

Finally she moves her gaze to Rhysand, "You left my play, Rhysand."

"Apologies, my Queen," Rhysand says smoothly.

"And it was during the best scene of the entire play," she cocks her head and narrows her eyes at him, "That wasn't like you."

“I wonder…" she says softly as she ponders, "was it the boy’s nudity? Or the way the crowd laughed?”

She swirls the wine in her goblet and studies him closely, “No… it wasn’t them that bothered you, was it?”

Her eyes drop to Cassian and sharpen. “It was you.”

Her eyes flick back up to Rhysand. He stays silent, shoulders rigid.

She leans forward and murmurs, "You weren’t watching a comedy, Rhysand. You were watching a memory.”

That hits. His breath hitches. His mask slips.

She tilts her head, “And it hurt.”

Cassian stares into the fire while Amarantha and Rhysand look into each other's eyes. Then a tear pools in Rhysand's eye and slowly rolls down his cheek.

A slow smile curls across her face, "Oh."

She sets her goblet down without taking her eyes off him, “Oh, Rhysand.”

She leans in further like it’s something sacred, “You feel things." She casts her gaze across his still form. "You’ve been pretending all this time, but underneath all that polish, there’s still a man who remembers what it means to suffer.”

She sits back, beaming, “This is going to be so much more fun than I thought.”

She lays a single finger on her goblet and runs it around the rim. She slowly licks her lip like she's savoring the salt of his tear in the air.

She quietly speaks in a measured tone, “You feel things because of him. That’s what’s undoing you, isn’t it?”

Her smile falls as she watches Rhysand closely, a serious study of his character.

“What would happen to you,” she says slowly, “if I took him from you?”

Rhysand breathing stops. His knuckles go white.

She leans in towards them again, “Not killed. That would be too simple. Too clean.”

Her voice lowers to something intimate, hungry, “What if I kept him all for myself?” She tilts her head and her voice softens, "Just to see how long he could survive me?”

Cassian doesn’t move. The fire crackles. Rhysand’s body trembles once.

She leans back, proud of her work, “Oh, that’s the look. That’s the one I wanted.”

She takes a deep inhale to drink the fear in the air. Settled satisfaction permeates her her being as she repositions herself comfortably into her chair.

"My King is wearing just too many clothes, Rhysand," a small smile crosses her lips, "Strip him naked."

Cassian can feel Rhysand tense down to his very toes. His arm betrays a single twitch.

"Rhysand," she says lowly.

Cassian stands and turns to face Rhysand whose eyes climb slowly up Cassian's body before reaching his face. Cassian nods once.

Rhysand takes a deep breath and leans forward to untie Cassian's pants, lowers them and his underwear together and helps Cassian step out of them. Cassian sits back down and leans tightly against Rhysand's leg. Rhysand stays leaning forward slightly like he's prepared to jump.

I'll be fine, Cassian pushes softly. Rhysand doesn't respond.

Amarantha slowly lowers herself to the floor in front of Cassian. She reaches a hand out and gently grasps the back of Cassian's head and draws him close. She opens her mouth and licks across his lips. He opens and she joins their lips and her tongue licks across the roof of his mouth. He shivers.

She breaks the kiss and flicks her gaze up at Rhysand. He's turned to stone, but watches their every move with severe intensity.

She joins her lips with Cassian once again, then reaches down between Cassian's legs and grasps his cock. Cassian's breath hitches.

"My Queen," Rhysand whispers.

Amarantha hums that she's listening, but doesn't stop her ministrations nor break her kiss.

"Please, my Queen," his whisper cracks, "Please don't."

She continues but shifts her eyes to look at Rhysand.

Stop, Cassian pushes to Rhysand, I'll be fine. Rhysand's breathing deepens, but doesn't respond.

Amarantha leans back and her whole body shivers. She smiles widely at Rhysand, "Oh my," she takes a deep breath, "This has been... stimulating."

She rises and sits at the edge of her chair. She grasps her skirts and slowly crumples them in her hands to pull them up and over her knees.

She leans back and shifts her gaze to Cassian, "My King. Your Queen needs you."

Rhysand places a firm hand on Cassian's shoulder. Cassian looks up at him surprised, but Rhysand does not take his eyes off of her.

"Let me," he says.

A smirk slowly pulls on the corner of her mouth as she looks deep into Rhysand's eyes, "No."

She shifts her gaze to Cassian, "Come, my King."

Cassian shrugs off Rhysand's hand and moves to his knees to approach her. But before Cassian can go further, Rhysand drops to his knees and throws an arm across his chest.

"Let me, my Queen," he says more firmly.

She licks her lips and tilts her head, "No."

Stop it, Rhysand, Cassian pushes with force, I'll be fine. Still no response, but a tremble moves like a wave down Rhysand's body.

Amarantha leans forward and takes one taloned finger and presses it in the tender flesh under Cassian's chin. He winces when she punctures the skin and a drop of blood pools and rolls down her finger.

Rhysand's eyes widen, but he doesn't move. She pulls her hand back towards herself, leading Cassian's head to follow. Rhysand's hold across Cassian's chest goes limp and Cassian slides by his arm as he's pulled between Amarantha's legs.

She looks into Cassian's eyes, "My King. Make your Queen cum," she removes her finger from his under his chin and licks the blood off of it as she settles back into her chair.

Cassian leans forward between her legs. His arms are still bound so he'll have to manage this entirely with his mouth. Before he even starts, he can hear Rhysand fall forward onto his hands and sob.

Stop it, Cassian tries to growl to Rhysand's mind. Still no response. Anger starts to creep in. This is no big deal. Rhysand is risking their safety by begging over nothing. Cassian has become more angry than sympathetic at this point.

Cassian leans in and licks up her slit. Amarantha makes a dramatic moan of pleasure.

"Watch your King, Rhysand," she coos, "See if you can learn anything from his technique."

Rhysand lifts his head and reveals tear soaked cheeks.

It's been a long time since Cassian has done this, but he should be able to remember the tricks. He wishes he had a hand, that always made things easier. He tries to remember his old techniques of teasing the clit.

She threads the fingers of both her hands into Cassian's hair and pulls him in tight. It's almost suffocating but he's managing.

She taps on the arm of her chair, "Rhysand, come here." He snaps to her side instantly.

"Give me your face," she cups the side of his face and slowly runs her thumb across his wet cheek.

"So beautiful," she moans as she bucks and pulls Cassian's head forward. Fresh tears fall down Rhysand's face.

"That's it," she pants, "Keep crying."

She rhythmically thrusts her hips against Cassian's face as she stares into Rhysand's eyes. He chokes back a sob and Amarantha's body shudders as she moans.

"Keep going," her eye lids grow heavy with lust, "Keep crying."

No fresh tears fall.

"Cassian is so good at this, maybe I should just have him going forward." That did it. Rhysand's dam breaks and his body wracks with uncontrolled sobbing.

Amarantha throws back her head without ever taking her eyes off him and grinds herself into Cassian's face. Her body convulses and her back arches as she cries out in pleasure.

While she comes down from her high, she grips Cassian's hair and pulls him away and angles his head up sharply. She breathes heavily as she admires Cassian's face. The bottom half glistens with her slick, his lips are parted and he breathes heavily.

"Look at his face, Rhysand." He looks over at Cassian and his chest convulses anew as he sees him.

She pulls on Cassian's hair to toss him aside as she leans forward. She grasps Rhysand's face with both hands and slowly licks up both cheeks as if she is appreciating a rare delicacy. She is.

She carefully licks all the tears from Rhysand's face, then releases him and leans back in her chair.

"How do you feel now, Rhysand?" He looks to the floor and whimpers. She hums her understanding.

She resettles in the chair, fixes her skirts, and takes her goblet of wine. She sips as she gazes at Rhysand's saddened form illuminated by the fire.

Cassian lays on the floor where she had tossed him.

It wasn't that bad, Rhysand, Cassian tries again. Rhysand chokes on another sob.

You already went through this, Rhysand's voice finally comes through, I don't want you to go through this again.

Exactly, I've already been through this. I know how to survive.

I want more for you than survival. Rhysand curls in on himself and shakes with fresh tumbling tears.

Rhysand, all we have right now is trying to survive.

It's my fault you're here, Rhysand's mental voice is small and quiet.

Cassian releases a heavy sigh. Rhysand is spiraling in self loathing. Cassian hopes Rhysand doesn't make things worse for them because he can't keep it together.

Cassian doesn't push Rhysand any further. He knows that in order to get out of this bedroom they have to stop being entertaining. If they just remain still and Rhysand stops crying then she'll get bored and dismiss them.

Cassian closes his eyes and breathes deeply trying to calm his nerves and meditate. Rhysand is going to need support tonight when they get back to their room. So just for now, he should try to capture a moment of peace.

Amarantha continues to drink her wine while observing Rhysand's broken form in front of the fire. At one point she gets up to refill her goblet then settles back down into her chair again to continue savoring Rhysand.

"I need to hire a painter," she muses quietly to herself.

She eventually leans her head backwards against the chair. Her eyes grow heavy. She tries to keep watching Rhysand but her eyes eventually fall close for an extended period.

Suddenly she breathes in deep and sits up. She looks down at her goblet and tilts back her cup against her lips to finish it off. She places the goblet down on the side table with a loud click that causes Rhysand and Cassian to flinch.

"Alright, you're dismissed," she stands and disappears into the bathing chamber.

They both pop up and scramble out of the bedroom. Rhysand promptly pulls the hem of his shirt out of his pants and wipes Cassian's face.

He rears back. I'm fine! he pushes, Stop it.

Rhysand just merely finishes wiping Cassian's face.

He rolls up Cassian's pants and kneels down to help Cassian step into his pants. He pulls them up and ties them, then gestures for them to go. Rhysand doesn’t tuck his shirt back in. He doesn’t seem to notice it’s out.

They walk back in silence. Cassian’s footsteps are even, his jaw set. Rhysand is ahead of him, slow and dragging, like every step is through wet sand. The door closes behind them with a quiet click.

Rhysand immediately grasps Cassian in an embrace and cries silently into his shoulder. He doesn't even remove Cassian's arm bindings, just holds him and cries. Cassian sighs and rests his head on Rhysand's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Rhysand whispers wetly.

Cassian pulls back gently, turns, and wiggles his fingers, wordless, but clear. Rhysand swiftly removes the arm bindings and tosses them on the chest of drawers.

Cassian faces him again and places his hands on Rhysand's shoulders then says firmly, "Something much deeper is going on with you."

Rhysand hangs his head.

"It's one thing for your body to betray you and make you cry," he says firmly, but not harshly, "It's one thing for it to betray you and make you do something impulsively. But it is another thing entirely to repeatedly beg her even though I was repeatedly telling you to stop."

Rhysand is silent.

"Did you hear me telling you to stop?" Rhysand nods. "Then why did you continue to beg?"

Rhysand turns and sinks to his knees in front of the hearth, eyes fixed on the fire. He just breathes and gazes at the fire.

Cassian kneels down next to him, "Rhysand," he says more gently, "what happened?"

Rhysand swallows. His voice is barely audible, scraped raw, "I panicked."

Cassian’s brow furrows.

Rhysand still doesn't take his eyes off the fire, "I wasn’t thinking. I just saw her touch you. And I..." he trails off, jaw locking tight.

Cassian waits again, but there’s nothing more coming. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, "I’m not frustrated with you because you care about me. I’m upset because you made things worse."

Rhysand nods once, stiffly.

"We need to figure out why you kept begging so we can prevent it from happening again."

Rhysand looks over at Cassian grief stricken.

"Tell me what you were feeling," Cassian says coolly.

Rhysand speaks in a small soft voice, "I felt my heart was being torn from my chest and fire left in its wake."

"What were you feeling when you begged after you heard me tell you to stop?"

Rhysand lowers his eyes to the floor for a time, then whispers, "Like everything was shattering around me."

"Do you know why it felt that way?"

He continues to be silent again before he starts to speak, "I think I..." but he trails off and never tries to finish the sentence.

"You think you... what?"

Rhysand shakes his head and keeps shaking it as he turns away and curls in on himself.

Cassian sighs then places a hand on his back, "Think about it. I'm going to take a bath." Rhysand nods.

Cassian enters the bathing chamber humming an old Illyrian campfire tune and turns the bath on scalding hot. He shucks his pants and sinks into the tub allowing the hot water soak into his bones.

He washes his face, then sits back and relaxes against the side of the tub. What is going on with Rhysand? It is so out of character for him to beg like that. And it wasn't even that bad! It's not like I haven't licked a cunt before. Hell, I’ve done worse. I’ve done worse and no one cried over it.

He shakes his head. Morrigan really did a number on us today. Our lives are just complicated, okay? Can't we just live our lives without the scrutiny of others?

He sinks under the water and holds his breath. The heat penetrates his muscles and relaxes his face. He didn't even realize how tense he was holding himself.

He breaches the surface of the water and washes his hair, then moves on to his body. He sighs heavily. I should get out and check on Rhysand.

He steps out, towels off, and enters the main room. Rhysand isn't by the fire any more. He's curled up in a tight ball under the covers in bed.

Cassian gets under the covers behind Rhysand and wraps himself around him and holds him tight. Rhysand sinks into him like water seeking its basin.

"Did you figure out why it felt like everything was shattering around you?" Cassian whispers gently.

Rhysand entire body tenses, then he slowly shakes his head.

"She'll crush you again tomorrow if you don't figure it out," he sighs, "The first step to disarming your trigger is to be able to see it."

Rhysand slowly nods. "Can we not talk about it right now?"

Cassian presses his forehead into Rhysand's back. "I'm worried about tomorrow."

"I'm just so exhausted," he says softly.

Cassian takes a deep inhale and slow exhale. "Okay."

They're silent and Rhysand seems to be getting increasingly tense until he finally says so quietly he can barely be heard, "Can you fuck me?"

Cassian freezes and his eyes widen, "What? Now?"

Rhysand nods. "Please? I want to feel something else right now."

Cassian is surprised but says, "Okay," as he reaches for the oil on the night stand. He puts oil on his fingers and gently runs them down Rhysand's cleft to his hole. Rhysand's breath hitches.

"No prep. She doesn't like prep. Just go right ahead," Rhysand says breathily.

"Are you sure?" Rhysand nods.

Cassian sighs and puts oil along his cock. He lines himself up and slowly presses into Rhysand. He melts in Cassian's arms again, becoming like a pile of liquid in his hands.

Rhysand's breathing deepens and tilts his head back as Cassian reaches deeper. He clutches at Cassian's arm that's wrapped around his chest.

"I need this, keep going," Rhysand breathes. Cassian presses forward a little more quickly and Rhysand groans as he squeezes even tighter on Cassian's arm.

"Are you okay?" Cassian whispers.

"Yes, keep going."

Cassian shifts his arm down and pulls Rhysand's hips to join with his, fully sheathing himself inside. Rhysand clutches the bedsheets and hisses, "Yes..."

Rhysand's breaths are deep and long. "Just hold me," he says, "Just hold me tight and go slowly."

Cassian wraps his arms around Rhysand tightly. Rhysand relaxes and becomes completely pliant. Cassian starts shallow languid thrusts.

"Yes, this," Rhysand sighs in contentment, "Just this."

"Okay," Cassian says, "Just this."

They continue the languid pace with Cassian holding Rhysand tightly, and Rhysand relaxed in his arms. Just simply enjoying each other.

But then Rhysand shakes with a choked sob. Cassian stills.

"Are you okay?"

Rhysand shakes his head, "Keep going," he says wetly.

"Rhysand..."

He tilts his head back and rolls his hips, "Keep going."

"Talk to me."

Rhysand sighs, "I'll talk to you if you keep going."

Cassian presses his chin into Rhysand's shoulder and whispers, "Okay." He resumes his languid thrusts. Rhysand sighs and relaxes.

"You make me feel... whole," Rhysand breathes. He rolls his hips and pants slightly.

"But I wish I never took you away from your life," Rhysand's breath hitches, "I wish you were living your best life as the Lord of Bloodshed."

Cassian stills, "I've moved on from being the Lord of Bloodshed."

"I forced that on you," he takes a deep breath, "Weren't you happier?"

"No, I wasn't happier. I was different. Ignorant. Small."

Rhysand huffs, "You were never small."

"I was small minded. I was so limited," Cassian shrugs, "Ignorance is bliss, I suppose. But I don't wish to be ignorant."

"Really?"

"Yes. I like who I am. I'm happy with myself."

Rhysand tenses, "Really?" he asks surprised.

Cassian resumes his languid pacing, "I am happy with who I've become, and I am looking forward to seeing who I will be in the future."

Rhysand chokes back another sob, "Gods, I don't deserve you. I don't deserve you at all." He holds tightly onto Cassian's arms.

"Rhysand, you satisfy my needs. I don't care about what you deserve or not," Cassian sighs, "I guess I'm being selfish that way. I'm just taking what I want from you."

"Take everything, Cassian," he backs up into him, "Take everything." He rolls his hips, and Cassian squeezes him and groans.

"You feel good," Cassian breathes.

"Take what you want."

"Don't tempt me."

"I'm not tempting you, I'm telling you," he thrusts his hips back hard and Cassian gasps, "Take what you want."

Cassian growls and snaps his hips. Rhysand gasps and clutches the bedsheets, "Do it. Take it."

Cassian thrusts deeply and rhythmically, "Like this?"

"Whatever you want is what I want."

Cassian groans and thrusts harder, "Gods, you feel good."

A syrupy pleasure blooms through Cassian's body. He pulls against Rhysand's chest and thrusts up into him. He thrusts deeper and faster. A guttural groan escapes Rhysand's throat.

"Take what you want," Rhysand breathes. I'll take what I want, Cassian thinks. He goes faster and pants into Rhysand's ear.

"Yes, take it," Rhysand braces himself as Cassian's pace grows punishingly. I'm going to take fucking all of it, Cassian growls.

Cassian becomes drunk on the syrupy goodness sticking to his body. He grunts and snaps his hips harshly into Rhysand. He pants heavily into the back of Rhysand's neck.

"Cum for me, Cassian," Rhysand gasps.

Cassian squeezes Rhysand tighter than ever and groans loud and low as pleasure whips up his body. He feels his cock twitch and spill his seed deep into Rhysand. I took him. I took what I wanted. I've made him mine. He's mine. He growls softly. He's mine.

Cassian waits until his body settles and breathing normalizes. He then starts to pull back, but Rhysand grasps his arms and squeezes him close.

"Stay," he whispers, "Stay."

Cassian holds him tightly again. He squeezes and Rhysand squeezes in return. He closes his eyes and feels Rhysand relax and settle. He just breathes slowly appreciating how calm and relaxed Rhysand appears to be.

We can just have this for now. Just for now.

Chapter Text

Cassian wakes up to a bear hug. Rhysand is wrapped around him tightly as if Cassian is going to float away otherwise. He sighs deeply. Something is very off with Rhysand. He's acting completely out of character ever since the confrontation with Morrigan. Maybe facing his truths hit him harder than I expected. But why would that make him clingy?

He said he enjoyed what he did to me. I know that, it was clear as day as it was happening. He said he still fantasizes about what he did to me. I'm not surprised, it takes a long time for someone to change. He said I'm his rock in this place. I already know that. He said he thinks he loves me. That's obvio...

He whips his head to face Rhysand. No... Did he only just realize it? He said he didn't know everything that Morrigan made him confess. He rubs his fingers into his eyes. Fuck. I thought he had some idea of how he felt about me. He looks up at the ceiling. Godsdamnit. He must have hidden everything from himself behind his guilt. He always put protecting me first. He probably never bothered to look closer.

He sighs deeply again and tries to extract himself from Rhysand's grip. Rhysand just clutches tighter and murmurs, "Stay."

Fuck fuck fuck. This is not the place to manage complex feelings like love. Cassian can't stay still, stress is crawling up and down his spine and he needs to move. He peels Rhysand's arm off him and Rhysand whines, "Please?"

"No, I have to get up." Rhysand sighs and lets him go. Cassian crawls off the bed and goes into the bathroom to pace.

Newly discovered love is a dangerous thing here. He runs his hands through his shaggy hair. Obviously, Rhysand isn't reigning it in. His protectiveness has ratcheted up dangerously.

"Fuck," he breathes.

I can't love him back. I care just because he's a living being and deserves care. He huffs and kicks his heel against the floor. There ain't no way I'm ever going to love him. I can't possibly love someone I can't forgive. And I can't possibly forgive him. He looks over at the door as if he could see Rhysand beyond it. I just use him to satisfy my own desires. As soon as I find a better option, I'm gone. He sighs. And I suppose I'll leave emotional wreckage in my wake.

He leans his palms against the counter and looks at himself in the mirror. Does that make me an asshole? To just use him and leave him? He scrubs his face with his hands. Rhysand is getting better. And I like that I am helping a High Lord do better for his people. He looks intensely at himself in the mirror. But I will not be a reward to earn.

He pushes off the counter and heads back into the main room. Rhysand hasn't moved a muscle. He's still draped across the spot on the bed Cassian had been lying in.

"You need to go to the healer for your next session of treatments," Cassian says flatly. Rhysand groans, rolls onto his back and throws an arm over his eyes. "Come on, let's go," Cassian fetches his pants and throws them on. He opens the wardrobe, removes a set of pants and tunic that's easy to take on and off, and tosses them onto Rhysand's head one by one. He grunts as each one hits him.

"Okay," he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, "I'm up, I'm up." He quickly puts on the clothes and heads to the door. Cassian goes to follow, but Rhysand puts a hand up, "I'll be fine on my own. Just rest." Cassian nods curtly, then Rhysand disappears out the door.

Cassian flops onto the bed. If Rhysand starts acting out of love instead of strategy, we're screwed. That love will get me killed. And threaten Velaris.

Cassian stares up at the ceiling, jaw clenched. He can't see clearly if he's trying to protect me out of love instead of calculation. He'll take risks that don't make sense. He'll provoke her. He'll bleed himself dry for no gain. He'll play the part too hard, too desperate, and Amarantha will see it. She always sees it. And when she does, she'll weaponize it.

Cassian rolls onto his side, burying his face into the pillow for a breath, then pulls away again. If he slips, she'll tear us both apart, and she'll laugh while she does it. He closes his eyes. Rhysand's love could destroy everything.

Cassian exhales slowly, but it doesn’t calm him, it just empties him out. He flips to his back again and stares at the ceiling. Minutes pass. Maybe more. He listens for footsteps in the hallway, but the room stays quiet. Too quiet.

He drums his fingers against his ribs, then presses his palms over his eyes. He should rest. Rhysand told him to rest. Instead, he just lies there, wide awake. Waiting for the sound of the door opening.

Rhysand finally comes back, moving a bit easier than he was when he left. They talk while he dresses for their subcommittee meetings.

"The healer said I'll just need one more session. That is if she doesn't add more tonight."

"If tonight is a repeat of yesterday," Cassian says dryly, "she'll be directing her attention onto me." Rhysand freezes. "You need to reign it in tonight."

Rhysand slides his eyes towards Cassian, "I'm sorry," he whispers. After a short pause he finishes buttoning his tunic, then lowers his hands and stares down at them. "I know I have to do better today," he says softly. "I'm trying."

Cassian watches him for a moment. "Trying isn't always enough."

"I know that too." He picks up his cuffs and fastens them, slower than usual. The silence hangs between them like smoke.

Cassian leans against the wall, arms crossed, "Don't make me your weakness."

Rhysand's hands still again. He doesn't look up, "I didn't mean to."

"Then control it."

Finally, Rhysand nods once, sharp and quiet. Cassian doesn't speak again. He just waits until Rhysand lifts his head and meets his eyes.

They wordlessly complete their routine of wrapping up Cassian's arms merely for show, and then leave for the office.

They reach Rhysand's office and Zibri is already there with a breakfast tray and organizing papers on the desk.

Zibri looks up at them like a light in the fog, "Good morning good morning good morning!" Cassian can't help but smile at his cheerfulness.

"Always a pleasure to see you, Zibri," Cassian says. Zibri miraculously seems to beam brighter. Rhysand smiles warmly.

Cassian pulls off the bindings that were never actually bound, grabs his breakfast plate and sits in his corner of furs and pillows. He half pays attention to Zibri giving Rhysand an update on what he's done to prepare for the meeting.

Cassian clears his plate and puts it back on the tray then settles down with his book while Rhysand and Zibri do their jobs. Perhaps playing the pet has it's advantages: he doesn't have any work to do. He can just sit and lounge and read.

The door opens, "Good morning, Rhysand." Cassian recognizes that voice. It's the Hybern representative. He groans internally, hides his book, folds his arms behind his back and leans against the wall. Of course he'd be the first to arrive.

Rhysand moves to greet him. They recline in the sitting area while Zibri takes up the chair at the desk and sets up a note-taking station for himself. Cassian takes a deep inhale and then slow exhale, preparing himself for a morning of absolute boredom. He gazes at the patterns on the floor, but it all blurs as his mind drifts.

History won't understand why I came back to him. I barely understand. He remembers how nervous he felt when he saw Rhysand again for the first time. Looking on that face again filled him with both revulsion twisted tight with the warmth of calm security. He was afraid Rhysand would betray him, but also completely trusted his word. He always was honest with Cassian. Always.

Their Agreement is only ink on parchment. It is not a bargain enforced with magic. That was Rhysand's stipulation. He said trust was vital to their relationship, and there can't be trust if there is a magical enforcer standing behind them.

And it was certainly a different feeling as he walked up to Rhysand with only a parchment of promises to prevent his complete subjugation. With each step he took closer to where Rhysand stood, he was shedding his anxieties and placing his very body into the hands of fate, and fate was being ruled by Rhysand.

He stepped up to him and they locked eyes. "It's wonderful to see you again, Cassian," Rhysand said gently, "Let's go home." Then he held out his hand. He can winnow without touch, but he was giving Cassian one last opportunity to step back and reconsider. Cassian looked at that hand and felt all his worries wash away.

And that felt amazing. After all the pressure of the previous year weighing so heavily upon him, he felt he could climax right there just from the pure relief of it all. He slowly raised his hand, not from hesitation but to savor that pleasure. He placed his hand in Rhysand's. They folded into space and he was whisked away.

How could he ever explain to history about that moment of pleasure surrender had given him.

'I miss you' followed by 'I miss you, too.' Those were the first words written on the enchanted parchment they shared. Cassian had woken up hungover at his desk having no idea how he got there. He had looked down and saw his and Rhysand's handwriting laid across the parchment he didn't even remember pulling out let alone writing on.

He had paced, raged and punched the wall after seeing what he and Rhysand had written to each other. Even sober, he could admit that he missed Rhysand a bit. Just a little bit. But he was also furious with him. His audacity. His arrogance. His shamelessness to do those things to him.

He sat down at the parchment and furiously scrawled out 'I am so fucking angry with you', and just a few moments later the words 'I understand' were magically written below it.

That started the daily hate messages. And Rhysand would always take the blows. He would always respond 'I understand' and 'I can see how that would be horrible'. And then after a month he wrote something new: I'm sorry. That sent Cassian reeling. Rhysand never apologized. Except when he truly meant it. Except when he truly believed he failed.

That was the moment Cassian realized: Rhysand was changing.

The door opens and shuts. But when it opens and shuts a second time, Cassian is snapped out of his memories. He peers over the desk. Rhysand, Morrigan, and a Prythian delegate are wrapping up an exchange. The delegate leaves, and Morrigan walks right up to the desk and looks beyond it to Cassian.

"I want to talk," Morrigan says, her voice tight, "With you."

Cassian doesn't move. "If we can keep it calm," he says quietly.

Morrigan turns bright red, "Yes. I'm sorry about yesterday. I just want to talk today. No powers, no..." she swallows, "... no forcing you to admit anything."

Cassian nods and stands. He and Morrigan sit on the couch, and Rhysand sits in one of the chairs. Zibri looks on nervously from the desk.

Morrigan starts, "I'm concerned about your black outs. I'm concerned about what Rhysand said yesterday about more going on here than I've seen."

Cassian draws a breath. This isn't a conversation he wants Zibri hearing. "Could you get us some tea, Zibri?"

Zibri's eyes widen and he looks to Rhysand who nods his approval. He then crosses the room at a brisk pace, which for him is painfully slow. The door snicks behind him as he leaves.

Cassian takes another deep calming breath. "You've heard the rumors?"

She slides her eyes to Rhysand, "That you belong to Her now? That you're... Her whore?" Rhysand crosses his arms and legs and shifts his gaze to the fire. Cassian nods slowly. She slides her eyes back to Cassian, "What does that have to do with you?"

Cassian raises his eyebrow with an expression of disappointment. "He involves you?" she gasps, her hand flies to her mouth. Cassian rolls his eyes and scrubs a hand up and down his face.

"Morrigan," Cassian levels with her, "Do you think anything he does here is by choice?" Rhysand shifts in his chair uncomfortably but says nothing, continuing to just look into the fire.

She narrows her eyes at Rhysand, "It isn't? Isn't She just copying his court?" she sits back and scoffs, "What? Is he upset it's not him in control?"

Cassian sits back and rubs his temples with both hands. The door opens and Zibri comes in with a tray laden with a steaming pot of tea and three cups. He places the tray on the low table and begins serving the tea. Rhysand unfolds himself to accept his cup then instructs Zibri, "Why don't you go have lunch, Zibri. Come back in time for the afternoon meeting." He nods then zips out the door.

Rhysand opens his mouth as if he's going to speak, but then shuts it. He crosses his legs again and looks into the fire as he sips his tea. Morrigan studies Rhysand for a moment then looks back at Cassian.

"Alright then, tell me the truth," she blows on her tea and sips it, "What's happening here?"

"You have the pieces, it's just that your perspective is wrong."

She raises an eyebrow, "Is it now?"

"Do you remember when you and Eris caught Rhysand after obvious signs of strangulation?" She narrows her eyes at Rhysand, who is still staring into the fire. "Do you think he wanted that?"

"I thought he liked it rough," she waves her hand flippantly, "Right? Didn't you teach us that? Or does he only like it when he's the one hurting someone?"

"Morrigan, please," Cassian rubs the bridge of his nose.

She puts down her cup, "Please what? You're trying to get me to feel bad for him, but all I see is him getting everything he deserves."

"It is everything I deserve," Rhysand whispers. He exhales slowly as his fingers tighten around his cup. He doesn't turn his gaze from the fire, "But Cassian deserves none of it."

"Then why are you here, Cassian?" she looks at him pleadingly, "Let me take you back to Autumn. Eris and I will take care of you."

Cassian shakes his head sadly, "I can't leave without threatening the Night Court. She has specifically ordered the two of us to stay here."

Morrigan flails a hand, "Fuck the Night Court! It deserves to burn!"

He throws a hand at Rhysand, irritation slipping into his tone, "You really expect a High Lord to offer his people up to be slaughtered?!"

Morrigan leans back and crosses her arms, "That Court needs to be burned to the ground and start over fresh."

Cassian stands and paces, "There's real beauty in the Night Court that needs to be preserved."

She scoffs, "Beauty in the Court of Nightmares? Spare me."

"There's more to the Night Court than the Court of Nightmares!" Cassian exclaims, his temper slipping. Rhysand snaps his head up and glares at Cassian in warning.

He looks back at Rhysand in frustration. She's never going to understand the Night Court nor you without understanding Velaris.

Rhysand narrows his eyes at him. She doesn't need to understand. No one needs to understand except for the two of us.

Cassian falls back onto the couch with a loud sigh, "We may have to agree to disagree, Morrigan."

She slides her gaze between the two of them. Rhysand has gone back to looking at the fire all folded in on himself. "You two were just talking to each other with his daemati powers." Cassian shrugs. "You're sorely tempting my promise to not use my powers."

"Don't." Rhysand and Cassian say in unison.

Morrigan rubs the bridge of her nose, "That did nothing to suppress my temptation."

She puts her cup down on the tray, "Look, Cassian," she takes a serious tone with him, "I don't give a flying fuck about Rhysand or his Court of Nightmares. I just care about you."

He exhales, "I appreciate that, Morrigan."

"Please, come back to Autumn with me."

"I can't."

"We don't understand, Cassian!"

He brings his cup up to his lips and breathes in the soothing aroma, "The only one who truly needs to understand is me." Rhysand's eyes slide over to meet his.

"Not even history?" she pleads.

Cassian remembers walking the streets of Velaris. Laughter rings from open windows. Lights glow warm against cobblestone. Children race through alleyways without flinching at shadows. At this moment he finally understands. He shakes his head slowly, "Not even history."

"I don't understand," she sighs heavily, "But I guess you do." Cassian nods slowly. She stands, "I won't press again. Unless something changes, I won't press again." She glances at Rhysand before giving a softened gaze to Cassian. "Autumn will always accept you, Cassian. Don't forget it."

He lowers his cup to his lap, "Thank you, Morrigan. I won't forget."

She heads to the door, "I just need a walk to clear my head. I'll be back for the afternoon meeting." She disappears behind the door, the heels of her shoes clacking down the hallway as she departs.

Rhysand and Cassian look at each other. Cassian stretches out a hand and Rhysand unfolds himself and clasps it with his own.

Only we need to understand.

Only us.

Their fingers stay clasped, steady.

They are quiet for a long time. Rhysand's breath grows deeper and faster before he finally says, "I'm embarrassed." Cassian looks over at him, wordlessly saying he's listening.

Rhysand looks into the fire, "Is it just because I'm not the one in control?" He ponders that thought then rubs his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, "It is. I hate it because I'm the one being used instead of the one doing the using."

He clenches his tea cup with both hands and looks up at the ceiling, "I didn't start caring until someone I cared about got hurt." Cassian doesn't interrupt. Just listens. Steady as stone beside him.

Rhysand lowers his gaze back to the fire, "I used to believe I was different. That I was better than my father. That I was choosing cruelty when necessary. That I was not enjoying it. Not like him,"

his jaw tightens, "But then I started to enjoy it. And I told myself… that was fine. As long as it served a purpose."

He pauses, shaking his head slightly, like he's trying to rattle the thought loose. "But there's no purpose here. And I still feel that itch, that pull to dominate. To hurt. And when Amarantha does it, and I see myself in Her…" he exhales sharply, "I want to vomit."

He swallows. "But I am wondering... is it really disgust? Or am I merely jealous?"

Cassian doesn't move. His stillness makes it easier for Rhysand to keep talking.

"I hate what She's doing. But do I hate Her for doing it, or do I just hate that it's not me?"

His grip tightens on the teacup,

"That's what worries me. Not that She's copying me. But that I only started hating it when I lost the power to choose it."

He looks down at his hands, voice dropping lower, "I tell myself I've changed. That I care more. That I protect who I can," a bitter breath leaves him, "But all I’ve done is expand the circle. I still serve power. I still decide who gets saved... and who doesn’t."

He looks back into the fire a moment longer. "Does that make me actually a better person? Or simply more... strategic?"

Cassian waits to ensure Rhysand has finished voicing his thoughts. Then he says gently, "You're on the right path to actually become a better person. Keep asking yourself these questions."

Cassian refills both of their tea cups and they quietly drink while waiting for the others to return.

Cassian has become exhausted, so he was quietly relieved to see Zibri's beaming face come zipping into the office. It means he has a few hours to just relax and recuperate. He stands and lumbers over to his corner behind the desk while Rhysand and Zibri discuss logistics for the afternoon meeting.

He curls up on the furs and rests his weary head on the pillow. Emotional strain can be just as exhausting as battle. His bones feel hollow in its wake. He closes his eyes.

He's proud of himself that he was able to face the dread of history judging him and finally shed it. Only I have to understand myself, no one else.

He’s even proud of Rhysand, who’s finally beginning to untangle his need for control, his jealousy of Amarantha, and the selfishness still curling at the edges of his choices. Rhysand still has a long road ahead, but he's walking it.

He thinks these things over as he drifts off to sleep. His arms are unbound and lay limply in front of him.

***

Cassian stirs at the sound of the door opening and shutting, voices murmuring farewells between each. A male clears his throat, "A word, Rhysand?" Cassian tenses and holds his breath. It's the Hybern delegate.

Rhysand remains seated. Cassian doesn't move behind the desk.

"I observed something concerning," the Hybern delegate's tone is clipped, "Your pet has been unbound. Both yesterday and today."

Rhysand speaks in a measured voice, "He remained still," his chair creaks as he shifts, "If you truly felt threatened, you would’ve spoken up yesterday."

"That's not the point," the male's voice is stern, "He's a claimed possession of the Queen. A claimed possession should not appear free. Even if he behaves."

A pause. The silence stretches. Then Rhysand says, "Duly noted."

The delegate hesitates. "I'll make my report." His footsteps are heard crossing the room, and then the door opens and snicks shut without another word.

Rhysand doesn't move for several seconds, then exhales through his nose. "We're going to hear about it."

Cassian sits up, "Tomorrow?"

"Maybe tonight."

Zibri glances between them, the cheerful spark in his eyes dimming as he fidgets with the hem of his tunic.

Rhysand stands slowly, brushing his fingers through his hair, "Let's head to our room and get ready for the ball," he says, voice low. "No use pretending we don't know what's coming."

Cassian rises as well, trailing a step behind. Zibri offers a nod and says he'll finish tidying up. Neither of them responds.

They walk the quiet hallways without speaking. The torches along the wall flicker with the same orange flame that lights everything in this place, and the silence between them hangs heavy.

Back in their quarters, Rhysand sheds his coat. Cassian watches him move with precision, selecting his finest clothes: a deep black tunic embroidered with glints of silver, tight-fitted trousers, and the gleam of polished boots. He even fastens the ceremonial cuffs at his wrists, though they've always been for show. Tonight, they feel ominous.

Cassian, still bare-chested and tired, slowly sinks onto the edge of the rug. Asking if he should dress in something special is laughable. They both know what roles they'll be playing this evening. Cassian is the bare-chested and bare-footed pet.

Rhysand finishes dressing, every line of his body sharp with tension, but his face carefully blank. "Do I look like her favorite?" he asks, almost too lightly.

Cassian lifts his gaze, "You look like you always do before you bleed." Rhysand huffs a mirthless breath, then turns as a soft knock comes at the door. An escort steps inside. "Your presence is requested," she says, gaze flicking to Cassian without interest.

Rhysand walks to him, kneels, and begins strapping Cassian's arms behind his back in practiced silence. The leather feels colder than usual. His fingers move slowly from reluctance.

Rhysand rises again, squares his shoulders, and offers a hand to the escort. Together, the three of them step into the hallway and begin the long walk toward the ballroom.

The escort leads them through two massive onyx doors and into the ballroom. Music drifts through the air, soft and unobtrusive, a melody meant to underscore power disguised as elegance. The space is already filled with movement. Delegates swirl in polite clusters around high-standing tables, servants slipping between them with polished trays of wine and delicate food. Laughter peals in careful moderation. Over a hundred voices murmur, and yet it's a controlled noise that is watchful, restrained.

Cassian sees familiar attire. The Day Court. Autumn. Dawn. And the unmistakable flash of Hybern armor here and there. There are less of them, but louder in posture.

Amarantha is already at the heart of the room, cloaked in deep scarlet, her hair a curtain of fire down her back. She's not holding court from a throne tonight. She is in motion, touching arms, smiling too wide, whispering too closely.

When her eyes fall on Rhysand, the smile sharpens. She raises a goblet in one hand and lifts the other to call for silence.

"Lords and Ladies, honored guests," her voice cuts clean through the crowd, "May I have your attention for a most special toast!" She easily commands complete silence.

"My friends," she begins, her voice clear and bright, ringing effortlessly across the room, "Tonight we gather not only to celebrate the conclusion of our successful meetings, but to mark the birth of a new and elegant tradition."

Her eyes find Rhysand's across the crowd, glittering sharply as her smile deepens. "It is rare that I find myself inspired by another. But in Rhysand, I discovered a source of true creativity." Her gaze flickers briefly to Cassian, bound and silent, before sliding smoothly back to Rhysand. His steps slow as all the eyes in the room lay upon him.

"My most clever advisor, my loyal companion, has shown me that true power and ownership can be beautiful as well as effective." The room grows uncomfortably still as the meaning sinks in.

"Rhysand," Amarantha says warmly, almost lovingly. His steps stop and he keeps a cool gaze on her. "You taught me that control can be woven permanently into flesh. You showed me the elegance of pain, the beauty of subjugation. Your art on Cassian is legendary, inspiring, and deserving of imitation."

She gestures toward the back of the ballroom, where servants now kneel quietly, artists standing ready beside them with needles and ink.

"Tonight, your artistry becomes our court's tradition. Every one of these servants will bear permanent marks, tattoos inspired directly by Cassian, your original masterpiece." She pauses for effect, her eyes alight with triumph.

"Let us toast, then," she says with vibrant joy, raising her glass even higher, "to Rhysand, who taught us all the true meaning of claiming what is ours."

The ballroom echoes with murmurs and hesitant applause as a hundred goblets lift. Rhysand remains perfectly still, his expression carefully blank, but Cassian sees the silent horror in the tightening of Rhysand's jaw, in the faint tremble of his fingers at his side.

The evening drags on with excruciating predictability. Rhysand endures thinly veiled taunts from Amarantha's inner circle, each testing how far they can push his strained composure. He responds with calm disinterest, masking his growing tension behind careful indifference.

At one point, a bold Hybern courtier reaches out toward Cassian's wings, fingers curious and intrusive. Rhysand's reaction is immediate and sharp, voice low and dangerous as he murmurs a quiet threat that sends the courtier retreating hastily into the crowd.

Throughout the night, Rhysand's gaze keeps drifting unwillingly to the back of the ballroom. Each servant kneels silently as needles mark their flesh. Their quiet grimaces and stoic endurance twist something in his chest. Cassian sees how Rhysand's jaw tightens, how his eyes darken with barely-contained regret, but he says nothing.

Amarantha frequently drifts by, idly petting Cassian's hair, trailing fingers along his shoulders in slow, possessive gestures. Each touch feels deliberately calculated, intended less for Cassian's discomfort and more to test Rhysand's fraying nerves.

By the time the evening nears its close, Rhysand's carefully maintained façade shows faint signs of wear. There are small cracks appearing in his silent glances, he has tense shoulders, and shadows beneath his eyes.

Rhysand stands stiffly near the edge of the ballroom, gaze distant, body tense with forced composure. The laughter and conversations swirl around him, muted yet relentless, each carefully controlled expression and murmured exchange grinding against his nerves. Cassian remains silent beside him, arms bound, a careful mask of neutrality on his face.

Then, from across the crowded ballroom, Amarantha's voice rings clear and bright, unmistakably aimed at him. "Rhysand dear," she calls sweetly, lingering on each syllable, "Your Queen requires your service."

A heavy silence blooms outward, conversations faltering as heads subtly turn in his direction. Rhysand remains frozen for a heartbeat, and then two. Cassian sees the muscles in his jaw clench tight, the vein at his temple pulsing gently. With slow, deliberate grace, Rhysand moves forward.

Every step feels impossibly loud in the quieting ballroom. The music has softened, as though even the musicians have stopped breathing to watch his crossing. The crowd parts before him like a slow, mocking wave sounding of snickering, opening a clear path to Amarantha. And in that thick, tense silence come the whispers, too quiet for her to hear, but perfectly audible to Rhysand.

"Whore," someone breathes softly to his left, voice dripping contempt. Another voice, thin and cruel, murmurs from behind, "You betray Prythian."

Rhysand's eyes fix ahead, unwavering, though Cassian sees the faintest tightening at their corners. Another whisper floats up, louder and sharper, just beneath notice, "Sell out." And finally, nearly at Amarantha's waiting hand, one voice hisses clearly, "Traitor."

Rhysand's steps slow, but he does not stop. Cassian trails behind him, tense, watchful, witnessing Rhysand's humiliation with silent compassion. Every pair of eyes in the ballroom lingers on Rhysand's back, his shoulders, his bowed head.

When he finally reaches her, Amarantha extends her slender, perfectly manicured hand, smiling indulgently. Rhysand's fingers close gently, obediently around hers. She squeezes once, possessively, then turns to lead him from the room.

The whispers die down, and music returns hesitantly to the space Rhysand leaves behind, along with the echoes of quiet laughter and amused glances.

Amarantha leads Rhysand through the halls by the hand, passersby casting knowing glances their way. She guides them past her suite’s guards and straight into her bedroom.

"Cassian, be a dear and shut the door." He carefully toes the door closed with a soft snick.

"Rhysand," she commands lightly, "kneel."

Rhysand freezes. She's never asked him to kneel before. After a strained breath, he slowly lowers himself down.

Amarantha circles him slowly. "A little bird whispered something to me," she murmurs casually, "The bird tweeted that you don't keep your pet secured in public." Cassian’s breath catches, but he remains motionless.

She scrapes talon-like nails down Rhysand's scalp. He involuntarily hisses before pulling himself back together. She snaps her fingers, and Rhysand flinches as flame bursts around him. But he isn't burned. He tries to remain still as every piece of clothing burns away into ash.

Opening a drawer, she pulls out a leather binding, an identical copy of Cassian's arm bindings, and kneels behind Rhysand. She sharply pulls his arms back, binding them firmly. "You taught me this technique yourself, remember? Perhaps wearing it will help you recall the finer details." She yanks the straps tight, eliciting a sharp wince.

She returns to the drawer and pulls out a ball with leather straps hanging off it. She holds the ball up to Rhysand's face, "Open your mouth." He clenches his jaw as he swallows but then opens his mouth. She shoves the ball between his teeth then crosses behind him and buckles the straps tightly behind his head. Within moments, drool begins to fall from the side of his mouth.

"And we can't forget the last thing," she hums to herself as she returns to the drawer, "I made some improvements to your design." She pulls out another object and kneels behind Rhysand. Cassian can't see but hears Rhysand gasp and groan, and he bends forward slightly at the waist. She pulls on his arms to bring him back straight then ties a rope around his arms.

She stands and circles around Rhysand once again, admiring her work. Rhysand breathes heavily through the gag and sways forward and back with every lung full. Cassian can now see rope leading from his bound arms to a metal bar that goes down and disappears in the cleft of Rhysand's ass. Disappears in him.

"Perfect," she says sweetly, "I have successfully improved upon your design." Rhysand squeezes his eyes shut, pain and recognition twisting his expression.

"Stand." Rhysand's eyes widen as he tries to calculate just how to stand with his current predicament. After painful, deliberate effort, he rises with a grimace laying heavy on his face for the entire movement.

Amarantha walks to the door and opens it, smiling with cold satisfaction, "I'm done with you. You're dismissed."

Rhysand carefully walks out the door, his eyes narrowed in a permanent grimace. Cassian follows, helpless with his own arms bound behind him.

Rhysand limps gingerly across the suite's main room to the exit. Then Amarantha calls out, "I'll save the walk of shame for next time." Rhysand turns, puzzled. But she then waves a hand at them and suddenly they're folding through space.

They unfold in their bedroom. Both register silently where they've been transported. Rhysand takes a deep breath, then falls to his knees with a loud thump. His head bows, shoulders pulled back to ease the strain from the hook inside him. Drool slowly drips down onto his chest.

Cassian stands quietly behind him, his own arms still bound, carefully watching Rhysand’s trembling form. A tense silence settles between them. Rhysand breathes heavily through the gag, eyes squeezed shut. Finally, he opens them, staring numbly at the floor.

Cassian steps closer, softening his voice, "Do you want me to find a way to help?" Rhysand hesitates, then shakes his head very slightly. He breathes in slowly, carefully, eyes unfocused.

Cassian kneels beside him quietly. "You know," he begins gently, "exactly what this feels like now." Rhysand swallows, fresh drool dripping down his chin. He nods once, tightly.

Cassian takes another steady breath. "I think you always knew, deep down, what you were doing. You just refused to see it." Rhysand closes his eyes again, face twisting briefly in pain from Cassian’s quiet truth.

Cassian continues softly, without judgment, "It’s easy to ignore pain when you're not the one feeling it. It's easy to call it necessary, or justified." Rhysand’s breath hitches, his chest rising and falling unsteadily.

Cassian leans closer, voice barely above a whisper, "But you feel it now. You know exactly what you did." Rhysand slowly opens his eyes again, his gaze dark and broken. Another tremor moves through him.

Cassian carefully says, "Is this who you want to be, Rhysand? Someone who knows this pain and keeps causing it? Or do you truly understand the need to change now?" Rhysand breathes raggedly for a long moment, unable to respond through the gag. Then finally, slowly, he shakes his head firmly. No.

Cassian nods, compassion softening his voice, "Then that’s where we start." Rhysand bows his head again, accepting the simple, painful truth. He breathes deep, determined, even as his body shudders with every strained breath.

They kneel there, quiet, in front of the fire, having nothing to say. Rhysand filled with sorrowful apologies, and Cassian knowing Rhysand needs to process this in his own time.

Eventually Cassian stands and walks over to the bed. He uses his hip to roll the blankets back enough so that he can crawl under them. He lays on his side with his head on a pillow just staring at Rhysand's gently swaying form silhouetted by the fire. A line of drool glistens in the light and falls to the floor.

There's nothing Cassian can do. It's a trial Rhysand must endure, and overcome, himself.

Chapter Text

Cassian hates sleeping with his arms bound behind his back. It's so godsdamn uncomfortable. He feels alone in the bed. He slowly shifts a leg out to sweep across the sheets. He is alone in the bed. Where's Rhysand?

He kneels up and looks where Rhysand was last night. He's still there in front of the fire, except now laying on his stomach. Drool bubbles and spits around the gag in his mouth as he breathes. Arms still bound behind him and still tied to a hook inserted into his hole.

What are Her plans for us? She's never just abandoned us like this before. We're tied up, left alone in our room. What does she want from us?

He crawls off the bed and lumbers to the bathing chamber. He sits on the toilet, urinates, then balances on one foot while he flushes the toilet with the other. He glances around at the candles. They're going to expire soon without being replaced. He can flush a toilet with his toes, but there ain't no way he's going to be able to replace candles with his toes. The bathing chamber is going to be pitch dark in just a few hours.

He walks out to the main room and surveys the fireplace and pile of wood next to it. He might be able to drop a log into the fire with just his feet. He's probably going to get a little burnt in the process. Burnt toes or freezing cold darkness..? I think I'll go with the burnt toes.

The fire needs a new log soon. Let's get Rhysand out of the way and into bed. He kneels down next to him, "Hey. Rhysand. Are you okay?"

There's a loud slurping sound as Rhysand abruptly inhales around the spit slathered gag. He jerks and grimaces as his mind remembers the state of his body and why. He groans pitifully and stills.

"Com'on, get up. Get into the bed."

Rhysand rocks back and forth then makes an attempt to pull himself up, but then yelps and whines before laying flat again.

"I'm sorry, I can't help you. She left my arms bound, too."

Rhysand nods into the rug. The slurping sound from his gag grows louder and faster as he girds himself to move. Then in one swift movement he pulls himself up into a kneeling position, his face heavy in a grimace.

Cassian stands nodding once, "Good, almost there."

Rhysand's head hangs low with his chin against his chest. Fresh drool drains from his lips. He screws his eyes shut then lifts himself up into a standing position.

"Good, good job. Now go lay in bed." Rhysand nods and lumbers over to the bed. He lowers his top half gingerly into the bed, then uses his legs to pull himself fully onto it. He releases a loud wet sigh once he finishes situating himself onto his stomach.

Cassian turns his attention back to the fire. It needs that fresh log soon. He lowers himself onto his back and tries to grab a log with just his feet. He tries to pick it up and it slips. He tries a new grip that seems better. He holds the log up by his feet and scooches to turn and drop it in the fire, but he drops it right in front of the fire instead. He lowers his feet and breathes through his frustration.

He makes another attempt with the log. He tries tilting it upright and pushing it towards the fire. Then he just has to flip up the bottom and... "Fuck!" His foot slips right onto the burning log already there.

He jumps up hopping on the one good foot. He quickly assesses the hearth for safety, then hops into the bathing chamber and over to the tub. He sits on the edge, turns on the cold tap and puts his burned foot under the cold running water. Fuck.

He sighs. Burned foot or freezing cold darkness? What's the verdict now, genius?

Rhysand's voice drifts through his mind, Are you okay?

I burned my foot trying to put a log on the fire. I'll be fine, I have it under running water.

Why were you trying to put a log on the fire? With your feet?

We have no idea how long we're going to be left here. If we want any light and heat I'll have to figure out how to tend to a fire foot-first.

There's no immediate response. After a moment of silence Rhysand's voice says, I'm sorry I can't help.

Just stay in bed. You can't do anything else.

Cassian tries to find a position where the cold water runs steadily over the burn. It's the best treatment, he knows that, but it takes forever for the burn to stop progressing. He remembers once just brushing a boiling pot and needing to run water over his finger for what felt like an eternity. This burn on his foot is worse. Easily five times as boring before the cold water will prevent a huge blister from growing.

He hears movement in the main room and glances over. Rhysand is staggering toward the bathing chamber, his gait slow and unsteady.

"Why are you up?" Cassian asks, but Rhysand only grunts.

He crosses to the sink and leans forward, pushing the faucet handles with his forehead. Water begins to flow, and he shoves his gagged mouth beneath it.

"Oh fuck. You're dehydrated." Cassian watches as Rhysand nods slightly under the stream, letting the cold water splash over his face. The drooling. Gods, of course.

There's a soft sucking sound as Rhysand tries to slurp water past the gag. The flow just rolls around it. His legs tremble. His shoulders shake with the effort of holding himself steady, of getting anything at all from the water that slips away.

Amarantha says she's copying Rhysand, but she's just a sadist. Rhysand would have never let something like this happen to me. He wouldn't have just abandoned me to dehydrate. Rhysand continues to slurp loudly on the water running along the gag. In some ways, Rhysand has it worse than he ever did to me.

"What would justice look like for you?" Cassian asks in the quiet. "You never did to me what you're experiencing now. Does that mean it's excessive? Or just different?"

Rhysand sinks down to the floor and leans against the cabinet. I know people think I should die for what I did to you. But without a known heir, I can't die without risking a worse person being given the power of High Lord.

"Is the alternative then that you should suffer as I suffered? Eye for an eye?"

Eye for an eye makes the world blind.

"What does justice mean, then?"

Rhysand slurps loudly around his gag. I don't know. He lays down on the floor. I don't know.

Cassian focuses on his foot. He takes it out of the water and it immediately stings, so he sticks it back under the cold stream.

What does justice mean? Cassian turns the question over in his mind. There's also penance. Punishment. Revenge. Rehabilitation. Sending public messages as deterants. What parts do these all play?

Ultimately, we're just trying to make the world a better place, right? As long as a change is made so the offense won't happen again, that's all that's needed, right?

He looks over at Rhysand wetly breathing on the ground. He's made changes and promises to never repeat the offense. Is that all that's needed?

But I'm still angry. He changed. He gave me everything I wanted. But I can't forgive him. I just want him to be better. And I am pleased when I see him improve. But I still have this anger inside me.

He tests his foot in the air again. It's better. He turns off the tub with his good foot then gingerly stands so he doesn't slip as he steps out of the tub. He limps over to a cabinet and noses it open. He sighs. He'd like to wrap his foot in a wet cloth but how is he going to manage that without any arms? Looks like I'm going to have to just withstand the pain. He shoulders the cabinet shut.

Rhysand stands and nudges the sink faucet on with his forehead and slurps more water. Cassian leaves and sits in front of the fire.

Cassian watches the fire dance and listens to the snaps and cracks in the foreground, and Rhysand slurping water in the background. His foot stings like crazy, so he's trying to keep his mind off of it.

I don't feel guilty that Rhysand is being punished for basically my mistake. I was the one who didn't hide my arms from the Hybern delegate. I was the one who messed up.

But I don't truly feel bad when Rhysand suffers. I have an urge to stop his pain. I have an urge to comfort him. But there is a part of me that feels satisfied. Satiated. Is that revenge? Or the feeding of justice?

He stands and limps over to the bed. He grabs a pillow with his teeth and drops it in front of the fire. Then he settles down on the floor and rests his head on the pillow. I can't let the fire go out. I'll just lay here so I can monitor it. He stares at the fire and zones out.

 

~•~

 

Cassian's aches and pains force him up. He rolls his shoulders. He stands up and shakes out his legs. He looks around and doesn't see Rhysand. He goes into the bathing chamber and doesn't see him there, either. Candles have started going out. The room will be pitch dark soon.

He makes an aimless loop around the room while puzzled and then sees him: he's curled up in the tub shivering. The spout is dripping water onto his cheek and rolling onto the gag. Gods, he must be so dehydrated.

"Are you awake?" Cassian whispers.

Rhysand sucks in a mighty slurp. Barely.

He can't possibly sleep with all that shivering. Cassian goes back into the bedchamber. He drags a fur off the bed with his teeth, then kick-limps the fur over to the tub. He lifts it with his teeth and drapes it across the tub. He nudges it here and there with a foot and his forehead until he gets it just right.

Thank you. Rhysand slurps the water dripping onto his face.

Cassian sinks to the floor and leans against the tub. He tilts his head back against the rim. He watches a candle that is about to gutter out. He counts silently to himself. One... two... three... four... For no particular reason. Just to occupy his mind.

Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... one hundred... He listens to Rhysand's gentle slurping. He can even hear the faint shivering of his knees against the tub. I tried to help with the fur. Why do I help him? Maybe it's just my impulse. I see someone hurting and want to help.

He sucks in a slow deep breath then blows it out even slower. One hundred... ninety-nine... ninety-eight... ninety-seven...

Four... three... two... one... He punctuates the completion with a deep breath. He hasn't had to deal with extreme boredom in a long time. Not since he's been able to read well.

He stands up to go over to the fire but pauses as he looks at Rhysand's trembling form. The demon of revenge is being fed by this view. Should he let it be fed? Should he give in to the demon's hunger for more?

He lets it feed. He listens to Rhysand suckle water off the gag. His jaw must hurt. His teeth must hurt. He must be exhausted because he can't rest completely. Shivering. All the side effects of dehydration. He probably has a headache.

"You must feel miserable."

A shudder rolls down Rhysand's form. I'll survive. I think.

Cassian turns and limps back into the bedchamber and lowers himself into a cross legged position in front of the fire. What would I feel like if Rhysand didn't survive?

I'd be pissed.

He scoffs at himself. Because he needs to live to make up what he did to me. He bows his head. Is that my sense of revenge? For Rhysand to live? To continue repaying me?

He lifts his head and watches the logs shift and spit embers. Rhysand’s soft slurping drifts from the other room. Yes. Let him live. Let him live to keep paying the debt. The flames snap. He’ll keep feeding the fire.

He lets his eyes close, just for a moment, head nodding forward, then jerking back upright. Sleep teases at him, a lull of darkness behind his eyelids. His burned foot throbs. The warmth flickers across his skin in waves. There's a rustling in the bathing chamber when Rhysand shifts position.

He lays his head down on the pillow and gazes at the familiar cracks in the ceiling. His eyes drift closed.

Aches wake him and he evaluates the fire. It'll almost need a log soon. He shifts to his other shoulder and closes his eyes.

Throbbing in his shoulder can no longer be ignored. He sits up. Only two candles remain. He turns to the fire. Just a small flame remaining. Time for a new log.

He grits his teeth. “Alright,” he murmurs to the empty room. “Let’s feed the fire.”

He lays on his back, uncomfortably squishing his arms, and drags a log over to the fire with his feet. He tries to figure out how to not make the same mistake twice. He scoots closer to the fire. He firmly presses his feet on either side of the log. He slowly and carefully lifts it. Moves it over the fire. Slowly carefully lowers it, ignoring the screaming pain from his burn, and then gently places it down. He lets go and rolls back. Success!

There's stinging in his feet. He brings them as close to his face as he can, and sees splinters. Fuck. Of course. He sighs. He can't exactly bring his foot to his mouth to pull it out.

Or can he...? He's bored enough to try. He snickers to himself as he tries to touch his nose with his toe. He rolls around on the floor ridiculously. He can touch his nose with his toe. He tries the challenge of pulling out the biggest splinter with his teeth. He rolls around chuckling, laughing at himself. This is actually pretty good exercise. I'm stretching muscles I've never stretched before.

There's a large slurp sound from the bathing chamber and then Rhysand's voice floats through his mind, What is so funny out there?

Cassian barks a laugh. He stands and limps on both feet into the bathing chamber. "Got splinters in my feet. I'm bored enough to try to pull them out with my teeth."

Wet laughter echoes from the tub. I wish I saw that!

"I'm glad you didn't!" They both chuckle.

Cassian limps over to the tub. It's completely black in here. All the candles are out. He can't see Rhysand's form, but he can hear the faint rattling that he's still shivering.

He sinks to the floor and leans on the tub. "What have you been doing through this boredom?"

Thinking. Rhysand slurps.

"Thinking about what?"

We've been trapped for months under a sadistic ruler who has taken daily sexual interest in me. This is my life now.

Cassian huffs. "Sounds familiar..."

Rhysand exhales a wet sigh. It is. I'm just humiliated less and have more freedom than you did.

"She's not going to teach you history, though."

Rhysand sits up. You appreciated that?

"I did. A lot," Cassian sighs, "When the High Lords separated us, I... I missed my friend... The one who talked to me about history and philosophy late into the evening."

Rhysand lays back down. I can't imagine ever considering Amarantha a friend. Or even enjoying her company.

"Neither can I. But she's not as... complex as you. There are parts I hate, and parts I like." He rolls his head on the rim of the tub. "It makes it hard to hate the whole of you."

Rhysand slurps. And hard to like the whole of me.

"Yup," Cassian emphasizes the pop sound.

Silence stretches filled with the Rhysand's wet breathing.

I like the whole of you.

Cassian rolls his eyes and drops his head. He knows. Rhysand more than just likes him. Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe it's what has been the catalyst towards him becoming a better person. But the past few days, he's let his emotions get the better of him and put them in dangerous positions.

Cassian turns and kneels facing the blackness that is Rhysand's direction. "I don't love you, Rhysand. I can't."

Rhysand's breath hitches wetly. Then silence stretches. Cassian lets the silence sit.

Finally, Rhysand sends, I know.

Cassian waits a moment, then stands and limps back to sit in front of the fire. He sighs deeply.

What was that song? Cassian searches his memory. I want you. I need you. But there ain't no way I'm ever going to love you. He looks over at the bathing chamber door. He drops onto the pillow so hard it knocks the breath from his lungs. He's my friend. My life feels incomplete without him. We fuck. But I can't love him. I still have this... disgust towards him.

He rolls his head and looks around the room. There's just one last candle. It must be... afternoon. Almost evening. He looks at the main door. Maybe she'll free us tonight? Maybe just a couple more hours?

His body completely deflates. She's not freeing us tonight. Time moves too fast for her. She won't comprehend how terrible this is. And if she did comprehend, she'd want the worst.

We're not nearing the end. We're nearing the middle.

His stomach roils with nausea. More of this. More of this boredom. More of this... He sits up and pulls on the arm restraints. These goddamn bindings! He tugs and pulls. Anger builds up. More of this fucking insanity! He yanks on the bindings until his shoulders strain. Until the rage hits bone.

Suddenly he screams! He roars! "Fuck this fucking shit!"

Cassian hears Rhysand fall in the bathing chamber. He snaps to his feet and dashes to the other room. "Are you okay?"

Rhysand's heavy wet breathing sounds from the floor. I was going to ask you!

"Fuck, I'm sorry." He gingerly toes around the blackened room where he thinks Rhysand is on the floor. He finds him and kneels next to him.

What happened?

"I just... I lost my temper. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry I scared you. Are you hurt?"

His breathing is wet and loud. I'll probably have some bruises. It's alright, though.

"Do you want to get back into the tub?"

He can hear Rhysand moving and feel the heat of his body shift. Yeah. I still feel like I'm dying of thirst. I'm drooling faster than I can lick up more water.

He hears Rhysand's bare feet gingerly walk over to the tub, then the groan as he places his weight into it. The tub quietly thunks as his knees and elbows bang against the side while he lays down.

Cassian carefully limps to the tub and finds the furs. He lifts it up with his teeth and drapes it over Rhysand's body. He can't see if any of his body is exposed or not. But he figures some warmth is better than none.

"Don't get up again. You wouldn't be able to help me in your state, anyway."

Rhysand sighs wetly. Instinct. I just... I wasn't thinking. I just wanted to do anything to help.

"I know," he sinks down to the floor, "We should talk about that." He breathes a few times quietly. "You've endangered us the last few days because of how you feel about me." He pauses again. "You need to reign in your emotions."

Cassian shifts closer, the floor biting into his knees. His voice is steady, quieter now. "Because they’re going to get us both killed if you don’t."

Rhysand’s breath rattles wetly from inside the tub. Cassian can hear the faint slurp as he drags water across the gag, fighting thirst.

I know, Rhysand finally sends, weak.

Cassian’s tone sharpens. "Do you know what’s behind this flood of emotions?"

Rhysand shifts under the fur as if to hide. Instinct, he whispers in Cassian’s mind. I just…

"Not instinct. Name it." Cassian’s jaw locks tight. "Say it, Rhysand. Say exactly why."

Rhysand goes still. The water rhythmically drips and splashes on the flesh of Rhysand's cheek. He twists his body as his thoughts are likely twisting in his mind.

Cassian hooks his chin on the rim of the tub so his voice is clear. "Say it."

Rhysand’s thought is a whisper, so small it almost slips away. Because I… love you.

Cassian’s eyes close. The truth in the open air feels like a blade’s edge against raw skin. He lets it cut.

"Yeah. That," Cassian breathes. "The way your love is spilling out is hurting me. Threatening our lives. Your love is making you stupid. Reckless. It makes you a weapon Amarantha can use on both of us."

Rhysand’s breathing stutters, a faint wet whimper behind the gag. Cassian lets him cry. Sometimes truths need tears to accompany them.

When Rhysand's breaths return to normal, Cassian continues. "To truly protect me, you need to redirect that energy from your heart to your mind. You have to be cold. Clear. You have to be the mask. The schemer. Not the lover throwing himself into her jaws."

Rhysand shifts under the fur. I know, he tries again, but it’s hollow.

Cassian cuts him off. "No. Your heart needs to know. Your core needs to believe it." Cassian kneels up and bends over the edge of the tub to get closer to him. "Believe in your mind, Rhysand. It is your mind that will save me. Your heart will kill me. Your mind will save me. Believe it."

He straightens. "Know it in your soul. Use your love the way you use every weapon you’ve ever had. Turn it into something cold. Turn it into strategy. Calculation. Use it to live."

Rhysand’s breath hitches again, a sound half broken, half stubborn. But if I stop feeling…

"You don’t stop feeling," Cassian says, quiet but brutal. "You redirect the energy. That's why you need to believe to the very core of you that it is your mind that will save me."

The fire crackles somewhere behind him. The darkness presses in as the silence stretches.

"Do you understand me?"

Rhysand’s mind touches his like a trembling hand. I understand.

Cassian lets out the breath he’s been holding. He nods, though Rhysand cannot see.

"Good," he whispers. "Then we survive this together. With cold minds. Not hearts that spill everything for her to lap up."

Rhysand shifts again, curling tighter under the fur. I will try.

Cassian lays his head against the tub’s edge again. "You owe me success."

He closes his eyes, listening to Rhysand’s slurping. He settles back down to sit on the floor. "I believe in your mind, Rhysand. I believe you will save me."

He smiles, "I'm not the only one. Do you remember what Thalion said? He said your mind is crucial to saving us. He believes in you, too."

He turns his head closer to Rhysand, "I'm not saying this to put pressure on you. I'm saying this to encourage you to believe in yourself. If your core trusts your mind, then your heart will follow."

Rhysand's slurping and wet breaths stutter as he thinks. Then he says, You're right. I've stopped believing in myself.

"Tell me."

He licks at the ball gag for a few moments. I let myself be corrupted when I ascended to High Lord. My mind did that. How can I trust in my decisions after something like that?

"Was it your mind? Or was it your emotions?"

Everything I did, I tried to be logical about it.

"Everything you did to me was not logical. The worst you did to me was to satisfy sadistic urges. Sadistic emotions seeking pleasure, not success."

The wet noises stop as Rhysand's breathing stops. You're... right. His wet breathing resumes. I wanted to feel things and I just... took it.

"So then it has been your emotions that corrupt your goals, not your mind. Your mind built the mask. Your mind built this whole Court. It’s your urges that broke it. Not your mind." He turns and kneels to lean into the tub again. "Believe it. Believe in your mind. Your cold, calculating, rational mind. It will save me."

He sits back down and waits through the silence, wet breathing, and snapping fire. He watches the flickering light of the fire spilling through the doorway.

Rhysand slurps loudly. Alright. Yes. I believe in my mind.

Cassian smiles to himself. It looks like he got through to Rhysand. Now to see if it works in action.

Rhysand continues to breathe wetly while he thinks. Cassian doesn't want to disturb that so he lays down on the floor watching the flickering firelight in the doorway.

He watches the dancing lights and listens to Rhysand's wet breathing for awhile, but the cold sinks into his bones. He gets up and limps to the fireplace and lays his head on the pillow. He allows his eyes to drift closed.

 

~•~

 

Cassian's eyes open and close in a flutter as he drifts in and out of consciousness. He watches the fire steadily get smaller and smaller. Finally it's small enough to need another log.

He groans and prepares himself for the inevitable pain of splinters. He scoots over and does the easy part of transporting the log to the fireplace. Then he positions himself for the hard part of lifting the log and carefully placing it into the fire with his feet. He lifts it and grimaces from the pain of the burn on his foot getting close to the heat. He maneuvers the log over the fire and--

-- it falls and explodes the embers. Some embers get in his pant legs and sizzle tight against the skin.

He jumps up and yells, "Get out of the tub! Now!" and dashes into the bathing chamber. He hears Rhysand tumble to the floor only a moment before he trips over him and topples into the tub. He frantically pushes on the cold water knob so the water gushes out of the spout and onto his legs.

"Check the fire! Make sure nothing is catching fire!"

Cassian tries to get his calves wet and shake the embers out of his pants. Rhysand scrambles up off the floor and he sees his silhouette disappear through the door. He hears a wet yelp and stomping sounds from the other room. Godsdamnit. Something caught on fire.

He leaves Rhysand to worry about it. He needs to stop these burns. And he can't take off his pants. Fuck.

He scoots and flops around in various positions until he finds a position where he's half on his stomach with his legs up and drifting each calf back and forth under the flowing water.

Rhysand comes back in. Are you alright?

"I will be," his voice echoes up from the bottom of the tub, "I think the first burn was worse. But now there's several up the back of both calves."

Rhysand wetly sucks in a breath. Fuck. Cassian, I think you need to let the fire go.

He knows Rhysand's right, but... "We'll have no heat and no light. For an entire day."

Why do you think it'll be another day?

"Think about it." If Cassian can figure it out, Rhysand can.

Oh fuck. We're going to be like this another day. He hears Rhysand sink to the floor with a faint thump.

"Yeah. That realization is why I was screaming earlier."

If I weren't so tired I'd be screaming, too. He hears another faint thud on the ground. Probably Rhysand's forehead hitting the floor.

"Something caught on fire?"

Your pillow was burning. There's a nice hole in it now. Everything else is fine, though.

"Why don't you warm up by the fire while there's still some warmth left."

Yeah, I'll go try. Cassian hears Rhysand stumble to his feet and pad out of the room.

Cassian knows he has to let the fire go. But what are they going to do in the cold and dark for an entire day? He slowly wags his legs back and forth under the running water. Rhysand needs a near constant supply of water. We both need heat. We could maybe stuff ourselves here in the tub with blankets. He chuckles into the porcelain. It could be fun to try. Two half-starved idiots wedged together in cold water under blankets. Miserable.

Rhysaaaaand, he pushes towards him, how's the fire?

Warmer than the tub, that's for sure.

Enjoy it while it lasts. He sighs heavily. I'm going to let the fire go.

Good. I don't want you getting burnt any more.

Because you can't stand to see me hurt?

Because your chances of survival reduce the more injured you become.

Cassian smiles into the water pooling in the tub. That's the spirit. You're getting it.

He wags his legs out of the water. One is alright, but the other one seems to have a nastier burn on it. He focuses the water on that one spot. Any ideas how to not have boredom kill us over the next day?

What is the first thing you want to do when we're free from Her?

Dangerous question. Cassian huffs and splashes some of the water back into his face. Besides curling up in bed?

Gods yes. I think just being in our own bed in our own bedchamber will feel... magical.

Slipping around your silk sheets again... Cassian's eyes flutter at the thought of such pleasure.

Our silk sheets. Anything that is personally mine is also yours.

He sighs heavily. I'm... not comfortable with that.

Why not?

Cassian screws his eyes shut. I... I don't have intentions... for us to be permanent. What's yours needs to stay... yours.

I understand.

He fidgets in frustration. I've just been trying to survive in life. For the past seven years I've just been thinking about life one month at a time. He cracks his neck. We signed our Agreement and I could see my life for just that month and know I'd be okay and didn't have to worry about permanency because it was only a month.

A month at a time for seven years... Rhysand says slowly.

Our relationship is different now, Rhysand. You're not my Dom taking care of me any more.

Rhysand doesn't respond right away. But then he eventually asks, What I am I?

You're my friend.

Cassian tests how the burn is doing. It stings like fucking hell, but he has to get up. He rolls over and nudges the tap closed, then stands and shakes out the excess water.

He limps out to the bedchamber. Rhysand is on his side, head on the pillow, staring at the fire, breathing wetly. Drool on his chin glistens in the firelight. He looks up at Cassian when he hears him approach. He looks like a lost puppy.

Cassian kneels down in front of him. "You're my friend. And as long as you stay on this path of self improvement, I will stay your friend."

Rhysand looks down at the floor and nods. He looks so sad. Cassian never saw him with friends. He keeps trying with Azriel, but Az keeps his distance. Amren is, well, Amren. And that's it.

Can High Lords even make friends? Especially one with the moniker of running the Court of Nightmares on fear and intimidation? Shit. His only true friend may have been his sister, and she was murdered shortly before he ascended to High Lord.

"Rhysand." His violet eyes look up at him. "Being friends is a good thing. It's better than what we had with The Agreement." His eyes look hopeful. "One doesn't need to sign monthly contracts to be friends."

Rhysand's eyes search the room looking for answers, then he looks back up at Cassian. You're right.

Cassian smiles. He stands and steps over Rhysand, snuggles down behind him, and hooks a wet leg around his legs. He buries his forehead in the back of his neck and whispers, "Friendship is better than what we had." A lack of love doesn’t prohibit him from caring.

There's a long silence before Rhysand responds. Thank you, Cassian.

He listens to Rhysand's rhythmic wet breathing and the sizzling of the dying fire. They'll be in the dark soon. He snuggles closer to Rhysand. But they have each other.

 

~•~

 

Sleep was fitful while they shivered together. Cassian gradually watched the light disappear until finally he opens his eyes and sees nothing but blackness. He lifts his head to peer over Rhysand and can see only faint glowing red in the fireplace that casts no illumination elsewhere.

Rhysand stirs and sits up. I need to get water.

"Want to try squeezing in the tub together? I could probably wrap us in blankets from the bed."

Let's try it. Sharing body heat may be better.

"Go get situated in the tub. I'll bring the blankets from the bed."

Okay, Rhysand stands and carefully pads away in the pitch blackness.

Cassian limps over to the bed. He crawls on top and kicks the blankets off the mattress. Then he kick-limps them over to the tub.

"Are you in a good position to get water?"

I think so? If I sit with my head resting on my knees, the water can drip between my lips and the ball.

Cassian stands on one foot and uses the other to sweep through the tub so he can get an idea of where Rhysand is. He seems to be scrunched up by the spout giving Cassian space to sit. He also feels that the furs are on the bottom of the tub. Probably a good idea.

He picks up the blanket with his teeth and pulls it up and over Rhysand. He keeps hold of it and stands in the tub, doing a semi twirl as he lowers himself down to pull and wrap the blanket around himself. He hunkers down into the tub, squeezed up next to Rhysand.

"It's not... too... bad." Cassian offers.

It'll do for now. But we can't stay squeezed in here like this for hours on end. We'll need to occasionally stretch and move.

"Fuck," Cassian huffs. "I did have a little vision of us snuggled together in the tub for hours on end."

It is a sweet vision. But one of us is going to lose our mind and be in desperate need to move.

"Wanna bet who will crack first?"

Rhysand huffs a wet laugh. You. Absolutely you will break first. You're always itching to move and be active.

"Have you forgotten that you trained me to stay still in uncomfortable positions for hours on end?"

I was bad, but not that bad. I would let you lay down and change positions! You were so damn fidgety. I felt bad for you.

"Were those your first inklings of empathy?"

Rhysand slurps loudly. Huh. Maybe.

There is silence before Rhysand continues. You've been really good for me, Cassian.

Cassian leans his head on Rhysand's shoulder. "I'm glad," he whispers, "I'm glad I've done more in this world than just bloodshed."

They shiver in silence. It's been such a hard road, but even while under the sadistic Amarantha, he appreciates who he's become under these trials.

 

~•~

 

They shiver together. Cassian's teeth are chattering. This is exhausting but it's too difficult to stay asleep for any length of time with the pains and shivering. Rhysand is suckling water on the ball gag. Cassian wants to get up and stretch but doesn't want to be the one to break first. Not after Rhysand was convinced he would break first! Now he has to prove him wrong. His stubbornness will win out. He's sure of it.

I'm looking forward to walking the streets of Velaris again, Rhysand's voice enters his mind.

Cassian hums his agreement. "Nice sunny day."

Lunch on the riverbank.

"From that sandwich shop on 5th Street. What's it called?"

Laegio's. That place has been there since I was a kid.

"Wow," Cassian lifts his head. "How many places have been around that long?"

Not many. But it seems like if an establishment can make it to the two hundred year mark, they'll make it to the five hundred year mark.

"So is Laegio's our first stop once we're out of here?"

Rhysand huffs wetly. I thought I'd want to go to my favorite restaurant first. But. I think a quiet picnic away from people would be a better start.

"Yeah," he rests his head on his knees, "I don't think I'd want to sit in a restaurant surrounded by people who have been free the whole time. I'd feel..."

... trapped. Isolated.

"Yeah. That."

They shiver in silence. Then, "How long until someone figures out how to take Her down?"

I don't know. She keeps herself pretty secure. Never leaves the palace.

Cassian presses his eyes into his knees. "Hopefully it's soon."

Hopefully.

Cassian presses his eyes harder into his knees. Hopefully. He holds the word like a fragile ember, the only warmth left besides Rhysand’s shoulder.

Gods this is boring. He rolls his forehead back and forth along his knees. But this is better than... listening to any more of Kier's stories. He chuckles. This is better than... that time Viri dragged me to a a Dawn Court poetry recital where everyone snapped instead of clapped. He lets out a groaning snicker. This is better than...

Rhysand slurps. What's so funny?

"Would I rather be here... or listen to Tamlin discuss the Spring Court tithe system?"

Rhysand snorts, then pops his head up as he coughs. Where did you get that from?

"Would you rather be still here shivering in this tub... or... sit through a week-long lecture from Keir about 'proper court etiquette'... while sober."

Rhysand chuckles. That's a difficult one. Do I get to sleep in a warm bed at night between each day of lecturing?

"Yes."

Then Kier's lecture. Definitely the lecture.

"Okay okay." Cassian lifts his head and thinks. "Would you rather be right here or... read the entire 700-page Night Court treasury report aloud. Non-stop."

Rhysand snickers wetly. That is a tough one. Would there be any consequences if I messed up the reading?

"Yes. You'd have to announce that you're a big stupid idiot, do five summersaults in front of the entire Night Court assembly, and then start over from the beginning."

He shivers and snickers. I'd rather be here. They both chuckle.

Would you rather do five summersaults in front of the entire Night Court assembly... or... listen to one of Tamlin's stories?

"Summersaults all the way!"

Yup. Definitely summersaults.

Cassian snickers into his knees. “I can’t... just picturing you in your fancy clothes, flipping over like a drunk acrobat...” He breaks into muffled giggles.

My crown clattering onto the floor. They burst out laughing.

"Would you rather walk to your throne in front of the Court of Nightmares assembly wearing fuzzy black pajamas and fluffy slippers... or... one of your nice and fancy finely tailored suits... in hot pink."

Oh fuck. That's a good one. I honestly don't know which is worse. They chuckle.

Would you rather spend an entire week... stuck in the form of a housecat, or be glamoured to look like Tamlin?

"Easy! I'd be a housecat! Can you imagine all the massages I could get?"

Rhysand huffs wetly. I should give you more massages.

"I would not argue." They softly snicker.

"Would you rather be magically compelled to... speak only in rhymes for a week... or... compliment Tamlin sincerely every time you see him--"

I'd just hide from Tamlin, Rhysand interrupts.

"-- for the rest of your life."

Oh shit. You're good at this. Would I have to make any public appearances while rhyming?

"Absolutely. Every day."

I don't know what's worse.

They look at each other and laugh. Shiver and laugh. Then they're just shivering.

Rhysand’s voice drifts back in. Would you rather hang out with your old barracks buddies for a week while wearing a hot pink ballgown… or while compelled to sing everything you say in an opera voice?

Cassian fake-groans. "Ballgown. Hot pink. With a big feathery hat. Anything but singing."

Rhysand snorts. Good choice.

Cassian's teeth chatter as he speaks, "Would you rather be stuck wearing boots that squeak ridiculously with every step… or a cloak that moos like a cow every time you open a door?"

Rhysand slurps and wetly huffs a few laughs. Mooing cloak. It'd be so funny to watch people's faces as they're like, 'Did the door just moo?'

Cassian shakes as he laughs. "Mooooo..."

Rhysand wetly huffs then makes a wet strangled humming noise.

"Was that your attempt at mooing?"

... yes.

They barks laughs, rattling the tub. Rhysand's spittle sprays with each laugh. They look at each other and laugh some more, leaning their foreheads on each other. Cassian huffs air in Rhysand's face, and Rhysand huffs spittle into Cassian's.

"Oh gods, this situation is so fucking ridiculous."

Amarantha is fucking ridiculous.

"Her obsession with Tamlin is fucking ridiculous."

It may be her only weakness. We should figure out how to exploit it. Rhysand rests his head back on his knees.

"Any ideas?"

To keep our eyes open, ears listening, and wait.

"... and wait." Cassian's teeth chatter. There is a lot of waiting in their immediate future. He lets his eyes close. The water drips. Cassian lets the quiet swallow him, drifting under with the soft, absurd sound of Rhysand slurping water in the dark. The cold presses in. But for now, they doze.