Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Aelin hissed through her teeth as she eyed Terrasen in the distance.
The once beautiful city, looked coated in shadows.
The army in the distance was standing rigidly, not moving an inch.
She knew they could see her.
She could feel the eyes of the Valg watching. She gnawed her lip as she held tightly to the neck of the Lord of the North.
She felt the absence of Rowan like a gnawing void. She shoved down the darkness inside her. Pushing it deep beneath her abyss of flames.
She could still feel the bond between them, faint though it was. As long as it was still there, there was air in Rowan’s lungs.
“Hold on,” she thought, “Don’t die before I get to dramatically rescue you.”
With that, she refocused on her people, her kingdom.

Her companions were right behind her, but Chaol and Dorian rode alongside.
The three of them had started all of this.
It was fitting they led the end of it.

She raised Goldryn high, letting the last glimmers of sunlight catch the stone shimmering in the blade, then illuminated it in flames.
The Queen of Terrasen had returned.

Aedion whooped from the castle walls, as he spotted his cousin leading a charge.
“Right on time,” he grinned, turning to Lysandra.

She smirked at him, before pointing to the west.
‘Do you think they planned this?”

Flaming cloaks caught the air, and the army whooped as Manon led her people, the lost Crochans, towards Terrasen.
Lysandra nudged Aedion, drawing his attention away.
“Sometimes I wonder if Aelin just has blackmail on all of them so they help her.” She said, her green eyes crinkled at the edges.
Aedion chuckled as he readied his shield, his first laugh, in-in a while.
“I wouldn’t put it past my cousin.”

He refocused on the shadowed army in the distance. 
They hadn’t moved since the attack at sundown yesterday. It was as if they were waiting for someone.
He glanced at his cousin, burning a like a falling star as she rode toward them.
Was she, burning the ground beneath her?

“General!” A voice called to his right, a man held a telescope out to him.
It wasn’t fire it was-.
Oh.
King’s Flame.
“Maybe Queen’s Flame now though,” he thought semi-deliriously.

“FOR TERRASEN!” His cousin roared.
“FOR TERRASEN!” They echoed.

Aelin leaped off of the Lord of the North, bowing to him as she turned to face the army.
The shadows were oppressive, even from this distance.
Dorian rested his hand on her shoulder, not bothered by the heat coming off her, his eyes fixated on the Crochans in formation above them.
“Together?”
“Together.”

One, final time they linked their hands together, and stepped forward.

“MAEVE.” Aelin demanded.
“ERAWAN.” Dorian roared at the same time.

It was time to end it all.
Manon unleashed Wind-Cleaver behind them, the only sound being the sound of her blade.

Then, the army parted.
Aelin and Dorian continued moving forward, but the charge for battle had not yet begun.
Fenrys watched the parting, his eyes yellow like a wolf.
“Aelin.” He said, his voice carrying to the Queen, “Something is wrong.”

Aelin merely gritted her jaw, her eyes blazing like twin coals, while Dorian’s eyes were as dark and frozen as a glacier.

An individual walked through the horde, coated in black.
Dorian recoiled at the sight of it.

Aelin continued stepping forward, and now everyone followed behind.

One step.
One step.
One step.

The warrior walked alone past the army. Aelin watched as it prowled toward them. There was something distinctly feral about the way it moved.
Dorian squeezed her hand in warning.
“No matter what face it wears, no mercy.”
Aelin squeezed back.
“No mercy.”

The warrior was only a few hundred paces away from them, the army flanked out behind Aelin.
Two shadows formed into Maeve and Erawan, either side of the cloaked figure.

‘Is this your champion, you Valg-fucking bitch?” Aelin spat at Maeve, who smiled viscously, her lips red.

Lorcan and Fenrys unsheathed their blades, the ring of steel a threat as much as it was a promise.

“Don’t you recognise our beautiful champion Aelin?” Maeve purred, cocking her head like an owl.
“I recognise that you murdered yet another innocent for your own fucking gain.”
Aelin’s voice was cold and harsh, but she let go of Dorian’s hand, her magic burning and twisting, fear coiling in her stomach and all she could see was an iron mask locking her away.

Erawan’s golden eyes glimmered briefly as he eyed the Queen’s Flame in Aelin’s footprints.

And with that, the warrior took off his hood.
Aelin’s blood turned to ice in her veins.

The collar.
The motherfucking collar.

Green eyes caught the last echoes of sunlight, before fading into a hollow chasm of black. 
No.
Aelin could feel herself ripping once again at the edges as she stared at the warrior.
As flames of white and gold coated her hands, her magic going wild.

Rowan.

Dorian watched Aelin’s minuscule flinch.
He had felt something was off.
Sure, there was the whole foreboding sense of existential dread, but he had grown up in a palace with a Valg, even if he hadn’t known it at the time. The look on Maeve’s face when she had appeared behind the warrior had clued him in.

But Aelin?
She loved fiercely, and Rowan was her- well Dorian didn’t exactly understand their relationship (nor did he want to, they seemed very horny whenever they were together), but he knew how he’d be feeling if it was Manon or Chaol in front of them.
He sheathed his hand in ice, and cool winds, and gently took her hand, lacing their fingers together.
She needed to be grounded for this.
Hell, he needed to be grounded of this.
Erawan was wearing his cousin’s face.
He hadn’t noticed him missing until he was gone.
Dorian wasn’t going to lie, at least not to himself.
It hurt.

They had been family once (always).
And for him, he would make Erawan’s death quick.

He refocused back to the matter at hand, drawing his eyes away from Roland’s face with Erawan’s eyes.
They still had to deal with the Wyrdkeys that were dangling from Aelin’s neck.
Aelin’s eyes flicked to him, then to the collar around Rowan’s neck.

“Breathe Aelin.” He murmured, eyes not moving from Rowan, “You can’t save him if you are not one hundred percent here.”
Aelin’s brow furrowed, and she clenched her jaw, and nodded tightly.

Maeve grinned wider.
And then, faster then Dorian could follow, Aelin unsheathed Goldryn, and lunged for Rowan’s heart.
Dorian immediately went for Erawan.
Aelin spared one look for Fenrys and Lorcan, nodding at Maeve.

And then it began.

Both sides broke out into a sprint, and bodies and shadows and husks collided and fell and leapt.
Dorian focused on his battle.
He just hoped Aelin knew what she was doing.

Aelin could feel the Wyrdkeys burning into her skin as she dipped into her magic, turning Goldryn from a deadly blade into a fiery death.
She had to fight Rowan.
And she had to win.
Rowan’s familiar magic was harsh and cold and lethal, the Valg Prince inhabiting him was mimicking his movements to hurt her.
He was a parasite she would rip out and burn alive, burn him slowly.
She didn’t notice how she truly became her power, the flames coating her armour, and hair, until one could no longer separate them.

But she didn’t unleash herself.
She was saving that for one Valg-bitch queen.
And she would make it burn.

She lunged and spun, not giving Row- the Valg time to get in edgewise, she knew how Rowan’s body ticked, and the Valg didn’t know her.
But then, the Valg, blew her back with a powerful gust of icy wind, lethal shards of ice blew at her, melting in her fiery corona.
He turned and ran for the castle.
It was like he was hunting for someone.
Then she saw Lysandra’s dragon, taking down wyvern after wyvern.
She was powerful.
But she didn’t stand a chance against the ancient Fae warrior now populated by a demon.
Aelin glanced around her, slicing through enemies as she fought her way toward Lorcan.
He didn’t seem to see the shadows licking and coiling around him, rendering the magical attacks useless.
“Huh,” Aelin thought, as she decapitated another Valg, slicing across the neck, “I guess those world-forsaken gods can be useful.”

She knew that she was abandoning Lysandra.
But Aedion and Gavriel were there.
They had to be.

If Maeve and Erawan got their hands on the Wyrdkeys, they would loose everything.
Lorcan’s head snapped towards her, and his eyes lightened with understanding as he moved.
She yanked the keys off her neck, and handed them to her once enemy, and now, maybe a friend.

An ally she could trust to keep these out of Maeve’s hands as long as there was air in his lungs.
“You need to take these and go.” She said, grabbing his armour and pulling him close, latching the key around his neck.
“If they get them, we loose.” Aelin refocused on the battle, but both Maeve and Erawan were pulling back, allowing their canon fodder to break them down.

Lorcan stared as his queen, trusted him with the Wyrdkey.

“May your god save you!” She hissed, “Now go!”

Lorcan.
He had never once turned his back on a battle. 
There were songs and poems praising his prowess, how he would fight until his last breath.
He turned.
And ran, shadows licking at his heels, trusting that if his God wanted anything, it would be to return home.
With that, he left the battlefield.

Aelin watched as the silvery shadows she had begun to associate with Lorcan coiled around him, and he vanished.

She then unleashed a firestorm on all those around her, burning and incinerating as the heaviness, the burning of the Wyrdkey was gone.

Then she heard a gut-wrenching scream, and turned to see Rowan impale Gavriel, before tossing his body aside to continue toward Lysandra.

Her friend.
She was bleeding, still in dragon form but-.

By Mala the Fire-Bringer.
Lysandra was missing a leg.
Aelin saw the Crochans clash and fight with the wyverns.
She saw a group of twelve take down a witch tower, with a blinding light.

But she didn’t see any of that.
She saw her love try to kill her sister.

Aedion felt his breath stutter as his father fought Rowan, trying to save his- Lysandra.
And he saw him fall.
But he was stuck on the walls, leading his men.
The roar of battle surrounded him, the clash of steel on steel, of flesh slicing flesh.
He lost himself in the bloodlust of it all. Forcing his thoughts away from his father.
His father who tried to make amends.
“I forgive you,” he thought, as the Wolf took over.
The Wolf could lead.
Aedion needed to grieve.

“Don’t falter!” he roared, his grief and anger intermixing, “FOR TERRASEN!”
With that the Wolf jumped off the wall, and slaughtered them, carving a path toward Rowan.
Or what was Rowan.
It would die.
It had to, and therefore it shall.

Aelin ran.
She could see her cousin (the only part of her once family) heading toward Rowan.
She knew that Erawan and Maeve had retreated back into enemy lines.
Dorian was holding the line like a man possessed.
She couldn’t see Fenrys.
Or Chaol.
But she spotted Yrene.
And she knew what she needed to do.

The Wolf dived in front of Rowan, holding his sword up.
Those weeks of training against the warrior, learning him. They would have to be enough.
But, as they spar-fought. He realised just how much the warrior held back on a daily basis.
And even The Wolf of the stories could not keep up with that and defend himself against the magic. Not against an ancient Fae Warrior. Not against Rowan.
Even being this close to the Valg was crushing him, his brain repeating and swirling through his worst memories.
His mother screaming.
His ribs being crushed.
The king of Adarlan.
Relishing in death.
Corpses of friends lay at his feet as he walked through the carnage of battle.

The Wolf stumbled. Aedion blinked.
And then he felt his ribs burning, cutting into his lungs. He gasped, fighting for air as Rowan knocked him to the ground. He saw Rowan glance at Lysandra then smiled sadistically. His head thunked on the ground. 
Hard.

The warriors once green eyes were now fully black. Anything human left in him was gone.
Aedion choked on the blood, lying on his back, he could’t breathe.
His ears were ringing hard, and everything was blurring.

He really wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t abandon Aelin.
Not again. 
Not after everything.
He lifted his sword as Rowan raised his for the killing blow.

Then a burning sensation shoved him away from Rowan, and he could hear a voice begging him to stay with her.
Those light green mischievous eyes.
“I-I pushed you away,” he choked, blood splattering her face. 
She could wear any face.
He loved her in every way, every form.
“I lost too many, and when I realised how I felt, and A-Aelin was g-gone, I took it out on you.’
She as shushing him, clutching him tightly.
“I h-have to finish,’ he murmured, his eyelids fluttering, but he was desperately focusing on her face. He didn’t want to die without seeing her face fully.
“It was w-wrong. You are strong, and beautiful and b-brilliant, and I-I’m sorry for, for everything I did to make you feel lesser.”

Lysandra let out a choking laugh, as she bent her head down.
“You can’t die,” she whispered, as her floral shifting scent filled his lungs mixing with the blood there, settled into his mind, his heart, his very soul.
“You have to make me a princess remember? I demand a fancy tiara.”
Aedion smiled, his teeth bloody.
“When this is over, you can have any tiara you want. Anything you want.”
She smiled at him.
“As long as you’re the one giving it to me.”

Aelin saw Lysandra, (oh Mala, her leg) grab Aedion.
She pushed Rowan back, blasting the shadowed winds and umbra-coated ice.
“Do you remember when we were first fighting the Valg?” She yelled.
“You were behind the barrier. I was lost in the whirlwind of the shadows. And I could hear you fighting to get to me. In that moment,” she ducked to the side, narrowly avoiding his blade, “I heard myself, fighting to get to Sam. And I told myself I wouldn’t let you go through that again.”
The Valg growled at her, his voice a raspy mimic of Rowan’s, “Stop talking you fire-breathing bitch.” He kicked her hard in the ribs.
She used the momentum to land in a flip, hearing a crack by her ankle, but the adrenaline was pounding through her system.
“Then you pushed through the barrier to get to me. And you smiled, that gods-damned smile, as we linked our hands together.” She let out a rough chuckle, “Remember on the ship? When you jumped in front of me, even though you knew I had a literal goddess inside me. You knew I wouldn’t let her hurt you. Never you.”

His eyes flickered, between the soulless black and that green, green as the pine trees that decorated her kingdom.
The green she loved. The green of home.
“And I know,” she continued, even as the Valg inside her love screamed at her to stop talking, “That even now, you’re fighting. That you are fighting every step, every moment. And, oh gods Rowan. I love you,” she could feel the tears pouring down her face as she pushed him back, as she burned him.
“Remember Rowan,” she said, “You do not yield.”
She pushed him back finally into Yrene.
And the demon began to scream once more.

Chaol was watching.
He was still astride his horse, and Aelin and Yrene didn’t notice.
But he saw the spider.
He knew they wouldn’t react in time.
But he could.

He leapt from the horse.
And attacked.
He could feel the Valg Princess pushing him back.
But Yrene needed him.
It was time to be the father, the husband, his never was.
One last time, Chaol raised his sword high.
And the memories flooded through him.
Training with Dorian. Dancing with Celeana. The shattering of the glass castle. Dorian breaking free from the Valg. Meeting Yrene. The first time he made Yrene smile. Walking into love with Yrene as his guide. His second first steps. The letters from his mother he would never get to read. Marrying Yrene. He would be a father.
He just hopes that his child will understand.

Yrene glanced at him, as he stabbed the Valg Princess.
As he was impaled through the heart.
As she saved Rowan.
He died, with a smile on his face.
He got to see those eyes on last time.

Aelin heard Yrene screaming as she shoved the Valg out of him. She raised Goldryn and stabbed that bastard through the heart.
She turned to grin at Yrene, but then she saw why Yrene was screaming.
Chaol.
“No, no, no, no, no,” she muttered, as he stumbled and fell.
She ran for his body, even as the Valg Princess died in front of them. 
Aelin wouldn’t let Sam (Chaol) die again. Not when he was finally happy.
Not when they had a chance.
But she grabbed him, and felt for a pulse, anything.
He was bleeding too much.
And there was no pulse.
She turned to Yrene.
But Yrene’s face was set. She knew.
“It was supposed to be me.” Aelin said, holding her friend’s body, staring at his wife.
“It was supposed to be me. No one else should have gotten hurt but it all went wrong and I-I.”
Yrene took her hand.
Aelin should be comforting her.
Aelin’s love was unconscious, but breathing.
Aelin would be fine. She always was.

“Did I ever tell you,” Yrene said, as she gently stroked Chaol’s hair out of his face, as her tears began to pour.
“That in my culture, we have this belief. We believe that everything that happens, has already happened and will always happen.” She let out a shuddering laugh, “I suppose that doesn’t make sense. But we will meet again. Time spins in ways we cannot imagine. The Mother deems it so. And maybe not the next life. I live this grief today, and tomorrow, and maybe forever. But I live in hope for my child as well. I have to. Otherwise my love died for nothing.” Her face snapped up to Aelin, tearstained, shuddering, her breath coming in gasps.
“I refuse to let his sacrifice mean nothing. Honour him Aelin Ashryver Galathynius.”
Aelin nodded dumbly.
Yrene took Chaol body fully into her arms, and broke.
“Go.” She said, “GO!” She screamed, and Aelin turned to the battle once more, and saw a blast of light coming from it.
She picked up Goldryn, from where she had dropped it in her haste to save Sam Chaol, and went to kill that Valg.

“I do not yield,” she whispered as she ran.
“I do not yield, I do not yield. I WILL NOT YIELD.”

With that, Aelin finally released her power fully.

The power of her ancestors.
Of Brannon.
Of Mala.

Dorian delved deep into his magic. Feeling for the seed of light deep within him that allowed him to break free of the Valg. That gave him hope.
He was on his knees now, before the Valg, fear choking him.
He felt empty of magic, he could feel the burnout approaching.

“But if I am to burn..” He thought, “Then I’m taking this bastard with me.”

His father loved him.
The only time the King of Adarlan remembered himself was when he looked at Dorian for the first time.
Sorscha’s smile.
Her smile that was full of so much hope and light.
Manon’s detrimination, and the glimmer of mischief and faith and loyalty that sparked in those golden eyes.
That allowed him to break free from the demon.
And finally Aelin, Celeana, Lillian.
His friend, his love, his other half.
The two of them were bound together, would always be bound together. She was fire, while he was ice.
Two sides of the same coin.

A power to rattle the stars.

He rallied his power behind that light, even as Erawan cut a line from his jaw diagonally across his face.
As he fought shadows with ice. As he stumbled but his magic never stopped.
He thought of his father, of Celeana, of Aelin, of Manon, of Chaol, of Rowan.
He let his power burst out of him, a holy light that would burn the darkness. Wipe Erawan’s very existence.
His power drained of every drop. His soul empty.

Dorian stumbled as the energy faded, as he saw one a black void where “Erawan” had stood.
He fell once again, worn.
Erawan, who had worn his cousins face.
Erawan, who had killed Kaltain, Kaltain who he never really knew.
Elide.
The witches.
Manon.
Aelin.
His father.
Himself.

He was going to do this, kill this monster.

“This,” he said, “Is for me.”

An unearthly scream came, and at last.
Erawan was gone.
Everything went black.

Aelin followed the flash of holy light, of lightning.
For a moment she thought that a god had come down to help.
Then she saw Dorian.
Wreathed in light.
Her breath caught. He looked unearthly.
And then he let out one more blast.
She felt a gentle breeze skim her ears. It was as if the world let out a heavy sigh.
Erawan.
Dorian had-won.
She felt relief spread through her.
She saw him fall though, swallowed by the crowd.
Then a singular broom swooped down, a shock of white hair.
Dorian’s body was lifted from the battlefield, Manon’s arms clasped around him.
Fear for him and gratitude fought inside her.
Then, the battlefield before her cleared.
Maeve, anger coating her features, pointed at Aelin, darkness spreading across the ground towards her.

Maeve’s reign was ending today.
Here and now.

Fenrys saw his queen, his friend.

Like her counterpart, wreathed in light, in gold.
She truly was Mala’s Heir.

And then he grinned, spitting blood out of his mouth. 
For the first time since his brother’s death.

Fenrys teleported to his queen’s side.

Aelin bared her teeth as Fenrys came to her side.
He was coated in black blood and ash, and was bleeding from his temple and a stab wound in his leg.
“Are you ready?” She asked.
He dipped his head.
“I’ll follow you, Queen Aelin. Let’s put this bitch in the ground.”
Maeve stood waiting, her shadows darkening the world around her. Coiling and twisting into a crown.

“Your little friend may have taken part of my power,” she purred, “But I can still destroy you.”

Aelin shook her head. 
“You still don’t get it, do you?” She asked, cocking her head.

Maeve summoned a blade of umbra and wyrdstone.
“I’ll make it quick, for my dear-departed sisters.” Her voice was mocking.
Aelin smiled.

“And I’ll make it slow, for Mala, and Brannon, and Rowan.”
Maeve hissed at Brannon’s name, before she lunged at Aelin.
Fenrys and her swirled, taking turns to slash and stab at Maeve’s weak points.
But Maeve had been alive for centuries.
She was well-trained, especially when using her full powers.

“You foolish girl.” Maeve spat, missing Aelin’s eye by a breadth.
“Haven’t you realised yet? I have controlled your entire life. Every choice, every step, every loved one? I controlled it all.” Maeve let out a laugh as she hurled shards of darkness at her.
“Sam, and Arobynn, your dear-departed parents, Chaol, and Dorian, and of course, my dear little Rowan.” Aelin lunged for Maeve, flames shooting and burning at her, burning her arm seizing it like a whip and cracking it.
Maeve retaliated, a web of darkness reaching for Aelin’s neck, choking the air from her lungs.

Aelin head snapped back, blood streaming from her temples.
“I was the reason Arobynn ran out. I am the reason Sam’s parents left him. Why he became an assassin. I placed the idea to retrieve Celeana Sardothien from the mines into Prince Dorian’s mind. I magnified Chaol’s feelings of fear and disgust until they overwhelmed everything else. YOU ARE MINE.”
Aelin scrambled for air, slashing at the darkness around her.
The battle cry of the witches who had sacrificed themselves to save Manon. To save her kingdom flickered in her mind.

From now until the darkness claims us.

The darkness was swirling around Aelin, choking her, drowning the light. There was no light, just this never ended darkness.
This darkness will not claim me.

Aelin felt blood pour from her nose, her eyes, her ears.
But she pushed herself up.
Flickers of herself pushed through the darkness.

Princess Aelin Ashyrver Galanthinyus, of the Wildfire.
Celeana Sardothien, the assassin.
Lillian Gordania, the King’s Champion, Assassin of Adarlan.
Aelin Ashryever Galanthinyus, Heir of Fire. The Queen who was Promised.
And she saw herself.
Queen of Flame and Shadow. Light-bringer, Queen of Terrasen, heir of Mala, Faerie Queen of the West.

Fireheart.
A fire so deep inside her it will never stop burning.

She saw the versions of her smile, and bow.
She is Queen Aelin Ashryever Whitethorn Galanthinyus.
She felt the fire in her, rise.
“For Rowan,” she thought, “For Chaol, For Dorian, For Yrene, Manon, Elide, Fenrys, Lorcan, Brannon, Mala, Aedion, Lysandra, Nesryn,” 
She felt the fire rise inside her.
“Haven’t you realised yet?” Aelin asked, blood pouring from her face.
“I will never yield.”
With that, she shattered Maeve’s darkness.
Replacing the darkness with her own glorious light.
Maeve screamed.

They now stood, Aelin on one side, Maeve on the other.

Then, she saw a pair of familiar yellow eyes.
She stretched her hand out, pointing Goldryn at Maeve.
Fenrys reached for her, teleporting to her side, grabbing Goldryn from her outreached hand, golden flames wreathing the blade.
A crown of flames graced Aelin’s head.

Maeve laughed, “It’s too late, I OWN-,”
Aelin stepped forward, her flames funnelling forward.
“You own nothing. You did all of this, to try and break me. But you made me stronger. You gave me reasons to keep fighting.” 
She raised her eyes.

“You failed. You forgot. We live for those we love. My parents, and Sam, Chaol, and all those I’ve lost? They live on. IN ME. Arobynn trained me to be strong enough to fight you. Your own cadre turned their backs on you because I offered something worth fighting for. I am more powerful than you will ever understand Maeve. And I will beat you, every single time, because you keep underestimating me. Like you underestimated Brannon, and Mala.”
She summoned a blade of pure white flame.

“And now, in the name of all those who have come before me and all those who will come after. You will die.” 

Maeve grinned, her purple eyes, now fully black and gold.
“You will strike me down?”
Aelin laughed.

“Not me.”
She threw the sword up, and a hand caught it.
“Him.”

With that, Rowan stabbed Maeve right in the heart.
The Valg Queen screamed as she burned from the inside out.
As the weapon she had seized turned against her.

A void remained. The remnants of Maeve.
Aelin turned to Fenrys, offering him the handle of Goldryn.
“Together.” He said.
She nodded. Together.
With that, what was Queen Maeve let out one final scream.
Aelin and Fenrys stabbed down, a column of fire so bright and brilliant it almost blinded those around them.

Aelin turned to Rowan, and offered him a smile. Feeling for the well of magic that was almost depleted.
But she had just enough.
She picked up Goldryn.

Rowan watched as Aelin, Queen of Terrasen, his wife, his mate strode forward, met in step by Manon. They unleashed themselves on the army, gold and white swirling together in a dance of death.

Fenrys came over as he stumbled.
“Welcome back birdbrain.” He said, as Rowan leaned on him for balance.
Rowan shuddered.
Fenrys became solemn as he turned Rowan’s face to look at him.

“Not your fault.” He said.
“Repeat it. Not your fault.”
Rowan mumbled it as he watched Aelin.

Fenrys chuckled.
“You got lucky with her. She’s a real spitfire.”
Rowan nodded, a faint smile gracing his mouth.

Aelin turned to see Fenrys supporting Rowan, and saw Aedion and Lysandra close together.

Yrene had clearly healed him during the battle, but he was now unconscious. 
Probably from blood loss.

The sound of a broom turned her head toward an unfamiliar witch, Dorian behind her.
He stumbled as they landed, rocking into her.
“Got a,” he paused, eyes fluttering, “Brief shot of energy. Long enough to see your performance.” He let out a rough chuckle.
“Forever showing me up, Queen Aelin.”

Oh, Dorian.
How she loved him.

She held him in a hug, the two bloodlines destined to stop Erawan.
After centuries of blood and pain and suffering, it was almost over.

“Dorian.” She replied, glancing up at him, then down again, “I have to tell you-,”
He turned to look at her, those blue eyes capturing her own.
“It’s Chaol.”

Dorian’s face paled.
He seized her in a hug.
‘It’s just us now, huh?’ He asked, and she could feel his tears.
She buried her face into his neck.
“I guess so.”
He looked at her once. Then promptly fell over.
“I think this is magic burnout.” He said.
She stumbled too, adrenaline fighting the burnout.
She looked to see Elide walking toward them, Aedion, was propped against the walls, and Lysandra-
Her leg.

From her upper thigh down.
It had been cut off.
The wood looked cauterised now, but the agony.
She remembered how it looked on her dragon self.
Elide put her arm around Aelin as Manon came down, her face drawn.
She promptly lay on the charred ground next to Dorian.
Not touching.
But close by.
And Nesryn had her arms around her, while Yrene still held Chaol’s body.
Rowan wasn’t looking at anyone.
She could see the guilt.

“Where is Lorcan?” Elide asked softly.
Aelin turned to look at her, eyes wide.

Elide’s eyes widened, “He’s not..?”
Aelin shook her head, but she couldn’t seem to speak. Too much had happened. And everything was getting fuzzier.
There was a shout from the battlements, and Aelin turned to see the Lord of the Wild in the distance, on a hill.
He bowed in her direction, and from him, blankets of flowers and grass spread over the battlefield.
Flowers covered the final resting place of the Thirteen.
And the Queen’s Flame coated the bodies left behind.
Aelin bowed back.

Then her eyes fluttered shut and she collapsed.

Lorcan opened his eyes in a clearing on the edge of an unfamiliar forest.
He had been on the battlefield at Orynth, and now he was, somewhere else entirely?
His only thoughts had been getting as far away from the battle with the Wyrdkeys as possible.
It was night now, and a drifting of snow was coating the ground beneath him.
He look up at the sky, but he couldn’t recognise any constellations.

Something felt different about this place.
He saw a snow covered mountain, with three stars shining brightly above it.
“Where am I?” He wondered aloud, turning slowly.
Then he felt it again.

A presence.
Not unlike Aelin’s presence, in that it was vastly magical. But instead of a burning feeling it was, different.
A second presence came too, this one was swirls of flames and claws and water and light.
Lorcan unsheathed his blade, sinking into a ready stance.

Whoever, whatever, was coming towards him was powerful. They could be more powerful than Aelin.
That thought shook him.
Aelin was incredibly powerful, even for a Fae.
For two individuals alone to be more powerful then her was a fearsome thought.

“Who are you?” He called.
“Where am I?”

A male Fae appeared from the shadows, purple eyes swirling with constellations, dressing in a all black with swirling silver embroidery appraised him.
A female, with honey brown hair, and eyes that reminded him of clear pools of water, or of wind. Maybe even of an arrow being drawn for some unknown reason. She was dressed in a form of training gear, a leather tunic, breeches, and clearly expensive boots. They were mostly silver, black and blue.

The man put his hands in his pockets.
“Both very good questions.”

“This is Pyrthian,” the female said, eyeing him like a huntress did her prey.
“The Night Court.” The male continued.

“We are the High Lord and Lady of this place, the rulers, if you will.”
The male eyed his extended blade distastefully.
“Now, I would like to know, what is that brought you here, Lorcan of Erilea.”

Chapter Text

Rhys was confused.

It was unusual for him.
Feyre was torn between laughing at him, worry and being swamped with duties from the Illyrian’s scouting the continent, and of course, leading the teams to track, and re-capture creatures who had broke free during the war against Hybern.

And of course, the Court of Nightmares.
In the seven years since the war, the Court of Nightmares had been completely changed.

“Well,” he thought generously, “Not completely changed, but vast improvements had been made.”
Mor and Azriel had, taken care of the worst members.
Rhys had fully supported this, and judging by how drenched in blood his cousin was afterwards, only closure had come for it.

But he hadn’t interfered. 
They had been fighting for the Fae who were bound in chains, like they had been.
It was his Third's battle, and he respected that.

Now, there was seat at every table.
The Court of Nightmares hosted their undercover operatives, many of which were scattered in Courts throughout Pyrthian.
The more blood-thirsty, they helped in subduing the creatures the Illyrains were unable to capture.

Rhys continued strolling the streets of Cedaen, a city to the north of the capital.
He eyed its rebuilding progress, judging where more supplies would be needed.
The alliance between the Courts still stood, and it did make life much easier.
He had implemented governments to take care of the day-to-day running of the cities, whilst they were mainly located by the mountain that decorated their flag, and the riverside estate.

Rhys was proud of the interconnecting roads between the Night Court now.
Ever since revealing Velaris, the Night Court had blossomed.
And now.

Rhys rubbed his temples as he winnowed to the Moonstone Palace.
They had a “situation” at the moment with an interloper.
He had appeared in the forests outside the Court of Nightmares, a powerful energy source surrounding him.
He hadn’t tried to shield his mind at all.
Which was odd.
Everyone in Pyrthian knew of Rhysand’s powers.
But when he had delved into the Fae’s mind, he had seen images of another world.
Lorcan wasn’t from Pyrthian.
But he had brought something that would make every creature with magic sit up and pay attention.
The echo of the source reminded him of the Cauldron.

He marched toward one of the guest rooms he had shielded, trapping the Fae inside.
Azriel had appeared a few minutes after, close on his heels.

“Notice anything unusual about our guest?” Rhys questioned, an eyebrow ticking up at the strained look on Azriel’s face.
In fact, he could clearly see it. 
Where were Azriel’s shadows?

“There is a presence about him,” Azriel said hesitantly, his voice slightly raspy, “My shadows, they coil around him. Drawn to something. But I can’t make out what. I don’t think even he knows,” he glanced at Rhysand as they approached the door.
“He is of another world Rhys. Be careful.”

Rhysand nodded.
“Leave your shadows outside Azriel. Let’s not scare him anymore than we have to.”
He reached out to grab the doorknob, the twin of Feyre’s tattoo greeting him.
Rhysand inhaled deeply, then pushed the door open.

***

Lorcan wasn’t panicking.
He was a legendary warrior, beheld by the ages.
So, he was not panicking when the two Fae (but they didn’t feel like Fae normally did), somehow had made him appear into this room, simply by grabbing him.
He didn’t panic when he realised that he couldn’t leave the room either.
No.
Lorcan of Erilea was scheming.
That is why he had his head in his hands.
He was planning his incredible escape so he could return to Elide. He would not abandon her.

He turned and stood as he heard the door open.
As the scent of shadows, citrus and the sea hit him.
“It was very odd here,” Lorcan decided, settling into a ready position.

The male from earlier, Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, entered, and a man in scaly armour entered behind him.
“A guard?” Lorcan wondered internally.
The Fae reminded Lorcan of a statue, a cold distant beauty. His armour was sleeveless, displaying swirling tattoos on his biceps. 
His hair, short. He had these weird gems on his hands, breastplate, and knees.
“Gaudy and impractical,” Lorcan thought, “Any enemy would know aim there first, definitely a structural weakness.”

The-Rhysand chuckled.
“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” He asked, his voice low and dark, and sort of soothing?
“I suppose from a stranger’s perspective, they are quite ornamental. But make no mistake, Azriel could kill you very, very, easily. You find ornamentation normally has a purpose here.”

Lorcan took the name Azriel, and filed it away before he paused, pupils dilating.
He had not said any of that aloud.
How had-?

Rhysand smiled at him, all teeth.
Lorcan hurriedly tried to erect a wall in his mind, shoving the Wyrdkeys, Aelin, Manon, Rowan, the cadre, the Valg, the Lock, Elide.

Elide’s face flickered behind his eyes before he shoved it hurriedly away, hoping that Rhysand hadn’t seen it.
But Rhysand’s smile was gone.
His tan face, pale.
His purple eyes, like the stars above them darkened.

“Who is that?” He asked quietly.
Lorcan didn’t respond, panic and fear piling on top of each other in his gut.
“I will not ask again offworlder.” Rhysand’s voice brokered no argument.
‘Tell me, or I will take the answer by force.”
Azriel stepped forward menacingly.

Lorcan could feel his jaw unclench, but he had no control over it. 

He couldn't move, couldn't control himself, it was as if someone else was pulling the strings. He stared at Rhysand in utter terror, as the Fae forced his mouth open, and made him speak the words. 

"Elide Lochan. Her anem is Elidę Lochan." 

Suddenly the pressure surrounding him vanished, and he dropped to the floor, clutching at his throat and gagging, scrabbling for breath. He had never felt that afraid, in all his centuries of existence. 

Rhysand froze.
Azriel glanced at his High Lord, a shadow curling over his ear before it vanished.
Lorcan felt like throwing up. He had given up Elide’s name.
But if he hadn’t, who knows just how much he would have given away.
He looked at Rhysand’s face, before turning away, shuddering.
Rhysand already looked too much like a Valg. He would not be handing him any more power.

Rhysand took a shaky step back, one hand grasping the other wrist. Clenching and unclenching repeatedly.
Lorcan watched that with narrowed eyes.
“What do you want with Elide?” He demanded, fear for her overpowering his common sense.

‘Show me her face again.” Rhysand demanded back, ignoring his question.
He felt a soft night spread over his mind, as Rhysand broke down his mental wall, searching for glimpses of Elide.
He was powerless to stop him.
He could feel Rhysand in his mind but he couldn’t get him out.

Lorcan didn’t realise he was screaming until it was over.
Rhysand spared a glance for him, his purple eyes haunted.
“Send for Nuala and Cerridwn. I would speak with him alone.” Rhysand told Azriel.

The armoured Fae looks at Lorcan again, but he nodded, placing his hand over his chest before departing the room.

“Elide Lochan,” Rhysand said, rolling the syllables on his tongue.
Lorcan longed to cut it out for daring to say her name.
“Daughter of the House of Lochan. A Lady in her own right. Witchblood runs in her veins. And she is very close to the throne of Erilea,” Rhysand gestured for Lorcan to follow as he sat down.
“She gives you this feeling like you can trust her. She’s kind, but won’t let you push her around. Every time you try to push her about her past, she re-directs you. Tell me Lorcan, what do you really know about this girl you claim to love?”

Lorcan was silent.
Did he really know that little about Elide?
He tried to recall their conversations. He talked in those. But he never got that deep with her. They knew of her uncle, her ankle, the death of her mother.
But those were things everyone knew.
Where were the hushed secrets told in the dark?
He stamped out those thoughts. 
Rhysand must be influencing him somehow. He knew Elide. He loved Elide.
She couldn’t be a traitor. If she was, they all were.

“Helloed Cain,” Rhysand says, eyes distant, “The One Who Waits in the Night. Tell me, do you have that wives tale where you come from?”
He turned to Lorcan.
Lorcan feels wings brush his mind before he has a chance to answer.
He pulls out the chair across from Rhysand.
“No, you don’t.” Rhysand tuts disappointedly.

“In our world, many folk tales are spoken about this.  Three sisters, bound by fire, breath and bone, lived in the space between the dusk and dawn.

They were not Fae, nor human, not as we are. Simply other. The sisters lived and cherished each other, for a time. But love, if left untended, can wither to envy, and envy to hatred. The stories split here, as some argue if it was grief, or jealousy that drove One to do this. She stole the," Rhysand paused, searching for words, "The closest approximation is the "crowns" of the other two, but some say it was the "hearts"," He sighed for a moment continuing, "She ran with them, fleeing her sisters to the world below. Of course, her sisters noticed and chased after her. An epic battle was waged. The very world, was split in two. They say the two sisters died in that battle, sealing away the one who had grown dark and withered, sealing her to the world of dusk and dawn. Some say, that when the storm breaks and the Three Crowns are one again, she will return, and soak the worlds in blood." 

Rhysand laced his fingers together, and leaned forward.
“Helloed Cain, is the name of the Sister. And that story is a favourite of my Court.”
Those purple eyes stared into Lorcan’s soul, his mind, almost branding him. They seemed familiar. Not like Maeve’s eyes, which were deep and dead to the bone. Glimmering and alive like stars.
Where had he seen them?

Rhysand raised a finger, and the name Helloed Cain appeared in the air in front of the them.
It glowed silver.
“Helloed Cain,” Rhysand said, then flicked a finger, the letters moving and swirling around until they formed a new name.
A name that Lorcan knew.
That he loved.
His chair clattered to the ground as he backed away, the silver letters gleaming and taunting him.
“No, no, no, no,’ He muttered, “It’s not possible. I would have known.”
Rhysand looked at him pityingly.
“Elide Lochan. ”

Chapter Text

Feyre stared at the pile of paperwork on her desk.
She was surrounded by her generals and spy-captains, all burred in reports of re-building, of insider intel.
But by the Cauldron.
Could she not hire someone to take care of this.
Feyre loved her people, loved her work, especially now.
But she hadn’t been sleeping well, and there was an intruder that Rhys was currently dealing with, alone.

Feyre reached out for the edges of their bond, then paused.
Rhys’s side was clamped down tight.
She could feel a vague sense of panic and fear and hope?

“Rhys,” she tried, “Everything okay?”
Silence.
‘Rhys?” She said, panic rising now, “If that warrior got the better of you I’m telling Amren. And Mor. And Cassian. And we’ll drink all your wine.”
She felt a soft brush of acknowledgement from him, but no words yet.
Feyre gnawed her lip, scanning over the latest report of the storm on the other side of Hybern.
It stopped all passage on that side, and there was this dip in the ocean apparently.
Like something was ripped out and hidden away.
Feyre massaged her temples.
“Right,” she said, standing up and straightening the cuffs of her black and silver embossed jacket. It had wing like designs on the back, the swirls mimicking Illyrian tattoos. She had asked for a team of Illyrian seamstresses to set up shop in Velaris and she was their main customer.
The jacket nipped in at the waist, then mimicked a dress with a train, but left her with plenty of mobility. She wore leather breeches, plain to compliment the exquisite jacket, and matching boots.
Her hair was braided around her head like a crown.

She pulled on the leather gloves from her jacket, before making eye-contact with her generals.
“I have to go see to some other business, but please feel free to finish here. We will reconvene at Cerane tomorrow.”
The other woman stood, placing their wrists together and bowed.
Feyre mimicked it, before winnowing away.

She landed on the Moonstone Palace, and took a moment to appreciate the stunning way the Moonstone cut the sky, before turning on her heeled boots toward the guest room the otherworlder was in.
She followed the bond to Rhys.
He was standing outside of the door of Lorcan’s room, hand leaving the door.

He looked worn.
“Is everything alright,” she asked, reaching a hand to place it on his cheek.
He leaned into her palm.
“I-I don’t quite know.” He tried for his regular tone, but Feyre could read right through that.
“Is it something you want to share, or will we sit and watch the sunset for a bit. It’s stunning this time of year.”
Rhys looked at her, gratitude marching down the bond.
There were things that they couldn’t always share right away. Cauldron knows she has those. But secrets deserved respect. Rhys deserved time to think.
She took his hand and led him to their table, overlooking the Night Court.

She started talking about her Generals, how improvements were being made, and the Illyrian women were both joining the male legions, but also creating businesses, become healers, helping with the re-building.
She knew that it mattered to him.
For his mother.
For his sister.

Feyre had dinner with them last week, and found herself becoming friends with them. 
“I hadn’t known what to think of them,” she said, “I knew they were passionate, and brave but they are so much more too.” She turned to look fully at him, smiling, “I just feel so proud of how far they’re coming.”
Rhys smiled faintly back.
“Remember the histories of the Night Court?” He asked, his voice quiet.
She nodded, letting him speak.
“There was the story of Helloed Cain.”
Feyre paused, her eyes widening.
“It was my sister’s favourite tale. She would ask for it to be told over and over again,” he said, eyes fixated on the distance.
He shook his head.
“I think the idea of this other world existing is giving me undue hope. Hope that things, that there are ways-,” he cut himself off.
"But in that world, there is one who goes by Helloed Cain. And the Fae, Lorcan, showed me images of her. And there are flickers where she looks different. He carries things of the Cauldron, and he’s so desperate for help. And Helloed Cain is of our world. I don’t want to drag us into another war, but hearing what his people have gone through..” He trailed off, still not looking at her.

“It doesn’t mean another war Rhys,” she said, taking his hand in her own, tracing patterns in it. “Maybe, in helping him, we could secure an alliance. Help all of us keep safe.” She looked up at him.
“It’s worth a shot.”
Rhys nodded, eyes on her own.
“I’m going to talk to him now,” she said, rising.
“I think you still need to puzzle things out in that brain of yours. Just don’t get too lost in there, for me?”
He nodded, and Feyre turned to the door where Lorcan awaited.

***

Lorcan sat in the corner of the room.
He didn’t look up when the door opened. He was reliving every minute, every moment with Elide.
Could it be true?

“I hope I’m not intruding,” a lilting voice asked.
The High Lady stood there.
She gave Aelin a run for her money in that outfit. Lorcan hoped they never met to compare notes.
The fear of never returning home clutched at his heart.
She walked over to him, her gait like a prowling lion.

“You aren’t the first to be shocked by betrayal, you know?” She said, sitting down next to him.
“The people we trust, we love, can hurt us the most.”
Lorcan snarled at her.
“You know nothing of Elide, of me!”
She looked at him, the sunset reflecting in the clear pools of water that were her eyes.
‘That’s true. I don’t.”
She sat in silence next to him. Watching out the window.
“We will be helping you return home,” she said, before standing up, brushing off her coat.
She turned to him and offered a hand.
“Take my hand.” She offered.

Not ordered.
Lorcan reached up and took her hand.
She pulled him to his feet easily. A light female like that was deceptively strong.
“Would you mind telling me of your friends, of your Queen?” She queried.
“I would love to know what they have done to inspire such loyalty in you.”
Lorcan started.
She asked.
He wondered how herself and Rhysand matched. They seemed very alike, but so very different as well.
“It started with the heir of Ash and Fire, who would bow to no one. And a promise, to never yield..”

Chapter Text

Aelin watched as they lowered Gavriel’s body into the ground. She had offered him the blood oath after death, honouring him as a member of her court. 

But now? 

She just felt numb. 

She was supporting Rowan, who hadn’t talked since they won. 

But it felt like a loss. 

So many died.
So many were now broken. 

And they had lost the keys. 

They had scattered into the wind, along with Lorcan. 

Elide was torn with worry over him, desperate to find him. Manon had sent Crochans out looking for him, but there was nothing. 

One moment he was there, but the next? He was gone. 

The Keys gone with him. 

She straightened her embodied black tunic, breeches and boots. Embroidered with golden flames. She smothered along the lines, desperate for something to do with her hands instead of just watching her uncles coffin disappear into the ground.

She watched Rowan as he watched his friend’s body lower into the grave. The guilt he was feeling was overwhelming. 

He had killed many of the soldiers of the Bane, cut off Lysandra’s leg. Aedion still hadn’t woken up. No-one really blamed him from it, but the anger hung in the air. The loss was stifling. 

Yrene hadn’t left her rooms since Chaol’s funeral three days ago. 

Dorian hadn’t either. Manon was staying with him, grieving the loss of the Thirteen. 

No one had been sleeping well. Aelin woke each night to a cold bed, blood in her mouth, Rowan standing out on the balcony, in eagle form. 

Fenrys had stayed by both of them, but even he didn’t know how to help Rowan. 

Nesryn had been staying with Yrene, as well as two other healers. They were helping her through her grief and pregnancy, but Aelin-. 

She was doing nothing. 

The re-building was happening. Slowly. 

Magic helped, but the people of Adarlan were worried for their king. 

The people of Terrasen recognised her claim now, after the whole ordeal. Aelin sighed, as she guided Rowan away from the crypt. 

He had just been numb. 

Empty. 

Weren’t they all. 

Elide came hurrying down the hall at the sight of them, wrapping Aelin in a familiar hug. 

“You holding up okay?” She asked, looking at the eye bags that were dragging down Aelin’s face. 

Aelin shrugged. 

“Haven’t really been sleeping.” 

Elide sighed linking their arms together. 

“It’s been a tough few years.” 

Aelin snorted. 

“Understatement of the century.” 

Evangeline hurried to them, eyes bright. 

“He’s awake!” 

Aelin blinked, her brain moving sluggishly. 

She hadn’t slept since her burnout. 

Everything felt sluggish. 

“Aedion! He’s awake and asking for you- all of you!” The girl quieted, as she whispered, “he didn’t recognise me though.” 

Aelin felt a spike of fear.

She grabbed Rowan and Elide and hurried down the halls, easing Elide’s ankle with her powers. 

For a minute, it felt like her ankle didn’t need-. 

Aelin thew open the door of her cousins rooms. 

She ran into the bedroom, her eyes scanning for her cousin. 

Lysandra sat in a chair on one side of the bed, silent. 

Her eyebrows furrowed. 

“Aedion?” She said, moving cautiously toward the bed where her cousin lay, propped up by cushions. 

“Aelin?” Her cousin asked nervously, eyeing her up and down, his voice a dry rasp.
She nodded, tears building in her eyes, blurring her vision. 

“It’s me. How are you feeling? What do you remember?”  

Aedion met her eyes for a second, before looking down at the bedspread, picking at it anxiously. 

“Bits and pieces. We were fighting in a battle. I fought this warrior with silver hair. You tackled me out of the way. I spoke with,” his cheeks deepened into a blush as he glanced at Lysandra from the corner of his eye, “We were in the Bay of Skulls, Adarlan.” He looked away again, “Nothings clear though. The only people I actually remember are you, and um-“ he paused, looking at Lysandra. 

“What did you say your name was again?” He asked softly, looking at her like she was a diamond. 

“Lysandra.” She replied equally softly., her tone giving away her grief.

Aelin felt the tears begin to flow as she moved to sit on the edge of the bed. 

“Oh Aedion,” she said her voice cracking, “I-I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.” 

Her cousin reached out nervously, hissing at the pain on his ribs, and enveloped her in a gentle hug. 

He was Aedion. 

But he wasn’t. 

Everything from when she rescued him onwards was a blur. 

She pulled herself out of his hug, turning to include Lysandra in the conversation. 

“Healers are on the way,” she said, “For both of you,” she glanced at the stub of Lysandra’s leg. Aedion followed her gaze, flinching minutely at the jagged end of it. 

“I’m sure they’ll be able to help,” she lied, her mouth feeling full of syrup. 

She was so sick of reassuring people. 

She wanted her Rowan back. 

Her Aedion. 

Her funny, flirty Lysandra. 

Even Elide, who was overcome with worry and stress, acting almost like a different person. 

She was sick and tired of loss. 

Dorian had locked himself away for a while, to grieve his best friend, his brother. 

She couldn’t intrude in that. 

“I need to go out for a while,” she said, smiling weakly, “I need to see if I can find any tracer of Lorcan.” 

Lysandra nodded, her hand ghosting over where her leg used to be. 

Aelin turned, and all but bolted away. 

She couldn’t breathe. 

The mask was blocking her magic. 

She couldn’t breathe. 

Iron was smothering her. 

Maeve’s eyes were taunting her vision. 

She ran for the stables, grabbed the first horse she could see and jumped on, gasping for air. 

She heard an cry of irritation, but ignored it, riding out to where the battle had taken place all but a week ago. 

She rode of the renamed Queen’s Flame. 

She kept riding. 

Riding. 

Forward. 

Tears spilled over her cheeks. 

She could faintly hear her sobs and gasps for air. 

She kept riding until she hit the forest. 

Until she hit a small stream. 

The horse stopped refusing to go any more. 

Aelin dismounted shakily, walking on unsteady legs toward the stream. 

She controlled a small bubble of water up to her, the motion was soothing and repetitive. 

“Why?’ She asked aloud, “Why is all of this so hard? We won! I killed that bitch. I won! I’m Queen.” She screamed, “And yet every fucking day is a struggle.” She screamed again, fire singeing the grass around her. Fire mourning like its Queen did. 

Mala watching her heir, and grieving for what has come, and what must follow.

She buried her head in her hands. 

Aelin Ashryver Galathinyus, held her head in her hands, and shattered. 

***

Elide watched Aelin ride off. 

Her blonde hair disappeared into the distance as she rode off through the fields of Queen’s Flame. 

Elide could feel the worry that Lorcan was missing cloud her senses. 

Where was he? 

She felt for the familiar guiding voice in her mind, the place where she felt seen and calm and heard. 

“It will be alright,” the voice soothed, “Talk to the King, the worldwalker, Dorian.” Elide cocked her head, listening. 

“Lorcan has been taken to another world. We must find him and the keys. Speak to Dorian.” 

Elide nodded, smoothing back her hair as she turned in the direction of Dorian’s rooms. 

Dorian would be able to help.

 He had to.

Chapter Text

Aelin returned to the castle to find Elide, Rowan, and Dorian waiting for her. 

Dorian looked pale and wan, but determined. 

“What’s going on?” She croaked, aware of her singed clothing, and red eyes. 

Her voice was all but gone. 

“We’re going to get Lorcan,” said Elide determinedly. 

Aelin perked up, relief flooding through her veins. 

‘You know where he is?” 

Rowan grunted, and rolled his eyes. 

Aelin savoured the moment.
Proof he was still in there, even if he stilled himself again immediately after. 

Elide shifted from foot to foot. 

“Not exactly.” 

Aelin narrowed her eyes. 

“Not exactly?’ She repeated. 

Dorian inhaled deeply. 

‘She believes Lorcan is in another world. And she wants us to see if we can find him.” 

Aelin cocked an eyebrow. 

“And you know this how?” 

Elide pinched her brow. 

“Anneith told me.” 

Aelin stared at the girl. 

‘Elide.” She started, “I see where you’re coming from, but Dorian and I can’t leave Erilea. At all.” 

Elide stopped. 

Aelin tried calm her breathing, “Our people need us. And we need time to recover. I know you miss Lorcan, but I chose him for a reason. He’ll come back. But we can’t go get him. You have to trust him.” 

With that, she strode past them, heading for Lord Darrow’s office. 

She has a coronation to plan. 

A first step to healing. 

***

Lysandra watched as Aedion fell back into an uneasy slumber. 

She drifted her fingers along the space where her leg used to be. It felt-. 

Lysandra couldn’t quite describe how it felt. She felt hollow. 

Aedion was gone. The Aedion that knew her. This one seemed to know her, but also didn’t. 

She wanted to pull her hair out. 

Sighing, she stretched out muscles that had been sitting still for too long.

Picturing a swallow, holding the image in her mind, she let the change happen. 

Wings sprouted, but one one leg changed. 

She would fall in her landings. 

Lysandra took off out the window, searching for Aelin. 

She needed to talk about something other than war. 

Than loss. 

She hoped Aedion didn’t panic when he woke up alone.
But she couldn’t look into the eyes of the one she loved (loves, loves so very deeply) and realise he was no longer there. 

***

Feyre was stunned. 

After listening to Lorcan’s story, she found herself, well, stunned. 

The Valg were definitely something to be concerned about, just because they had lost their foothold in Erilea did not mean they wouldn’t reach out to other worlds. 

Meanwhile, she, Mor and Cassian would be visiting  Helios’ archives. They had put the priestess into searching the ones across the Night Court, but Helios was a close friend and ally, not one she trusted completely, but trusted enough. 

She had received letters from Nesta and Elain last night. 

And had read them, glass of wine in hand. 

Her sisters were exploring the continent, accompanied by Lucien and Vassa respectively. Nesta had written something about a priestess she had come to know as well. 

Trying to mend themselves. 

None of them were ready to truly be sisters yet. Maybe they never would be. Maybe Feyre would never be able to forgive them. 

Nesta would never be able to truly fix what had broken inside her when she had died in the Cauldron. 

Elain-. 

Feyre rubbed her temples, thinking of the dreams of the past weeks. 

Elain- had mentioned in a previous letter that her sight was all but gone, except for an image of blue eyes with a shining ring of gold around the pupil. 

Feyre had dreamed of those also, sketched them often. 

Elain was trying to escape the expectations of who she was. Who the girl she was had been. She was planning to go visit Miriam and Drakon. 

Feyre couldn’t say she was displeased. 

She thinks a part of her loves them, will always crave their approval and attention. 

But she didn’t want them around. 

Didn’t want them in her life. And for the past seven years, they had stayed apart. Each healing in their own way. 

Nesta and Elain  didn’t write to each other. 

Just to Feyre. 

Feyre didn’t know if Nesta would ever apologise. 

She did know that the power that Nesta had wielded had been sealed with the Cauldron. 

For now. 

She pushed her sisters out of her mind as Mor bounded up to her. 

Mor had been lighter in past years. 

She still held her secrets close, but she was no longer drowning in them. Feyre was glad. 

Seven years had made them closer, but for four of those years Mor had been gone too. Feyre had become close with the priestess Elara and an Illyrian general called Viya. 

Viya and her sparred regularly now. 

She wondered how Mor felt about that. 

“What’s this I hear about a trip to the Day Court?” Mor probed.

They had briefed the Inner Circle last night, and Feyre told her people she would be dealing with diplomatic relations. 

Rhys was handling a few other issues that-. 

Feyre shoved that out of her head. 

 “Just research I’m afraid,” she replied, walking towards a new shop in the corner. 

The door swung open and she eyed the blankets and quilts thoughtfully. 

She wasn’t as dressed up today, favouring blue and silver to match her eyes, but a dress cloak that fell gracefully to her knees, matched with a boots and leggings, diamond pins in her hair. 

She ran her gloved fingers over the quilts, before tugging on off to feel the material. 

“Just research?” Mor replied, “But why are we bringing Cassian? He’s likely to set all the books on fire.” 

Feyre snorted. 

Accurate description. 

“Did you seriously not explain all of this to Mor already?” She sent down the bond. 

“Thought I’d let you talk to my cousin, Feyre darling.” 

“Don’t Feyre darling me. You’re lucky you’re dealing with Illyrian males right now.” 

Laughter filled the bond and she rolled her eyes. 

“You know, I hate it when you guys talk telepathically,” Mor said, eyeing her, “Gives my cousin an easy way to gossip without prying ears.” 

Feyre ignored that, instead walking toward the shopkeeper. 

“Could I get two hundred of these made?” She asked pointing to the thick blue blanket she had been running her hands over. 

“Of course My Lady,” the shopkeeper replied, awe in her eyes. 

Feyre smiled, “Excellent. You can place it on my tab. I’ll have Illyrians come pick them up when they are ready.” 

The shopkeeper nodded again, clearly in shock from the size of the order. 

“Two hundred?” Mor quizzed. 

She sounded sick of asking questions. 

Feyre nodded, “Illyrian training season starts in two months- I don’t want a child going without a blanket.”

She grabbed Mor’s hand and linked their arms together. 

“Anyway, yes to Day Court, yes to Cassian. We’re trying to help a new-,” she paused searching for the right word, “Friend. Can you ask Amren if she’ll come to? I need her advice on a few things.” 

Mor grinned at her.

“I have a date for Starfall next week.” 

Feyre started. 

“Really?” She asked, turning and gripping both of Mor’s hands in her own. 

“Who’s the lucky one? Do I need to threaten anyone? Tell me everything!” 

Mor laughed, and dragged her down the streets of Velaris. 

Feyre hummed happily. 

Perfection wasn’t achievable, but this was pretty damn close. 

Chapter Text

Lorcan stared at the group of people he begrudgingly got to know over the week. 

“You want me to what?” He asked again, hoping internally he had misheard. 

High Lady Feyre shrugged, holding up the milky white prism, that had unique runes carved into it. 

“We want you to contact your home world, and tell them where you are. You said one of them has raw magic. And if these inter-dimensional travellers called Valg can get to you world, it would betake sense they know how to as well. Then they bring you, and and a few of us to your world, so we can neutralise Helloed Cain.” High Lord Rhysand supplied. 

Lorcan wanted to scream. 

They were as bad as Aelin.
No. 

They were worse than Aelin because there was absolutely no chance of it working. 

He sighed. 

He had be trapped up on the Moonstone Palace, as they didn’t fully trust him either. 

Of course, they could teleport and be here in an instant, so that sort of put a damper on attempting to escape. 

And they were trying to kidnap Elide.

Her name had to be a coincidence. 

He grit his teeth. 

He had to work with them, at least, for now. 

He could protect Elide once he got back. 

Lorcan held out his hand for the prism. 

“How do I turn it on?” He asked, running his fingers over the smooth stone. 

“You have to throw it up in the air and call out “Illari”,” Feyre said. 

“The message is one way, and it only lasts for a few seconds. Call out Illari, then Erilea, then who you want to talk to. It’s best just to pick one person, but choose someone who won’t dismiss it as a hallucination.” 

Lorcan wanted to pick Elide. 

He threw the prism up into the air. 

“Illari, Erilea, Aelin Ashryver Galathinyus.” 

***

Aelin sat down. 

Dealing with Lord Darrow is never exactly fun, but he recognised her claim now as Queen. He would never stop pushing with her, but she needed someone to push. 

Someone who could take it. 

Rowan still wasn’t talking. 

He was silent most of the time now. 

She was sitting alone at a rowan-wood table, twirling a dagger methodically in her hand. 

Spin. Stop. Spin. 

The rhythm was comforting. 

Dorian was doing better. 

It had been three weeks since the battle. 

Three weeks. 

Manon had left with the witches two days ago. 

Nesryn, Prince Faliq and Yrene left early this morning. 

She had seen how Dorian flinched when he saw Yrene. 

He had whispered about the eerie resemblance she bore to Sorscha. 

Someone Aelin had never met. 

Someone who Dorian carried with him. 

Always. 

The castle felt empty. 

She let out a long sigh. 

A few candles lit the room, but threw her mostly in shadow. 

She probably looked a mess, but she couldn’t care yet. 

She would heal eventually. 

Eventually. 

Elide was fuming in a corner of the castle, worried about Dorian.

Aelin hated pulling rank on one of her oldest companions. But she knew better than most that love could get in the way. It could lead you to make the wrong decisions. 

She couldn’t afford that yet. Only three weeks into her reign as Queen. 

She turned to the sound of a door opening, the familiar vanilla scent of books, of sharp snow and of rain on stone hitting her. 

Dorian. 

He entered the room sheepishly, pulling a velvet padded chair to where she was sitting. 

“You’re avoiding everyone.” He said, resting his hands gently on the table. 

Aelin didn’t deny it. 

Aedion had forgotten so much. 

Lysandra had lost her leg, her love, because of decisions Aelin had made. 

“Does it ever get easier?” She asked, staring into the candle flame. 

Dorian sighed, leaning against the chair, his fingers thrumming a pattern on the table. 

“I don’t know. I- sometimes. Sometimes no.” 

Aelin glanced at her friend. 

His eyes looked haunted too. 

“Rowan’s looking for you, you know. I talked to him earlier, about how it feels, how to deal with it. Of course, Aedion flinching when he saw him wasn’t exactly how we wanted it to go.” 

Aelin groaned, dropping her head on the table. 

“It was supposed to get easier now. It feels like we lost. Everything is so broken and,” Aelin looked down at her callused hands, lacking the scars that had once been staples of her craft.

“And I don’t know how to put it back together.” She finished. 

“I don’t think you can,” Dorian said, lightly placing a hand on her shoulder, his dark hair falling over his face. 

“Some pieces are just missing. Maybe it’s time to rebuild. Maybe it will never be the same, Mala knows,” he said, gently tapping away. 

“I think the important think is the choice to continue standing. Fighting. Getting up. As long as you continue, continue to try, we haven’t lost.” 

Aelin rasped out a laugh. 

“When did you become so wise?” 

Dorian spread his hands, a grin on his face. 

“I’ve always been this way, my good looks just distracted from it.” 

Aelin lifted her head, and leaned on his shoulder. 

They sat like that for a while, just breathing together. 

It was-nice. 

Then the air in front of them started to ripple. 

Dorian sat up straight, Aelin did to, condensing her flames into a sword. 

Both of them stood ready, magic thrumming at their fingertips.

Lorcan appeared. 

“Lorcan?” Aelin said, cocking her head. 

‘How-what?” Dorian said, ice solidifying around his fingers. 

Lorcan rubbed the back of his neck. 

Aelin could make out some figures behind him, three male Fae, two female Fae. 

“Where are you?” She demanded, her flames whipping through her hair, “Where have you been?” 

Lorcan ran his hands through his hair. 

“I got away from the battlefield. I am, unsure as to how, but I am in another world. Another place. It is known as Pyrthian.’ 

Aelin paused at the name. 

It sounded familiar. 

Dorian raised an eyebrow. 

‘How are you contacting us?” 

Lorcan spread his hands. 

“The people here are helping me.” 

Aelin raised an eyebrow at this, openly displaying her doubt. 

Lorcan saw that and narrowed his eyes, “They found a sort of crystal for communication, and we decide to try use it to contact you.” 

Aelin and Dorian looked at it each other, then back at Lorcan. 

“Prove it.” She said simply. 

Lorcan sighed again. 

“Rowan calls you Fireheart. You tricked me with a fake amulet of Orynth. I gave Wyrdhounds your scent once, but let you think I killed them. You and Rowan both have a really weird obsession with gold-,” 

“Right that’s enough!” Aelin said, throwing her hands up, “It’s you.” 

Lorcan smirked. 

Dorian put his hands in his pockets. 

“Worldwalking.” He said simply, “That’s how you get back, but they don’t know how to.” 

Lorcan nodded, then gestured behind him. 

A Fae male came forward. 

A stunningly handsome Fae man. 

Aelin’s breath caught for a split second before she recovered. 

Oh Mala. 

Why was he so..?

Then his eye caught the light and her sword reignited. 

“Lorcan.” She said as calmly as she could, “What are you doing partnered with a Valg?” 

“I thought that too at first. But he’s not.” Lorcan responded, eyes locked on her own. 

The man kept his hands loose by his side. 

Watching them interact. 

“I am Rhysand,” he said, his voice dark and low and soothing, “High Lord of the Night Court.” 

Aelin nodded, dipping her head slightly, recognising royalty. 

He mimicked the action. 

“It is a pleasure Queen Aelin,” he said politely, nodding at Dorian, “King Dorian.” 

Dorian blinked, shocked at being recognised. 

“We have a problem.” 

***

Dorian watched as the Fae-Rhysand explained the fact that someone-something from his world had escaped into theirs. 

That someone-something, they thought it was possessing Elide, her proximity to the Valg, to witch blood, made her enticing. Someone who would not be suspected. Elide may not be aware of it at all. 

Dorian barely knew who she was, but Aelin had flinched. 

Hard. 

Apparently an ancient creature of legend could be possessing their friend. At the idea of possession, Dorian had flinched. 

“Has the girl ever mentioned being guided by a voice or something like that?“ Rhysand questioned, his purple eyes catching the fire light.  

Aelin pursed her lips, before nodding. 

‘She’s mentioned being guided by a goddess before, one of our realm, called Anneith.”

Elide was probably being possessed, by an ancient angry being from another world, who could and probably has taken over her body whenever she so desires.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

Rhysand said that her name might not be Elide, but the Helloed Cain enjoyed the symmetry of it. He said that it was smarter than most, older than most.  It enjoyed patterns, symmetry. Playing with its prey.

No one knew why.

The best thing they could do is nothing until the Fae from Prythian arrive. 

He explained he wasn’t attempting to shove in on their territory, and Dorian watched Aelin relax minutely at those words. 

Really, he was trying to find a bit of his world and bring it home. 

Dorian couldn’t fault him for that. 

He found himself resonating to this Rhysand. 

Explaining how they had also been through a war, and how the years in recovery had almost been more brutal than the war itself. 

He was reaching out to them with an olive branch, from a whole other world. 

They could try. 

Aelin nodded as Rhysand finished up his explanation, but Dorian quickly jumped in before she could speak. 

“I know some of world walking,” he said, watching Rhysand’s facial expressions.

Rhysand tilted his head, an invitation to continue, but his hands gently flicked an invisible piece of lint of his spotless tunic. Dorian wasn’t sure why he noticed that. But it felt important. 

“There was a, a creature, I won’t get into too much detail, but to an extent they taught me the basics of world walking. I might be able to travel to your world, but I’d need an anchor, something or someone to look for. Lorcan, do you have any thing that you left here that was meaningful to you for any reason?” 

Lorcan furrowed his brow, and Aelin turned to Dorian with a question in her eyes. 

He nodded, a promise to explain what exactly had taught him. 

Lorcan furrowed his brow, frowning in thought. 

“There was a simple gold chain in my saddlebag. Gift from my mother. I used to wear it often, but one day I just took it off. Would that be enough.” 

His tone was gruff, and he didn’t make eye contact, but Dorian looked him, or attempted to, in the eye anyway. 

Family was very complicated. 

“We’ll get the chain,” Aelin summarised, “And Dorian will attempt at first light. We’ll see how many he can bring with him, but I’d recommend not going alone. Perhaps Fenrys? His abilities could prove useful.” 

Dorian hummed in agreement with her words. 

A Fae female came forward. 

She reminded Dorian of a huntress, of a crisp wind. Eyes like rain, and hair like honey. 

She prowled to Rhysand’s side, with an outfit that would give Aelin a run for her money, on a usual day. 

But these last weeks have been anything but usual. 

“We will be waiting.” She said, her voice clear and calming, like a rushing stream. She offered them a light smile, attempting to lift the tension. 

“Best of luck King Dorian, Queen Aelin,” she moved closer to them, her eyes appraising. 

With that, the vision ended. 

Dorian and Aelin were silent.  

The Wyrdkeys weighed on their minds. 

Nameless is my price. 

Chapter Text

Feyre had felt a lot seeing those young people, with the weight of the world on their shoulders. 

They reminded her of her. 

They were nothing like her. 

But her blood had stilled when she saw their eyes. 

The eyes she had been painting and sketching over and over again. She dreamt of those eyes becoming over come with black.

Blood pouring from their eyes. 

She had written a letter to Elain, asking about what her sister thought it could mean. 

She threw it into the fire shortly afterwards. 

Something about seeing the words down on paper made her nervous. 

She yawned, as she sat up, the curtains of their bedroom fluttering in a light breeze, allowing sunlight to dapple on the bed. 

She turned around, looking for her ever elusive mate, but his side of the bed was cold. 

Probably had been for a few hours. 

She stumbled to the bathroom, splashing water on her face in an attempt to wake up. Her temples were throbbing slightly, but that should be gone in a few minutes. 

She rolled her shoulders, easing out the kinks. She straightened the dusky blue sleeping clothes she was wearing, long loose pants and a light top. 

She sighed glancing in the mirror. 

Then screamed. 

A person with blue-gold eyes stared back, blonde hair whipping around her face like flames. Feyre watched as a black collar embossed with runes was clamped around her neck, her eyes being filled with an inky darkness. She slammed her hands into the glass, flames that were corrupted coiled around her. She screamed at Feyre, but there was no sound. 

Feyre stumbled backwards, searching for something, anything to throw at the glass. 

Her fingers clumsily knocked things everywhere as she gripped the handle of a hairbrush, and threw it at the glass as hard as she could. 

The beautiful glass, surrounded by expertly stained glass and woven gold intricacies shattered, the hairbrush broke as it hurtled through the wall. 

Feyre heard a body barrel into the bathroom, warm, strong comforting arms wrap around her.

She was shaking hard, her eyes trained on where the mirror had been. 

She could hear a voice saying her name, and hands running comfortably through her hair, but it was like they were out of sync. 

Everything was blurred and uneven. 

Her breath was coming loudly in her ears. 

She could hear her heart pounding. 

“Feyre,” a voice soothed, warm and even in her ear.
Her hand was taken and placed on a familiar chest, she could feel the rhythm of a heart pounding away. 

“Feel my heartbeat, focus on it.” The voice told her. 

Feyre blocked out as much as the noise as she could, focusing on the heartbeat, timing her breaths with it. 

“That’s it,” the voice said, “Keep going.” 

Feyre’s breaths began to even, and she lifted her head to meet Rhys’s eyes. 

Beautiful eyes, filled with worry and concern, and so so much love. 

She shakily smiled at him, resting her head in the space between his neck and his shoulder, relaxing as he held her tightly. Soothingly. 

“What happened?” He asked gently, rubbing even circles on her back. Are 

Feyre leaned more into him, her silence telling him all he needed to hear. 

“Cup of tea?” He asked. 

Feyre nodded, too afraid to try to speak. 

“Can you make it lavender?” She asked, whispering up the bond. 

Rhysand nodded, scooping her up bridal style. 

“Anything for you, my love.” 

Rhys tried to keep his breath even as he watched Feyre slowly drink her tea. 

They were sitting outside, alone together, and he couldn’t help counting her breaths.

When he had heard her scream, his blood had turned to ice in his veins. Her panic and fear had blasted down her side of the bond, grabbing him and shaking him.

He had winnowed to their bedroom, heart pounding as he saw her huddled on the floor, shards of glass cutting into her shoulders and feet. 

He held her as blood trickled down her cuts. 

Gently pulled the glass out before it could heal. 

The anger and rage and fear, thrummed through him.

She wasn’t ready to talk about what she had seen. What had scared her so badly. 

He hadn’t spoken fully about what he had seen in Lorcan’s mind. Something, something that couldn’t be true.  

Elide Lochan.. flickered at times. 

He worried that she might not be real, that he could be wrong about possession and maybe the girl never truly existed. Maybe she was just a manifestation of the Helloed Cain’s will. 

He wondered how Lorcan would take that. 

“Not even the Helloed Cain could make a person,” he thought, shaking his head, “I must be wrong.” 

Dismissing those thoughts, he leaned over to Feyre. 

She was pale, wide-eyed.  Her eyes were focused off into the distance. 

They both got like that sometimes. 

He gently wrapped an arm around her. 

“Do you want to come to the Bridge?” He asked. 

They had decided that the Moonstone Palace was too heavily warded, and had decided on an old bridge, were alliances used to be formed hundreds of years ago in the court. 

It was a stunning monument, stories and histories of the Night Court were engraved into it. 

Helloed Cain was engraved into it. 

But it would be the best place for a new offer of friendship. 

Rhys ran over the updates from the other High Lords regarding trade. 

They all sent them out to each other, a practise developed over the last seven years. 

All except someone who had almost sealed his borders shut. 

Rhys couldn’t find the goodwill to hope he was recovering. 

But the villages and towns on the outskirts of that court still blossomed. 

He flicked those thoughts away like water, watching Feyre for her reaction. 

Her brows tightened in thought. 

“I’d better,” she responded, the words half-hearted. Putting down her mug and running her hands along her braid, she stood up, stretched her arms over her head and offered him a wan smile. 

Rhys admired the view of his mate in the early morning light. 

“I can feel you staring,” Feyre’s voice taunted.

Rhys leaned back on the couch, pulling back the shadows to admire the light filling the hollows and curves of her. 

“Just enjoying the view.” He answered, watching a light rosy glow fill her cheeks. 

“You are stunning you know,” he continued, watching the blush spread. 

Feyre let out a light laugh, swatting at him, before turning and darting upstairs. 

“You flatterer,” she threw over her shoulder, winking at him. 

He grinned, “Merely stating fact Feyre darling.” 

***

Aelin left Dorian after the meeting with Lorcan. 

Her temples were throbbing. 

She exited the room, and glanced out one of the many windows that usually illuminated the palace. 

It was dark outside, late. 

She sighed, rubbing her head. 

“Sometimes ice powers would come in handy,” she murmured to herself. 

The torches were all lit, and were burning, but not a whirl of smoke rose from them.

She wasn’t sure if she had done that. The day was a blur. 

Aelin worried that everyday would be. 

She began down the hall, ignoring the faces she saw in every shadow. 

Sam. 

Chaol. 

Maeve. 

Her parents. 

Arobynn. 

Lysandra. 

She began to run down the hall to avoid their accusing glances, but their voices were whispering in her head. 

“You weren’t strong enough.” 

“You aren’t good enough.” 

‘You will never escape the guilt.” 

“This is your fault.” 

“You fault.” 

“YOUR FAULT.” 

Aelin was sprinting down the hall, to the Queen’s chambers, tears spilling down her face. Flames licked at her heels, scorching the stone floor as she ran. 

She was choking on the sobs. 

The voices were so loud. 

She threw open the door, and saw Rowan inside, staring out the window.

His scent wove around her, somewhat calming, but the tears continued.
Choking, strangling. 

“Aelin?” He asked. 

The first word he had said since.. since everything. 

Aelin threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his chest. 

“We d-don’t have to talk.” She sobbed, as he stiffened slightly. 

“I-I know that you’re not ready for that yet.” 

His hands began to move in easy circles along her back. 

Her back without her scars. 

Her scara Maeve had erased.
“You aren’t Aelin.” A voice hissed. 

“Aelin died that day she was locked in that coffin. You are a shadow of my making.” 

“Please just hold me,” she whispered. 

“I hear them. Everywhere.” 

Rowan hummed into her scalp. Massaged her neck. Letting her just be. 

He lifted her onto her massive bed. 

Where he was so far away. 

“Stay with me?” She whispered into the darkness. 

“Always.” Was his response. 

She fell into an uneasy sleep. 

Chapter Text

Dorian ran his fingers across the burnished gold chain.
He was standing in the stables, made of a mixture of wood and stone. 

The smell of hay filled the air. 

He closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of the chain between his fingers. 

They discussed Elide. 

What the other Court might not be telling them. 

For now, they’d agreed to not tell her. 

Dorian thought of Adarlan for a minute. 

His kingdom without a king. 

He had put a Lord he trusted, somewhat, in charge. 

But he would need to go back soon. He shook his head. 

“Focus Dorian,” he hissed. 

He pictured clear sky. 

Glaciers of ice floating on the sea. 

His mind slowly started to slow down from all the responsibilities constantly buzzing in his mind.

His mind quiet, he reached out for the remnants of Lorcan on the chain. 

The remnants of Lorcan were drawn to the Fae. 

He felt for the rest of Lorcan. 

It felt like he was pushing through yards of cloth, gently moving things out of his way to find Lorcan. 

But then, he met resistance. 

Something was wrong.

It felt like he was pushing through oil instead of cloth. 

He tried to step back, away from it, but it was wrapping around him, aiming for his neck. 

Flashes of the collar blew into his mind, and he felt the panic rise in his throat. 

“Dorian.” A voice called. 

“Dorian!” It called again, louder this time. 

“Dorian!” It screamed, shaking him. 

His eyes flew open. 

He was on the ground, Aelin kneeling beside him, shaking him. 

“Dorian?” She asked worriedly. 

He nodded as he slowly sat up. Grimacing as he felt for his neck. 

He needed to feel that he didn’t have a collar one. He needed to know that he was still Dorian. 

Aelin put the back of her hand against his forehead, then hissed, steam coming off her hand.

She ran hotter than most, and he typically ran colder. 

He raised a hand to his forehead, still gasping for air. 

His skin was freezing to the touch, and Dorian struggled to inhale. 

Aelin looked panicked, calling someone over her shoulder, but Dorian couldn’t hear who.
His ears were ringing and everything was blurry. 

His eyes started to flutter shut. 

And everything faded to black. 

Aelin stared at Dorian’s prone form. 

Fenrys had helped her lift him to the guest quarters, a lavish feather down bed awaiting them. 

There was a stunning view of Orynth from the windows, but none of that seemed to matter. 

Aelin looked at her still healing skin. 

Fenrys had said it was a mild case of frostbite, but with her abilities should be gone shortly. 

She poked the numbness, watching the skin peel. 

She dropped her hand, refocusing on Dorian again.
He had started to warm up after they had laid him down, and it looked like he was recovering quickly. 

But Aelin had never seen his abilities take such a physical form like this before, actively changing his body temperature. 

She gnawed at her lip, her elongated canines breaking the skin and the taste of blood filled her mouth. 

Aelin hadn’t shifted out of her Fae form in months, preferring the senses and speed of it.

Sometimes she worried she would never be able to shift back. 

She cursed to herself. 

She wished that there was some way she could contact Lorcan and the “Night Court” to let them know about Dorian. 

She wished she had raw magic like his so she could attempt. 

She mused to herself, still pulling at the skin of her lip. 

Fenrys came over and rested a hand on her shoulder. She flinched minutely at the contact for a second, before relaxing into the warmth. 

She let go of her lip, and began worrying over the dark green and gold tunic, matching long brocaded dress coat with slashes cut in it for easy movement, high leather boots, dark breeches. 

She had weapons still strapped to her at all sides, along with Goldryn. She hadn’t, couldn’t get used to walking around with the weight of them. 

She had a braided gold circlet braided into her hair, not that she needed it, everyone knew who she was. 

She let out a sigh. 

Fenrys’s eyes narrowed. 

She knew he had noticed it, but she simply couldn’t explain herself. 

Explain why touch was-.

“Okay,” she said, shrugging of his hand and clasping her hands together. 

“Dorian failed, not sure why, so of course that means it’s up to me,” she grinned at him, her smile feeling fake and strained but at least she was smiling. 

Trying. 

She reached out to his clenched fist, slowly working it open until Lorcan’s golden chain fell into her palm. 

She grimaced at the feel of it. 

Then, she grabbed the Eye of Elena from around her neck, running her hands over the cold metal. 

Yrene had given it to her off Chaol’s-. 

She cut off that thought. 

It had been cold to the touch ever since the Wyrdkeys had gone with Lorcan. 

She worried about Lorcan, though she was loath to admit it. 

Elide cared about him, and whatever was possessing her just made Aelin focus in on that fact. 

Breathing deeply, she moved away from Dorian and Fenrys, into the secluded balcony. 

No one could see her from here, and she could try and finish what Dorian had started. 

She felt out for the flicker of Lorcan that existed in the gold, picturing it as an ember that wanted to return to the roaring fire. 

She reached out, offering the ember a way to the fire it belonged to. 

She walked through burning lava, and things that felt like ice breathing down her back. 

She focused on the ember, and the fire, blocking out all other sensations until the fire was so close it was burning hot and the ember just wanted to return and re-ignite. 

She stumbled, landing on cool stone. 

She straightened up and evened herself out, before looking up into  Lorcan’s eyes. 

He was surrounded by the Fae from the vision. 

Her eyes cut on the male and female ahead, the High Lord and Lady. They also had braided circlets. 

Aelin gave herself a few seconds to approve of the Lady’s outfit, stylish, and lethal. 

She favoured dark silver and blue. 

It was a similar style to Aelin, but a long dress tunic that was slashed, instead a light short blue coat on her shoulders. 

Weapons were clearly hidden along her person. 

Her mate wore darker colours, but mixed with the dark silver so there was a sense of matching. 

Aelin snapped her gaze to Lorcan, raising a brow as he begrudgingly gave a dip of his head in respect. 

“I have kept close to the personal effects you bestowed upon me,” he said. 

‘Fancy,” Aelin thought to herself, ‘Did he used to talk like that in Wendlyn or is he putting on a show for his new friends?”

She smirked, before focusing on the Fae behind him. 

This was… interesting. 

Chapter Text

Rhysand and Feyre watched as the girl stepped out of a glowing tear, and stumbled. 

Feyre stepped forward as if to help, but she righted herself, and turned to face them. 

She had pointed ears and elongated canines like Lorcan, put on display from a smirk she made as she locked eyes with Lorcan, but glowing golden hair and eyes that seemed to burn with anger, and determination. 

Feyre held in the gasp that bubbled up in her throat when she beheld the girls eyes. 

Images of those eyes turning black, a clamped collar around her neck shuddered through her mind. 

She refocused on the girl, noting the similarities between their clothing and stepped forward. 

“I am Feyre,” she said, as calmly and cleanly as she could, “High Lady of the Night Court.” She held her hand out to Queen Aelin, who’s mind burned and crackled like a wildfire. She carefully kept her mind apart from it.

“And you are-,” she began, but Queen Aelin interrupted her. 

‘Queen Aelin Ashyrver Whitethorn Galathinyus of Terrasen,” she said. 

She smelled like lemon verbena, lavender and crackling embers, with a faint scent of pine and snow wrapped around her. 

Feyre bowed her head in respect as Rhysand came forward. 

“High Lord Rhysand,” he said simply.

Aelin nodded in his direction. 

***

“We were expecting King Dorian,” the High Lady said. 

Aelin made sure to keep her posture strong, her fingers itching for Goldryn. 

“We decided I should go instead,” she responded. 

The sheer power coming off the High Lady and Lord was immense. 

They were a match to her and Rowan. 

“Potentially more than a match,” she admitted to herself. 

She counted the Fae behind them, two tall Fae, with membranous wings peeking over each shoulder, scaled battle armour glowing with unique stones. 

She marked them as threats, her magic cooing at the killing power radiating from the stones. 

She marked the other golden haired Fae, who was dressed extravagantly as well, but held herself in a way that reminded Aelin of Lysandra. 

Her eyes were a glowing chocolate brown, and Aelin was reminded of a ghost leopard sizing up its prey. 

The final Fae was shorter than the rest, but her stature didn’t diminish her lethality. 

Aelin in the past had many marks believe her to be weak as a woman, she refused to allow the same scepticism and arrogance guide her now. 

She ha glowing silver eyes, and was wearing the simplest clothes of anyone there, but she was wearing the most jewellery. 

Aelin noted the eyes that hinted at something behind them. 

The fae’s red lips spread into a white smile as she watched Aelin evaluate her. 

She turned her attention back to the High Lord and Lady. 

“I thank you,” she began, “For protecting my subject.” Lorcan made a slight choking noise to her left, but she ignored him, focusing on the task at hand. 

“We must return to Terrasen,” she continued. 

“I don’t know if time passes the same way here as it does there, and I am not willing to stay here longer than I have to.” 

Despite her words, she continued taking in the stunning bridge around her. 

It was made of a silver-white glowing rock, with scenes of battles and histories carved all around it. 

It looked like it had no ceiling, but Aelin realised it was glass, but the clearest glass she had ever seen. 

Lanterns glowing with the same silvery-white hue of the bridge hung suspended in the air. 

She looked up at the night sky, and found herself stunned by how alien it was. 

She didn’t recognise a single constellation. 

Dismissing those thoughts, she almost missed the High Lord speaking to her. 

“I know you have been made aware of the situation in your world.” He said, his voice deep, and dark reminding her of a comforting night’s sleep. 

The High Lady by his side eyes snapped to Aelin, who found herself drowning in the clear pools of water.

She saw herself in those eyes. 

She didn’t like it. 

Aelin nodded, impatience crossing her face as a finger reached out to tap Goldryn’s scabbard. 

The movement wasn’t missed, as immediately the two winged Fae reached for their swords, not drawing them, but hands at the ready. 

She didn’t miss that either. 

She kept her posture as relaxed as she could. 

“We believe that a team of three of us should go with you to your world and take care of the entity from s that is possessing your,” the High Lord paused, as if searching for the right word, “Friend, and member of your Court.” 

Aelin hated to admit it. 

But she knew they were tried and tested leaders. 

She knew that they were well-versed in what they were talking about. 

She knew she needed their help to help Elide. 

But she didn’t want to invite unknown variables into her healing kingdom. 

“We know this is a tough choice to make,” The High lady said, her voice like a clear stream. 

“We need you to trust us. We-I swear on my Court and my place in it that no harm shall be done to you, your subjects or your kingdom by our hands unless it is absolutely necessary to stop Helloed Cain, and if damage we do commit, we will help rebuild.” The High Lady’s eyes locked on her own. 

“This I so swear.” 

Aelin saw a swirling tattoo appear on the High Lady’s exposed collarbone. 

It was a black tattoo, but the shape was clearly of the Queen’s Flame flower. 

She tilted her head at it. 

“In our Court,” Rhysand said, watching her curiosity, “Such vows are sealed with a binding mark.”

Aelin found it faintly barbaric, but also slightly comforting. 

“Who will be accompanying us,” she acquiesced, “And I will place limits on them depending.” 

The court nodded to each other, a well-oiled machine in motion. 

Aelin found herself longing for that sort of trust in her own court. 

Ever since the war, they had all been fractured. 

Aedion had lost his memory. 

Lysandra, her leg and her love. 

Yrene, had lost her husband, father of her child. 

Rowan barely talked, barely slept, haunted. 

Manon had lost the Thirteen. 

Dorian had lost his brother, his best friend. 

Fenrys had lost his brother too. 

Aelin had lost them all. 

And Elide might have lost her freedom. 

That was something that Aelin could help fix. 

That she had to fix, she had to do something. 

***

Feyre gnawed at her lip. 

They had agreed that Rhysand and Mor were going. 

But she still felt uneasy about it. 

She will be going with Cassian and Azriel to Hybern. Amren would be staying in the Night Court, just in case. 

They had islands on the far side which were closest to the Splitting in the story of Helloed Cain, and they had the most information on the myth, so it could come in handy. 

She reached up and pecked Rhys’s cheek, hugged Mor, and dipped her head to Amren. 

Then she watched as Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathinyus ripped open the fabric once more, her brow furrowed, chanting something no one else could here. 

Her hand was clenched tightly around a necklace on her neck, glimmering with an alien light. 

Feyre watched until the light got too bright for her eyes, but she kept all her mental focus on the mating bond between herself and Rhys. 

She would not loose him. 

Not again. 

***

Mor had to admit, the Queen of Terrasen was stunning.
As was her kingdom, though it was clearly in the midst of rebuilding. 

They had landed on a hill, a little outside the city walls, the ground beneath them carpeted in a flower that looked similar to Feyre’s tattoo. 

Mor noted that, eyes narrowed. 

A web of truth and lies spun around the Queen, who kept a careful balance, always spinning out of reach before her net could collapse upon her. 

Mor wondered what would happen if she reached out and-. 

She shook her head, noticing Rhys’s eyes on her.

He knew of most, if not all of her secrets. 

It was best he didn’t know how she saw the world. 

The lies that burned her very skin. 

The half-truths that she twisted and turned. 

Mor hadn’t been able to tell a lie since childhood. That was a fact. 

She hadn’t told the full truth since childhood either. 

That was a fact. 

She grounded herself in basic truths, shaking herself away from the lies that crawled over her skin. 

Rhys and The Queen were discussing. 

Mor admired the way the setting sun illuminated the Queen’s skin, before dismissing the notion. 

The Queen clearly had a mate bond. 

That was a truth. 

Her brain kept spiralling over truths. 

Weaving and spinning. 

She looked at the city, Queen Aelin had called it Orynth. 

It was a beautiful castle that pierced the sky with it’s tallest towers. 

But she could see where towers had been, where walls had been breached. 

She stared at the scorched earth around the castle. 

Where war had been waged. 

She followed as Rhys and the Queen continued to discuss, Lorcan on the Queen’s right side. 

Something was different here. 

She shook her head, trying to focus on all the intricate truths and lies spilling out from the castle, trying to pick apart where the feeling was coming from. 

She shuddered as she passed through the gates of the castle, the webs wrapping tightly around her neck, her mind, her voice.

That day in the forest when she was bleeding and screaming and she felt it encircle her and suffocate her-there was no air to breathe-no one would come-she would die-DIE- DIE. 

Mor focused on keeping her steps sure and even. 

She would rip apart this tapestry of lies. 

***

Aelin led their guests and Lorcan toward Ornyth. 

Rhysand had suggested that they needed to get Elide as far away from the castle to avoid collateral damage. 

Aelin had yet to see the full extent of his power, but she could feel it thrumming in the air. 

She wondered what kind of power the High Lord of the Night Court had. 

“Will he be like a Valg?” A voice in her head murmured. 

She pictured Rhysand wreathed in shadows, membraneous wings spread wide. 

She banished that thought, seeing Maeve. 

She couldn’t look in the High Lord’s eyes. 

They reminded her too much of the iron coffin, of weeks of burning and slicing and cutting and screaming. 

Aelin pictured flames eating those thoughts alive, an inferno in her mind. 

She almost missed Rhysand flinching as she did so. 

Almost. 

Lorcan had whispered to her of powers to do with the mind. 

She kept the flames up. 

Let him be burned. 

She led them towards Dorian’s quarters, where Fenrys, Rowan and Dorian were waiting. 

She had tugged on the blood oaths, letting them know she was returning. 

Aelin wondered if Rhysand had blood oaths. 

She watched the two behind Rhysand carefully. 

The blond seemed to be seeing things in every corner, her head tilted as if she was listening to something. 

The smaller one stared straight ahead, her silvery eyes glowing with their own light even in the broad daylight. 

She avoided the Great Hall, leading them up a back way toward the Guest Quarters. 

Finally she pushed open the heavy oak door, leading them to where Dorian sat, tea in his hands, his eyes distant, and Rowan and Fenrys stood at the window, turning the minute the door creaked. 

Tension she hadn’t realised was there leaked from her shoulders as the men took their place by her side again. 

Dorian looked up as well, setting his now cold tea on the table. 

Morrigan- the blonde female- moved to the window, winding through the two Fae males who stared at her as she shoved through them to peak into the courtyard. 

“It’s stunning,” she breathes, eyes fixated outside. 

Aelin agreed. 

Orynth was beautiful at all times of year, as far as she could remember, but spring, sunset, with carpets of flowers surrounding the outside made it something special.

“Do all of your cities look like this?” Morrigan asked. 

Aelin opened her mouth to reply, then shut it. She wasn’t going to give them any information about her kingdom that she didn’t have to give. 

“This is the capital,” she said instead, deflecting. 

Morrigan nodded, the dimming sunlight illuminating her face and the long, red slashed dress she had insisted upon wearing. 

Aelin sighed, turning back to face Rhysand and his Third, Morrigan. 

The female had introduced herself with a grin, displaying sharp pointed teeth. 

Morrigan was fully aware of the impact just a little smile like that could do, Aelin was sure. 

She had used it herself often, to make her targets underestimate her. 

Behind Rhysand, there was a long shadow. 

Aelin found her eyes being drawn to it, again, and again. 

She tried to drag them away but it was sucking her in. 

She could faintly hear Dorian standing up and re-introducing himself, Mor humming appreciatively and Dorian winking at her. 

But the shadows were consuming. It was all she could see, hear, feel, think. 

Nameless is my price. 

Nameless is my price. 

NAMELESS is my PRICE. 

NAMELESS IS MY PRICE.

Aelin felt herself stumble, the fires in her mind quenched, her ears ringing. 

Rhysand reached to steady her, his face pale. 

Aelin couldn’t focus, her breathing was uneven. 

Concern and fear warred over his face. 

Suddenly she felt a soothing warmth coat across her mind, like the nights when her mother would hold her close and sing her a lullaby, or her father would read her fables. 

Her breathing began to even out. 

“Aelin,” came Rhysand’s voice, low and gentle in her mind, “There is someone putting these thoughts, making you see and feel these things. None of your court have this ability, correct?” 

Aelin managed a nod, her eyes still unfocused. 

“I have reason to believe that Helloed Cain is breaking through your fire, plaguing you with nightmares, visions, to weaken you.” 

Aelin felt her mind begin to spiral into panic. 

‘This is because it is afraid of you,” his voice continued, “I’m going to need you to picture somewhere safe, something impenetrable, it can be anything.” 

Aelin squeezed her eyes shut, her mind running through possibilities. 

Her apartment in Adarlan. 

The last place she and Sam were together. 

Rowan and Aedion had been there. 

Lysandra and her and become friends there. 

She pictured it, adding walls of impenetrable flame and squeezing her emotions of that place to fuel the fire, filling it with love and light and joy. 

Slowly she opened her eyes again, realising she was on the floor. 

Rowan and Fenrys and Dorian were huddled around her, with Rhysand behind them. 

His purple eyes made contact with her own, and for once she didn’t see Maeve in him. 

He nodded at her, and she nodded back before sitting up. 

“Do you know how many of us Helloed Cain has hit?” She asked.

Rhysand looked pensive. 

“That, ability,” he said, taking his time, “It is rare, and there are no stories featuring Helloed Cain with that power. There was another person I knew, who was extremely skilled, more so than I with minds. Like weaving a tapestry, they were able to pick out any individual thread. They were probably the most powerful damanti from our world.” 

Aelin lifted a brow. 

“You think they could be posing as Helloed Cain here, or working for it?” She questioned. 

Rhysand shook his head, his dark hair falling over his brow. 

“I would, except for the fact that they are long dead. But this,” he said, lifting a hand in the direction of her head. 

“This is so similar to their style. It worries me.” 

Aelin rotated her neck, hearing a loud crack as she did so. 

“Maybe it is supposed to worry you,” she offered, ‘Maybe that’s what it wants.” 

Rhysand nodded his agreement slowly. 

“It is time we meet your friend Elide. Where can we do this?” 

Chapter Text

Rhysand tried to hide the extent of his worry as Aelin led them a secluded forest near a creek, just west of Orynth. 

They all stood there, waiting as Dorian went to get Elide. 

Rhysand gently patted the horse he had ridden on, a tall grey gelding. 

He turned to face Aelin, who was fidgeting with her sword again. 

He was struck by how young she was. 

Not in the way most Fae were, a youthful timeless beauty. 

Queen Aelin was young, under twenty-five if he had to make a guess. 

She reminded him a lot of his sister, in her determination, her stubbornness, her ability to keep moving despite hardships. 

He discarded those memories. Sometimes it was good to reminisce, but at the moment he had a job to do. 

Mor was on his right had side, and Fenrys, the man who’s mind was like a wolf, sharp, cunning, predatory, and Lorcan, still wreathed in shadows, stayed either side of Queen Aelin. 

Her consort was a few steps behind, eyes on the trees to the left. 

He didn’t say much, which was a vast difference to his Queen. 

He could faintly hear hoofbeats, so the King and Elide Lochan were on their way. 

He shoved his hands in his pockets, kept his face even, and waited. 

He could hear chatter now, a high pitched female voice sounding curious, and King Dorian reassuring. 

Rhysand mentally checked and re-checked the barriers around his mind, and tapped Mor and Amren’s shields to remind them to do the same. He threw a light shielding over the others, just enough that their thoughts wouldn’t be accessible. 

Then through the trees, the horses appeared, King Dorian on one, and a smaller woman, young, with black hair and light eyes blinked at them.

Rhys sensed the crippled ankle, but it felt off slightly. 

He reached out to her mind, as softly as he could. 

The outer mind was all Elide, relief at seeing Lorcan, curiosity, pain in her ankle, wondering when Anneith would make herself known again. 

Rhysand paused. 

Anneith? 

Some goddess, Elide’s brain supplied shortly afterward. 

But, part of Elide’s mind was blocked. 

Not exactly blocked, more like split or separated. 

Elide on one side, and something else on the other. 

He tapped lightly against it and saw Elide’s full body flinch, looking at him with wide eyes. 

Her form, flickered for a second.
He looked into Dorian’s mind (freezing, cold as ice, glaciers) shifted through him. 

His blood ran cold. 

Dorian hadn’t seen the flicker. 

What was she?

Elide carefully dismounted, eyes flicking between Lorcan and the new Fae. 

She stumbled on her ankle, wincing, and Lorcan came forward to help, the girl knocked fully into him, almost falling flat on her face. 

Lorcan’s arms encircled her waist, easing her gently back on her feet. 

Rhysand watched it with narrowed eyes. 

Elide-was that even her name?

Elide walked over to them, dipping her head to Queen Aelin, Fenrys on one side and Dorian just a step behind. 

“Aelin?” She asked, her voice confused, as she glanced over at the other Fae, “Is everything alright?” 

Aelin took a step back, eyeing Elide up and down. 

‘Aelin?” Elide asked again, her voice wavering slightly. 

“Elide Lochan,” Aelin said, straight-backed, no emotion, no tone in her voice. 

“Do you have anything you would like to confess?” She continued. 

Elide looked confused, her head whipping around as Rhysand, Mor and Amren stepped closer. 

“May I?” Mor asked. 

When Aelin nodded, his cousin’s face darkened. 

She was now a predator on the hunt, her eyes cold, focused. 

The Morrison looked the girl in the eyes, stretched out a hand and pulled. 

Elide stumbled hard, her breath stuttering. 

‘Wha-?” She tried. 

‘Don’t hurt her.” Aelin ordered, her jaw clenching. 

The Morrison tilted her head, eyes closed, inhaling deeply. 

“You are wound in a web of deceit,” Morrigan intoned, her voice echoing. 

“Lies upon lies.” 

Elide shook her head, pupils dilating, tears beginning to pour. 

Aelin, Fenrys, Lorcan and Dorian looked on in horror, but Mor had explained to them what exactly the process was.
No matter how Elide pleaded, cried, or begged, they could not interfere. 

Elide wouldn’t be the one begging, and one misstep could lead to the web of lies around the girl choking her. 

Killing her effectively. 

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed. 

‘Speak the truth.” Her hand tightened again, pulling harder. 

Elide’s hands went to her neck, her mouth as she shuddered, gasping for air. 

“Please..” She managed, clamping on hand tight around her neck, the other slamming over her mouth. 

The Morrigan looked at her with cold detachment. 

“The truth.” 

Elide’s head snapped up and she looked Morrigan in the eye, all pain gone. 

Laughter bubbled from its throat, as she threw back her head and laughed. 

Rhysand felt his wings form, his heart in his mouth. 

No one had ever done that. 

He had been with Mor for thousands of interrogations. 

The Queen and her warriors looked horrified, weapons unsheathed and in hand. 

“Very well,” Elide said as she slowly stopped laughing, eyes gleaming maliciously. 

“You want the truth?” 

The Morrigan held strong, hands wound in something only she could see. 

‘I will give you the truth.” 

Elide spoke with multiple voices, and shadows began winding up around her. 

Her laughter came back in full force as the shadows, shadows that Rhysand reached out to try and control, but failed, hid her from sight. 

He saw a flash of gold, limbs elongating. 

The shadows cleared. 

No. 

***

Feyre stumbled into one of the bookshelves as she felt the fear and horror and helplessness crash through the bond. 

Her ears were ringing as she screamed down the bond. 

“RHYS!” She cried as she pulled and tugged on the bond. 

“RHYS!” 

She was on her knees sobbing, as contact suddenly cut off. 

Rhys was still alive, but he had slammed his shields down, hard on his side of the bond. 

“Somethings wrong,” she said, grabbing Azriel and Cassian. 

“Something’s wrong.”

Chapter Text

Rhysand stared at the person who stepped out of the shadows. 

No, no, no, no. 

“Do I speak your truth now, Morrigan?” It asked, a cruel smile on its face. 

Mor took a step back, her hands shaking, eyes wide. 

‘Or do I dance to your strings, Rhysand?” 

It turned to him, eyes wide. 

No, no, no, no, no, no. 

***

“Or perhaps,” she purred, turning to Aelin, “My desire for vengeance burns even brighter than those flames you so adore.” 

Aelin looked at the girl, confusion and loss spiralling in her face. 

“Helloed Cain?” Aelin questioned, pointing her sword at her face, “What have you done with Elide?” 

The Fae’s laugh returned, more cruel this time. 

"Poor little Elide Lochan,” she said, taking a step forward, her billowing cloak of black and purple around her shoulders. 

She wore dark armour, mixed with a luxurious dark purple long tunic, mixed with silver jewellery, a diadem of silver and amethyst gems displayed on her brow. 

Dark breeches with silver embroidery, and long heeled boots. A sword strapped above her shoulders, made of a weird material Aelin couldn’t place. 

Her heart was beating fast in her chest. A monster that was so perfect it was unnatural. More terrifying than the ones who look horrific, as such beauty hides the darkness within. 

Aelin refocused, her thoughts spinning. 

Was Helloed Cain just looking like a Fae to confuse them? To make them think she-it- was like them?

Lorcan growled, his daggers pointing at the Fae’s throat. 

‘Where is she?” 

The Fae gestured, and all their weaponry flew up and impaled into a nearby tree. 

She tutted stepping forward again. 

"Are you a Valg?” Aelin asked, eyeing the shadows pooling around the Fae’s feet. 

She glanced at Rhysand and Morrigan, but they were staring at the Fae like it was a ghost come back to haunt them. 

She fully took in the Fae's face. 

She was stunning, ethereal, untouchable. 

She made even Morrigan and Rhysand look plain. 

Full lips, light skin, only lightly tinted. Swirling tattoos adorned her arms, circling across her collarbone. She had high cheekbones and a Grecian nose. 

Aelin felt ugly in comparison, but refocused on the Fae’s features. She made Aelin feel sick just looking at her, so untouchable, so terrifying. 

A beauty that was not, could not be natural. 

Golden hair, pinned up in intricate braids, and purple eyes.

Eyes and hair that matched Rhysand and Morrigan. 

A malicious twist in her lips though. 

Rhysand’s eyes were like the night sky, coated in stars. 

The Fae’s eyes were colder, more like this thing Aelin had heard of called a nebula. 

“Like Maeve’s,” her mind hissed.  Aelin felt a collar clasp around her throat, cold heavy stone. In those eyes she felt a mask clasp around her face smothering her. Dousing her flames. 

She wreathed her hands in flame, just to be sure she still could. 

“Not a Valg.” The Fae admitted, rubbing a hand on her neck, “Such a dreadful way to possess people. You’d think they’d have more taste for all their centuries of life.” Her voice was lilting up and down, laced with a mocking tone.

She smiled again, all teeth. 

“Well Rhysand,” she spat, her voice changing, sharper, filled with venom. 

‘Don’t tell me you don’t recognise me?” 

Rhysand just stared at her. 

She hummed disappointingly. 

‘That’s too bad.” 

She turns to them again. 

‘If you ever want to see your precious Elide again,” she ordered, eyes sharp as daggers, “You will follow my instructions, to the letter, when I send them.” 

She raised a dark brow at Lorcan. 

‘Or I’ll send you her head.” 

She paused, cackling to herself. 

“Or maybe,” she said, “I’ll send you her heart.” 

With that, she vanished, doing the thing Rhysand had described as winnowing. 

Aelin turned to Dorian, whose hands were glowing with ice. 


Lorcan let out a strangled gasp, grabbing at his neck.

‘She took the Wyrdkeys.” 

Chapter Text

‘Fuck.” Aelin cursed, spinning to face Lorcan. 

‘She has Elide,” Lorcan said, looking out at the trees, fear dominating his face. 

Aelin grabbed at her intricately done hair, similar, too similar to whatever that thing’s was, knotting it and tangling it around her hands. 

“How long did she have Elide,” she managed, pacing up and down. 

“How long did she have Elide and we didn’t notice?” 

Lorcan paled. 

‘Did we ever even meet Elide?” Aelin continued, “When did the switch happen? How did she fool us all this entire time?” 

‘Enough.” Rhysand said, “You will drive yourself mad trying to figure it out. That is exactly what she wants.” 

“But why?” Morrigan croaked, “Why would she do that? Do that to us?” 

Rhysand shook his head, his eyes far away. 

‘I don’t-I can’t even think straight right now,” He responded. 

“We should head back,” Rowan said, heading towards the tree and pulling out the weapons. 

Aelin couldn’t even feel shock at him speaking. 

Couldn’t savour the deep timbres of his voice, because how had she failed someone that badly? 

She felt a warm familiar arm wrap around her, blue eyes looking down. 

Dorian. 

“Hey,” he said, “Breathe. This isn’t your fault, Aelin.” 

Aelin desperately wanted to believe him, but so much had gone wrong already. 

If only she had used the Wyrdkeys when she had the chance. 

IF she had taken them off Lorcan.

If she had ran to Lysandra and Aelin they would be fine. 

If she hadn’t chosen herself and Rowan over everything else, Chaol would still be alive. 

“Dorian’s right,” Rowan said, looking at her with those green, green eyes. 

“This isn’t your fault, Fireheart.” He uttered it like a vow. Something he would repeat until the mists of time claimed them both. 

Until she believed it. 

“This has been in play far longer than anyone suspected,” Rhysand agreed. 

“This way was  planned for Aelin,” Dorian said, rubbing her shoulders evenly, “It-She, has been turning our minds against us for months. She has been turning your worst nightmares on you, and making you believe it's your fault. I could feel the delight in your horror, and fear, emanating from her.”

He turned to Rhysand for confirmation. 

“We must return to Pyrthian,” the High Lord said instead. 

“What.” Said Fenrys, who hadn’t known Elide, had stayed silent. 

He prowled forward now, head cocking like the wolf he was, eyes flashing yellow. 

“There are texts we have that can help us beat her,” Rhysand explained, his usually sinful voice monotone, “People who can help.” 

“You know her,” Aelin said, stepping forward, raising a finger accusingly. 

“You didn’t say anything. Either of you.” She snarled, her canines snapping, “Start talking.” 

Morrigan and Rhysand looked at each other. 

***

Dorian rode in silence. 

They all did. 

Rhysand and Morrigan had refused to speak until they were sure they were alone.

Dorian was horrified. 

How much of his thoughts, had been his thoughts? 

The very idea was horrifying. 

She had managed to convince them for who knows how long that she was Elide, what else had she manipulated them to believe? Plied them until they were compliant to her wishes. Was anything real-how would even know? 

Dorian dismissed those thoughts forcefully. Going around in circles wondering what was real and what wasn’t would drive him insane. 

He wasn’t the only one who was spiralling. 

Aelin was still breathing unevenly, Rowan’s silence was more tense, Fenrys’s eyes were fixated on the horizon. 

Lorcan was a wreck, pale and worried and terrified. 

They were all thinking of Maeve, Dorian guessed. 

She had done similar things to their perception of the world around them. 

He wasn’t sure how many more of these they all could take. 

They filed into the castle once again, Aelin cringing at the ruined towers, scarred walls. 

“You all need to eat, sit down,” Morrigan said, glancing at the High Lord, “We’ll discuss once, once you’re ready.’ 

“I don’t want to eat,’ Aelin hissed, marching up to the other Fae, jabbing a finger into her chest, “I want to know what is going on. Right now.” 

“We need to agree on what exactly that was,” Rhysand said, voice chilling, his usually bright eyes stormy. 

“Wait.” 

They looked up and down at each other, a silent battle of wills. 

Aelin’s lip curled in anger, but Rowan reached out gently and stroked a line down her arm, drawing her gaze. 

The Fae warrior Dorian first met was in his posture again, his eyes hard, jaw steady. 

“You have five minutes.” He said, glancing at Rhysand. 

Rhysand nodded his head, and himself and Morrigan exited the room, Rhysand’s hand guiding her on the small of her back. 

As the door closed Dorian could hear muffled sobs. 

His eyes narrowed. 

He had suspected by their reactions that they had known the girl. 

But he was all but confirmed now. 

He turned and saw Aelin’s fiery eyes on him again, Rowan’s arm relaxed around her waist. 

She was leaning into him. 

All Dorian could feel was relief for her. 

She had been punishing herself for everything. 

She deserved a bit of peace. 

***

Feyre paced the floors of the moonstone palace. 

Azriel and Cassian sat watching her as she walked up and down. 

She wore a version of the “Illyrian leathers” better designed for stealth. 

The Valkyrie division loved them. 

She tried to refocus on the matter at hand. 

Rhysand had barrelled through her shields, effectively screamed in terror, and then slammed his shields down so hard the only thing she was sure of was that he was still breathing. 

She ran her fingers over their tattoo. 

They had decided to amend it, as no matter how dear they were to each other, they had sworn an oath of loyalty to the Court.

 Until there was a true Heir of the Court, if one died the other would have to live. 

It sounded like utter hell to Feyre, a world without Rhysand. 

She had been trying to block how much she had missed him, even though he had been gone for a few scant hours. 

He was literally another world away. 

She looked up at the sky, the sun had set now, the sky above them darkening. 

No stars yet. 

A cloudy night. 

Feyre wanted to slap herself. 

Why hadn’t she insisted upon going with him?

And they had used the prism up already, it wouldn’t turn back on until the next moon cycle, which was three weeks away. 

‘Feyre,” said Cassian tentatively.
“What.” She snapped irritably, turning to face him. 

“You need to see this.” 

She marched over to where they were sitting, a war table illuminating Pyrthian, with all the known cities of all the Court and the boundaries sketched in. 

The families for each Court glowed alongside, highlighting their allegiances. 

The names of those who were dead were grey and scored out. 

Those living glowed with a faint blue light. 

She dragged her eyes up to where Azriel and Cassian were staring in disbelief. 

There was Rhysand’s name, joined with hers. 

A line up to symbolise his parents, both names grey and scored out; then of course, his sister’s name. 

Wait. 

Feyre’s blood chilled as she stared at the name now glowing, flickering slightly, then growing to a brighter hue. 

“That’s not possible.” She said, eyes wide. 

Cassian and Azriel looked just as concerned as she did. 

“She’s supposed to be dead, dead for centuries.” Feyre continued, running a finger across the name. 

“I’ve been to her grave.” Azriel said. 

The name flickered determinedly, glowing brighter again before easing back into the blue. 

Feyre leaned closer, her eyes narrowing to slits as she stared. 

“Haliya.” 

Chapter Text

Lysandra sat outside of Aedion’s door. 

She wanted to see him. 

But the person behind that door wasn’t her Aedion. And she didn’t know how to feel about it. About all of it. 

She sighed, rubbing her temples. 

When had life gotten so damn complicated. 

Then she heard noise, her head snapped up and she saw two beautiful Fae. They were stunning. 

She wanted to try to shift into one. 

Then her hand dropped to where her leg had been and she flinched. 

It was healed now, thanks to Fenrys and Rowan, but the agony of it no longer being there remained. 

The blonde female saw her, and her eyes narrowed on her leg. 

Lysandra felt her back stiffen. 

She didn’t need pity or anything from these strangers. 

“What do you want?’ She asked, crossing her arms defensively. 

“You’re a shifter,” the blonde said, her eyes red. 

Lysandra noted the tear tracks, eyes raw from crying, and then the blotch on the dark Fae’s tunic. 

“And..?’ She drawled, just wanting this conversation to be over. 

She glanced to the side, looking for Evangeline, but she was nowhere to be seen. 

“Probably with Lord Darrow,” she thought depressingly. 

“What happened to your leg?” The blonde asked. 

Lysandra rolled her eyes. 

Why was this blonde interrogating her? What was the goal here?  

“Chopped off. The war.” She said shortly. 

“I could get you a prosthetic.” 

What. 

Lysandra turned back to the Fae, confusion on her face. 

'A what?’ 

“A prosthetic,” the blonde repeated, “An- acquaintance of mine lost an eye once, and we have mutual associate who specialises in magic body, well, replacements. She calls them prosthetics.” 

Lysandra stared at the Fae in silence. 

“You-I-what?” She managed. 

“I know,” the blonde said, stepping toward her slowly, ‘What it’s like, to have lost something important to you,” with this her hand graced her lower stomach, tensing, before relaxing to her side again, “And I’m offering you a solution.” 

“Why?” Lysandra asked, distrust lacing her words. 

“Because I see me in you,” the blonde said, kneeling so they were close to eye level. 
“And maybe I want you to have a happier story than I did.” 

Lysandra stared at the Fae, before allowing the glimmer of hope that sparked at the Fae’s words to blossom a little. 

She gave a tight smile, which the Fae returned. 

“My name is Morrigan,” the Fae-Morrigan said, “You can call me Mor,” she continued, offering a hand. 

“Lysandra.” She offered, accepting it. 

***

Rhysand’s thoughts were whirling. 

Her face. 

A face he hadn’t seen in centuries. 

I’m so sorry. 

***

Aelin watched as Rhysand and Morrigan finally re-entered, Lysandra on Morrigan’s arm for support. 

She rose to help her friend (sister) into a seat. 

Lysandra smiled at her tiredly, easing her eyes shut and sighing. 

Guilt weighed down Aelin still. 

She smiled back, before taking her chair (throne) and eyeing Rhysand up and down. 

“Start talking.” 

Rhysand paced for a moment in front of them. 

Then turned and clasped his hands in front of him. 

“To truly explain,” he started, “You will need some of my family history.” 

Rhysand returned home three times during his Illyrian training, when his mother went to give birth to his sister, born with wings and a shock of golden hair. 

She looked more like his father’s side of the family, paler skin, golden hair, with the etherealness that cam from being High Fae. 

Whilst Rhys’s father had always known Rhys as his heir, he had never really loved the boy. 

He saw him as a threat to his power, and status as High Lord. 

His little sister, was his father’s favourite without a doubt. 

He remembered holding her and looking into eyes the carbon copy of his own. 

His father allowed his mother to bring her back to the camp, on the agreement that when she was five, she would be brought back to Court. 

The second time they returned home, Rhysand’s sister had clasped his calloused hands tightly in her own tiny ones, her eyes big and afraid at the thought of being alone in the big castle. 

His father had dressed her in Court finery, and Rhys saw tears trickle down her face as she waved them farewell, as she was held by their father.

His mother mourned the loss of her little girl, and made sure that Azriel and Cassian were taken care of. In their teary eyes she saw her little daughter’s. 

She would read out the letters that were sent, that only grew more formal as years passed. 

In the beginning, they had been full of love and wishes and hugs. 

But as the years went on, formalities began to grow in the letters, describing training regimens, court sessions.

Rhysand had feared for his sister. 

She visited camp with their father, wings hidden, and held herself like he did. 

Her hair was always in intricately braided designs. Her clothes, though fine, were built for movement. 

Rhysand had known she was trained, his father had got his finest assassins and warriors to teach her the art of death and war strategy, 

Her speech had been cold when they’d arrived, his father immediately whisked off to meetings. 

As the day went on, he saw the ice in her eyes dissolve. 

She had hugged him, if gingerly goodbye. 

The letters had stopped after that. 

The final time he visited home was when the war broke out. 

His mother with him, finally leaving the Illyrian war camp after years there. 

His sister was nigh unrecognisable. 

Rhysand could see that she cared in the way she escorted their mother to her rooms gently. 

But she was formal around him, her eyes always darting for escape routes. She was always dressed just a bit nicer, his father’s bias still withstanding, especially after seeing Cassian and Azriel. 

His father had insisted the two be kept far from her. 

He flew with his sister twice that week. 

Rhysand had even got a real genuine laugh from her, one he hadn’t heard since childhood. 

He was sent off to the front lines the next day. 

A few years later he was sent her head, and his mothers, in a basket. 

Rhysand’s voice choked up after that part, and Morrigan rose to her feet, her hand on his shoulder and she took over the story as Rhysand turned away. 

The Spring Court had ambushed them, and his sister had managed to kill a good many, the bodies left abandoned by the Court, but she had been overwhelmed whilst protecting her mother, and not even she could take on a High Lord. 

Rhysand’s mother and sister had been all the light in his father’s life, and once they had been massacred, his father’s sole drive had been revenge. 

His father had died that day, and Rhysand was made High Lord. 

It was clear Morrigan had skipped parts, but Aelin didn’t dwell on it, her focus on the point of this all. 

The Spring Court had been known for their shapeshifting ability, not unlike Lysandra. 

Heads, bodies, could be faked, but they would know by the wings. 

Each Illyrian wing is as distinct as a fingerprint. 

They had never received the wings, they had apparently been thrown into the fire. 

But.

Here Morrigan paused, glancing at Rhysand. He waved her on, his face now unreadable. 

His sister had been a damanti, one who could control minds. This skill had been cultivated until she was the most skilled damanti Rhysand had ever met. 

Her raw talent was far beyond his own. 

She could make anyone perceive or believe anything. 

“A surgeon with minds,” Aelin recalled, remembering Rhysand’s words earlier, “That’s what you had said.” 

Her eyes shot up to his in disbelief, but Morrigan wasn’t finished. 

If anyone could have survived that and convinced everyone she was dead, it was her. 

If anyone could manipulate even a High Lord into shifting anyone into looking like the High Lord of the Night Court’s daughter, it was her. 

If anyone could trick some of the most powerful Fae, and Valg, and even herself into believing something is true when it wasn’t, it was her. 

“What do you mean, even herself?” Dorian questioned, his eyebrows raised. 

“In Elide’s mind,” Rhysand answered, his voice devoid of emotion, “There was like this wall. It would feel to most, like the end of her mind, or a wall to block out bad memories. Only the most skilled damanti can manipulate their own minds into believing things are true. I believe, that my sister did so. Split herself into two, one half pretending to be Elide, and the other half, her true self, pulling all the strings.” 

Aelin rose suddenly, her chair clattering to the ground. 

“You’re not seriously saying-?”

“My sister is alive.” Rhysand confirmed, “And I believe she wants you all dead.” 

Chapter Text

“Your sister,” Fenrys repeated, eyeing Rhysand up and down distrustfully. 

“Do you-,” Dorian started, then stopped himself, “Why would she attack us?” 

Morrigan fidgeted with her slashed dress, eyes downcast. 

“She-We hop-think she’s working for someone,” Morrigan responded. 

“We have to wait for her “instructions”” Aelin quoted, “Do you have any idea what those can entail?” 

Lorcan stood too, aiming for the window, then turning on his heel and pointing at Rhysan. 

“Will she hurt Elide? Torture her?” 

Rhysand shrugged. 

‘The sister I once knew, wouldn’t,” he said, “But the Fae that appeared before us-I am unsure.” 

He glanced at Morrigan before continuing, “Do you even know if the Elide you all know is the real Elide? What if my sister took her place long before you all met?” 

Lorcan paced in front of the window, his silence so very loud. 


Aelin swallowed. 

‘Elide was-I knew her growing up, her mother particularly. I will save her whether I know the true her or not. I will not abandon her to the whims of that psychopath.” 

Morrigan frowned at that.

Rhysand coughed lightly into his hand. 

“We have to wait. My sister was trained by some of those most lethal, cruel people on our world. She will do what she believes she must. Until we can figure out more of what exactly her plan is, we do what we have to do.” He finished. 

Aelin wanted to rage. 

Wanted to scream.

But that wouldn’t help Elide. 

She inhaled deeply, easing the fire that demanded to burn everything to the ground. 

“We have to get resources from our world.” Morrigan explained, “Things that may help in restraining her, especially since I don’t believe any of you are trained against damanti.” She glanced at Rhysand for confirmation and he nodded. 

‘Morrigan and I will return to Pyrthian, we will send my Second, and our,” here he paused, glancing at Morrigan for the correct word. 

“Shadowsinger.” Morrigan offered, “He will be able to tell if she is here, listening or watching unseen.” 

Aelin shifted on her feet. 

“No.”

Morrigan and Rhysand turned to her. 

“We have bigger problems to deal with, and its clear you two knew her best. If there is anyone on Erilea she is least likely to hurt, it will be the two of you.” 

Aelin turned to Fenrys. 

“Vaughen.” 

Fenrys cocked a brow, confusion on his face. 

“You and-,” she paused, scanning the room, “Aedion. He’s fully healed, and he needs something to do. He’s sworn to me, and having him around right now would be more of a hindrance than a help.” 

Fenrys nodded, rising from his seat. 

‘When will we leave?” He asked. 

“I can get the two of you on one of the Whitethorn boats that are heading over to Wendlyn at dusk.” She gestured, and Fenrys bowed and the waist and left the room. 

His compliance made her feel, uneasy.

She pushed the feeling aside and turned to Lorcan and Rowan. 

“Could you track her, or at least, narrow down her whereabouts?” She questioned. 

“Normally I would send-,” here she paused, glancing at Lysandra before clearing her throat and straightening. 

“Leave at first light. I want to know where she’s going, what her plans are.” 

Rowan interlaced his fingers. 

“Her magic could cloak her, but Lorcan and I should at least be able to tell if she’s no longer in Terrasen. I’ll reach out to Manon, she could do the same with the Witchlands. If Haliya could blend in anywhere, it would be there.” 

Aelin nodded. 

“Could those people you mentioned come here and bring those things?” She questioned. 

Rhysand and Morrigan exchanged a look. 

“Potentially.” Morrigan mused. 

“Amren.” Rhysand offered. 

“She could-,” Morrigan broke off, when Rhysand nodded swiftly. 

“We need a way to contact them.” Rhysand said. 

“Morrigan will return, explain the situation, gather the materials, and then come back here.” He slid his hands into his pockets, his shadow rippling on the ground. 

“I will remain here. I know-knew my sister well.” 

“Do you think she will attack the city?” Lysandra asked, a touch of fear in her voice. 

Morrigan shook her head, golden curls swaying. 

‘Not her style. She would prefer to sneak inside, slit your throats, and slide into the minds of those here, causing a panic. Maybe even insanity. We haven’t seen her for hundreds of years. Her power now is,” Morrigan shuddered, “Different. So is she.” 

“I have a question,” Dorian asked, pacing the floor by the window. 

“Haliya, she took the keys while she was manipulating us to believe she was Elide right? Warping our minds to see only what she wanted?” 

Rhysand nodded, “It is a rare and complex still for damanti. There isn’t one who walks in our world with the same level of control she has shown.” 

“We have to get the keys off her, because they are capable of,” he glanced at Aelin, “A whole lot.”

“Eloquent.” Lysandra snorted. 

“But we no longer need the keys for the reason we once did.” Here a look was passed between herself and Dorian. 

Nameless is my price. 

“Erawan is gone.” Aelin agreed. 

“And as you mentioned before, the keys have a similar feeling to this magical artefact in your world, known as the Cauldron, correct?’ 

“Where are you going with this?” Morrigan asked. 

He held up a hand, “I’m getting there.” 

He turned to them again. 

“To the west of your continent, Pyrthian, are there severe storms, perhaps even a feeling of disjointedness or wrongness, or some sort of unnatural phenomenon?” He asked. 

Rhysand nodded. 

‘To the west of Pyrthian is Hyrbern, and from that coastline there is this dip in the oceans. No Fae can venture there, or none will. But reports say there is a sort of dip in the ocean. Complex storms, monsters of unknown names, that could decimate even the most powerful Fae.” 

Dorian turned to Rowan and Aelin. 

“To the east of Wendlyn, is there anything similar?” 

Rowan paused. 

“There is talk of a storm that never lifts. And sea creatures capable of swallowing mountains. I have never seen it, only heard of it.” 

“The Tear between Worlds.” Rhysand muttered. 

“It’s engraved on an archway facing out that way.” He continued, “Stories wondering if the rain was the “tears” but it means a tear, as if someone tore apart the two worlds. Splitting them in half.” 

“Why is that relevant?” Lysandra wondered, “It is odd that we have storms that are similar, but?” 

“Maybe Haliya isn’t working alone. When night becomes day.” Dorian said, ‘Or when day becomes night.” 

Aelin’s eyes widened. 

“Helloed Cain, or maybe…” she cut herself off. 

“No.” She stood up trying to even her breathing, 

“No, no, no.” 

“It makes sense, Aelin.” 

“Does it?” She yelled at Dorian, tears building in her eyes. 

“You don’t think..”Lysandra said, her fear clear in her trembling voice. 

“Yes.” Dorian said, eyes still locked on Aelin’s face. 

“No.” Aelin said adamantly, shaking her head. “No. I refuse. We are going to make sure that little bitch doesn’t do anything. I’ll slit her throat myself.” 

The room was silent. 

Morrigan sighed. 

“Can you bring me back over to our world again-one of you? It’s clear you have more,” she paused, “experience with it.” 

Dorian nodded. 
“I’ll bring her back, then go to Adarlan.” His tone brokered no argument. 

Aelin pursed her lips in thought. 

‘No one should go anywhere alone. Can one of your people go with him?” She directed that toward Rhysand. 

Rhysand nodded, looking at Morrigan. 

Aelin could feel the tension in the air. 

She knew she was throwing her weight around, ordering them, pulling rank as Queen. 

But no one else was willing to take charge. 

If this is what had to be done, so be it. 

“Aelin.” Dorian’s voice came. 

Her head shot up, and she took him in. 

He looked weak, pale and tired.

His magic still hadn’t reached the level it had once achieved. 

Fenrys said he might have used so much that it will never recover. 

“Yes.” She responded.

She trusted Dorian.

More than anyone in this room except Rowan. 

Rowan was watching their interaction, as he turned to Lorcan. His green eyes were narrowed, the pupils near slits. 

‘We need to talk for a moment.” 

She followed him out of the war table room, flashes of her uncle holding meetings there blinked in and out of existence in her mind. 

“What.” She said, voice monotone. 

“When you went between,” Dorian asked, “Did you feel different after? Did you-When I went through or at least attempted to,” here his voice paused and Aelin remembered seeing him collapse, his skin icy, gasping for air. 

“There was this oily, dark substance. It’s like something doesn’t want us passing through.”  
His eyes were distant, unfocused. 

“It felt like it would change you if you entered. Like it was trying to pull me apart at the seams.” He shuddered. 

Aelin paused. 

She remembered the darkness, the weight of it. 

“Do you think it could be why you are feeling so,” he paused again searching for words, “Maybe it’s trying to stop you, making you make choices you normally wouldn’t even consider.” 

Aelin thought to herself. 


She wanted to lash out at him. 

They had been under extreme pressure of course she was a little bit irritable for the gods sake. 

But then she thought about how vindictive she had felt. 

How it had felt to order them all around. 

“Maybe you’re right.” She murmured, “Maybe it takes something from you in exchange. For passing through the worlds. It is like when you cross a bridge, you have to pay a toll.” 

They both considered the weight of those words. 

“Do we tell the others?” She whispered. 

Dorian looked down at her, his eyes glowing slightly. 

“For now?” He began. 

“We keep it a secret. We don’t know if it truly affected me, or if this is all because of what’s going on,” she waved her hand slightly to encompass, well everything. 

They both nodded, and she pulled him into a hug. 

“Will you go looking for your brother, and your mother?” She whispered. 

“Maybe.” He answered, his breath warm on her neck. 

She squeezed him for a second longer, than broke off, her eyes slightly wet. 

“Then I suppose this is it for now,” she said, holding out her hand. 

He laughed, clasping it in his own. 

She laughed too. 

And the two felt a sense of peace, as the two halves of a whole  were reunited, at least, for a moment. 

Chapter Text

Rhysand grimaced internally as he slid out of the King’s mind. 

Their topic of conversation was unnerving, but unfortunately unavoidable. 

He thought back to the “Wyrdkeys”. 

In Dorian’s mind, a Valg King had cut them out of a WyrdGate, then brought them to Erilea. 

There had to be more to it than that. 

He remembered the power coming off Lorcan when he first landed. 

It had reminded him of the Cauldron. 


They said the Cauldron was sentient. 

What if..? 

What if it tried to make more of itself? 

They knew it branched to other worlds.

It made gateways.

Gateways that were sentient, like the Cauldron. 

And then, someone had broken one, and used it for his own purposes. 

“A toll,” he thought, “What if it is trying to regain the power it lost. What if the sentience never left. We are asking who Haliya is working for, maybe we should be asking what? What price did my sister pay to cross?” 

Morrigan looked at him worriedly, glancing down at his feet. 

Star flecked night was pooling around his feet, spreading out toward the shadows. 

He yanked them back in, ignoring the soothing release of his power. 

He could see the threads in her mind spinning. 

He had never truly understood the complexities of Mor’s gift, but he knew that basic truths were the only things grounding her in sanity. 

Haliya being alive threw off one of those basic truths. 

Rhysand worried for her. 

***

Aedion sat facing the window. 

Everything felt off. 

Aelin-his cousin- was alive and Queen again. 

They had won. 

Except he didn’t remember it. 

She had given the blood oath to three Fae males. Which was shocking. She had told him outright, no apology in her face. 

Rowan, Fenrys, Gavriel. 

She had done what she believed was right.

Gavriel had been his father. 
He was dead now. 

He shook his head, banishing the feeling of loss for someone he had never known. 

The last thing he remembered was Adarlan. 

Seeing her face as she rescued him. 

And.. 

Aedion ran the syllables of her name in his mind again. 

Lysandra. 

He didn’t know her, but in the same sense, he did. 

He knew what made her sad, and angry, could tell that when her mouth twitched slightly on the left side she was fighting a smile. 

He could remember the feel of those soft pink lips, that were almost always in a smirk, on his own.

But he didn’t remember learning any of this. 

And he could see how everyone felt around him. 

Lysandra, she had been there when he woke up, and now he saw her on occasion, but she didn’t go out of her way to speak to him. 

Occasionally he felt those bright green eyes watching him. 

But she always looked away before he could make eye contact. 

Before he could speak. 

His head shot up as he heard footsteps. 

The scent of cedar wood and cloves hits his nose, and he turns to see Fenrys pushing open the heavy oak door. 

He noted the appraising look in the other warrior’s eye as he turned to take in the lavishly appointed room, lifted four poster bed, embroidered, ancient carved furniture. 

Aedion feels like a fake compared to him. 

A watered-down version of what a general should be. 

Fenrys and Rowan are so real, so substantial, and his cousin now too, it made almost all the humans around them seem less. Seem like shadows. 
And although Aedion is Demi-Fae, he’s not like his cousin. 

“No one is like Aelin,” he thought ruefully, a light smirk gracing his features. 

“Are you finished moping?’ Fenrys said gruffly. 

The Fae’s voice was very deep, Aedion noted. 

It was sort of disturbing.

He stood from the chair, hand to his scabbard. 

‘Ready and waiting.” He replied. 

Like always.

“Pack your things.” Fenrys said, glancing over him, before turning to go. 

“For where?’ Aedion asked his retreating back. 

“Wendlyn, General. We leave at dawn.” 

***

Feyre was not panicking. 

Not even remotely. 

Cassian and Azriel and Amren were all watching her not panic. 

Because Rhys hadn’t communicated since the influx of emotion yesterday, since the name had lit back up.

It felt like she was hammering against a wall that would not budge. 

But she was the High Lady of the Night Court. 

She led the Shadow Legions. 

She was completely calm, cool and collected and nothing would bother-

“Still nothing?” Cassian asked, interrupting her mental monologue. 

Feyre’s head whipped toward him, her intricate bun inlaid with sapphire pins making her face look just that much harsher. 

He raised his hands in surrender from where he was sitting on the couch opposite the fire, the living room in their Riverside Estate. 

Feyre continued pacing, trying to ignore the way their eyes were following her. 

“By the Mother,” she thought, “Let Rhys and Mor be okay.”

***

Fenrys hissed through his teeth. 

“For fucks sake,” he cursed staring at Aedion.

Aedion just stared back, then looked at Wendlyn. 

That bastard. 

Vaughen knew what he was doing. 

The city was fine. 

The city was more than fine, everything considered. 

But there was no sign of that gods-foresaken Fae. 

Mae-The Valg  had ordered him to go looking for Lorcan. 

‘I swear,” Fenrys huffs out, teeth gritted, “If I find that bastard holed up somewhere in the east of Wendlyn lifting a rock to see if Lorcan’s are under it. I will murder him myself.” 

Aedion just snorts.

Fenrys flexes his fingers. 

The blonde one had brought them here, taking them away from Orynth with a disarming smile. 

Fenrys recognised the smile. 

He used to see it stretched across his own face daily. 

He had stopped smiling. 

And, he had realised that it was okay. 

Aedion still looked pale after he had retched up everything he had eaten, but Fenrys just felt, empty.

That power, winnowing, was similar to his own, but different. 

She could travel the world with that power, skipping across continents if she focused. 

Rhysand could probably go further. 

Fenrys refocused on the matter at hand. 

They had an entire country to search. 

And the pretty blonde was gone now. 

Pity. 

***

Rowan sighed internally. 


Three days. 

Three days. 

They had been searching non-stop for Haliya and had found nothing. 

Not a trace of her, anywhere. 

High Lord Rhysand had theorised that she could have traveled worlds already. 


Rowan had noted that Dorian and Aelin had been hiding something. 

He understood that. 

He had Fenrys.

The things the two of them had done were things that they would probably never share. 

And he knew, that Aelin needed him. 

That was what mattered. 

Dorian had left though, early yesterday morning. 


He was still struggling. 

He was above the surface, at the moment, of the storm inside him, filled with cold winds, and dark shadows. 

Sometimes he skimmed it. 

Sometimes he fell below. 

He didn’t have time to fall below. 

His wings would keep beating. 

Rowan saw a Crochan witch lazily fly down to the arranged meeting spot, her blood-red cloak flapping naturally in the wind. 

He glided down with her, shifting as he brushed the land. 

“Well?” He asked. 

The Crochan stared at him, mouth agape for a moment.

“Of course,” she said, hands trembling as she gripped her broom. 

“I apologise, it’s just that you’re so much taller than Queen Manon described. And she said you would look more like a bird and someone who would want to eat bugs except clearly you don’t and-,” She took a deep breath. 

“I apologise, again,” She said a little more forcefully this time, her eyes detrimidly looking away from his face. 

Rowan was baffled. 

“No sign of the rogue Fae. However, we did notice some unusual magic on the border of Adarlan. Magic that doesn’t belong. I can tell you where it is, but then I’m sworn to return to the Wastes.” 

Rowan nodded, then remembered she wasn’t looking at him. 

He couldn’t decide if he was offended by Manon’s description. 

He decided he wasn’t because at least the white-haired dem-witch remembered him. 

“That would do.” He replied, his words clipped. 

She nodded, and began to describe the pine forests where she had noticed the unfamiliar magic. 

With that, the little witch took back into the air. 

Her cloak hadn’t moved, and he hand’t got a clear look at her face, but that was understandable.

He took off in the opposite direction, toward Adarlan. 

His bones shifting as he became the eagle once more. 

He was gone by the time the witch had dissolved back into her chosen form, black and silver streaked wings keeping her afloat, golden hair hidden behind a hood of deep green. 

Her purple eyes sparkled, catching the light. 

They made it almost too easy. 

She turned toward Ellywe. 

And vanished, shadows coiling up and around her, until she resembled a storm cloud. 

Then she was gone. 

Chapter Text

Mor fell onto the carpet.

Coughing and spluttering. 

Something was choking her, she couldn’t breathe. 

She clawed for her throat, the webs were getting tighter and tighter. 


Something grabbed her arms, pinning her hands away from her throat. 

She screamed, and kicked, gasping for air. 
Morrigan couldn’t see. 

She could hear deep timbres of a voice vaguely. 

Somethi-someone was talking to her. 

She took light breaths, the air was still not coming. 

‘Can’t-,” She tried, the word choked up, “Please.” 

“It will be okay,” a soothing voice hummed, “Rest, Mor. We’ve got you. Your family has got you.” 

Mor knew the voice. 

She trusted that voice. 

She stopped fighting the darkness, and let it soothe her, easing the burden on her lungs. 

They’ve got her. 

***

Rhys was worried. 

Mor had gone through the slash, her smile the last thing he saw of her. 

He had warned his cousin, but still. 

The slash looked so very unnatural, even as Mor pushed her way through. 

It was like the worlds were fighting them going through. 

He knew that they were. 

And that they weren’t. 

Rhysand breathed deeply. 

Rhysand turned, his black tunic glimmering in the light. 

“Nothing.” Queen Aelin hissed, throwing more books on the ground. 

“Nothing, nothing, NOTHING.” She continued, punctuating each word with a book thrown to the ground. 

“Everything here is useless. Dorian says the same about their library. This entire fucking continent has been so-so-,” she let out an agitated scream. 

“Breathe.” Rhysand instructed. 

She turned to him, a scowl painted across her face. 

“Don’t tell me what to do.” 

“Don’t scream in frustration then.” He shot back. 
“You will find something, or Mor will. And Hal-my sister, will send her instructions. She’s never been one for patience.” 

Aelin watched as he stumbled over his words. 

“You avoid saying her name. Why?” 

He shrugged, “Can never be too careful. With damanti, someone is always listening.” 

She hummed back in response, picking up the books she had tossed furiously. 

“I’m worried.” She said so softly that if Rhys didn’t have Fae hearing, he would have missed it. 

“Me too.” He said, as he turned and aimed for the door. 

“We have to keep going though,” she said, eyes looking out the window. 

“For them?” He answered, “Always. But for you as well. Do this for yourself too Aelin. Carve your name into history.” 

She cracked a smile at that. 

It was the closest they would get to acknowledging it. 

***


Feyre rubbed her temples, trying to soothe the headache that was growing by the minute. 

Mor had stumbled out of a tear, right into their living room, nonsensical, and screaming. 

Feyre hadn’t slept since, the echoes of her sister’s Mor’s screams echoing in her mind. 

It hadn’t been natural, and Azriel had caught her as she fell, his shadows falling away. 

She hadn’t awoken yet, Feyre had used her healing magic to soothe her mind the best way she knew how, sleep. 

Of course, Mor had started to snore, and Cassian had started to laugh his head off. 

But she saw the strain behind that laugh. 

So many believed Cassian was lesser because he took life so lightly, but he hid behind a smile and a laugh. 

Hearing from Rhys, it sounded like he always had. 

Feyre felt Mor’s brow, wincing at the temperature. 
She had called healers here, and they had done so much, but Mor had to fight part of this battle on her own. 

“It is like something is clawing away at her life,” one of the healers had said, “Only her own willpower can save her. She has to have something to fight for.” 

Feyre hadn’t left her side, working from that room. 

Internally praising the support network they had set up, as even with Rhys gone and her away from public view the Court didn’t falter. 

She had spoken to Mor, who was lying so still, golden hair spread out on her pillow, brow lightly furrowed, skin so much paler than usual. 

She had told stories of what was coming, and how Solstice preparations were going, and the presents she had gotten for Cassian and Azriel. 

She had talked about Rhys and her, and what was going to come next, her worry for him, and for Mor. 

She had spoken about the name lighting up, how she had next to interrogated Azriel and Cassian to tell her the truth. 

And how, as a stress reliever, she may or may not have hunted down Azriel’s half brothers and broken their legs. 

Again. 

She turned from Mor’s still face, breaking the wax seal on a missive from the Day Court. 

She had been scanning over Helios’ ridiculously loopy handwriting when she had heard the sharp inhale. 


“Mor?” She asked, as she spun around to look at her sister, who’s brown eyes were blinking blearily open. 

“Feyre.” She croaked in response, her throat sounding so dry and her eyes so tired. 

Feyre flicked her hand, and a glass of water came shooting over, along with the pitcher. 

Mor watched her with faint amusement as she handed it over. 

“Are you okay?” Feyre asked, “Where’s Rhys? What happened over there? We saw the family tree, his sister-Mor I-,” 

Mor took her hand and slowed her anxious gesturing. 

“Breathe,” she instructed, “I will explain everything.” 

Chapter Text

Dorian paced the walls of his chambers. 

His mother and brother were still missing, but Dorian couldn’t find any real emotion toward them. 

They had always felt so empty to him. 

And his brother was near monstrous at times, cruel as a child could be. 

Being King of Adarlan felt wrong. 

His kingdom had done so many terrible things and he had fought against them and now he was rebuilding it? 

Trying to make it better? 

They didn’t deserve better. 

Whenever Dorian saw the councillors or any members of the Court, he was struck by nausea. They hadn’t noticed his father was possessed by a demon for years. 

They had watched other countries suffer and done nothing. 

He had done nothing for a long while too. 

He thought back to Endovier. 

When he had first gone there to get The Celaena Sardothein, legendary assassin, just to have her compete as his champion in a death match. 

He never would have imagined all of this. 

So much had changed. 

He didn’t walk into his old rooms anymore. 

He had everything from there sold, and the money given to orphanages. 

It was too soon. 

The blonde one- her name escaped him- had brought him here, depositing him with a wink. 

He had to describe the palace to her, in detail so she could “winnow” them there. 

She had enquired about the tomb Aelin had once visited. 

The portal that had formed there. 

Looking back in retrospect, they had missed so many warning signs. 

So many. 

Dorian wanted to slap himself for not figuring it all out sooner. 

He headed toward the exit of his rooms, nodding to the guards there. 

He missed Chaol. 

He hadn’t let himself grieve yet. 

Or think about it too much. 

As he walked the corridors toward Aelin’s old rooms, memories seemed to jump out at him. 

The loss was so heavy. 

And Chaol had left behind his wife. 

Her name was Yrene. 

Yrene Towers. 

She reminded him so much of Sorscha. 

He had only spoken to her once, but had promised to come to her aid whenever she needed him. 

It was what Chaol would have wanted. 

She had smiled at him, and told him she would be honoured if he would be the child’s godfather. 

“Cha-My husband spoke of you often. You were more family to him then near anyone else I think. I want my-our child to grow up knowing you.” 

Dorian had smiled at this. 

When he left he had broken down. 

A child Chaol would never meet. 

He began to walk faster, the familiar oak door in view. 

The hinges screeched in protest as he forced it open. 

The room was covered in a layer of dust, the elaborate four poster bed still with bloodstains from when Aelin had last laid there. 

So many memories. 

He laid a hand against the cool stone, eyes shut. 

In. Out. In. Out. 

He walked toward the old tapestry, and pulled it aside, revealing the door. That was harder to open, and he all but blasted it off the hinges. 

He walked down, the smell of mildew and petrichor filling his nose, as he hurried down the spiral staircase. 

Then he saw the door to the tomb, outfitted with the elaborate door knocker. 

His lips twitched up in a smile. 

“Hello Mort.” 

The door knocker’s eyes lit up, shining ruby red in the darkness. 

‘Hello little Prince. Figured it out, have you?” 

He leaned against the wall. 

“Starting to at least.” 


Mort let out a noise that sounded like rough hinges. 

Dorian hid a wince. 

“The Wyrdkeys.” He continued, “What do you know of them? There is more that we don’t know, isn’t there?” 

Mort jaw unhinged. 

“Astute, aren’t you? It took your ancestor much longer to figure it out. And now he and Queen Elena are still trying to form the Wyrdgate, and repay their debt.” 

“Debt.” Dorian repeated, “Do the Wyrdkeys have to form? What is the fixation around them? The High Lord of the Night Court mentioned something called the Cauldron.” 

“High Lord of the Night Court.” Mort said. 

Dorian nodded impatiently, “I know you know more than you’re letting on, so for once be a helpful all knowing door knocker and share with the class.” 

“No.” Mort said, “There are powerful forces at work. The Night Court is here? The Cauldron-I. No. I will not speak any more of this. They are listening. It would be a braver one than I to warn you.” 


“Wait!” Dorian cried out reaching for the door knocker. 

But the light had vanished, and the door swung open. 

Mort had sounded, scared. 

Mort had never sounded scared. 

Dorian took a deep breath and entered the tomb. 

He let out a shocked gasp. 

Elena’s side had been scorched and burned beyond recognition. 

It was like claws had been taken to it, destroying the remnant of the once Queen. 

Dorian lightly ran his hands over them, his magic pulsing. 

He still wasn’t as powerful as he once was, but his magic was still a force to be reckoned with. 

He walked towards the top of the tomb, where a crack had formed in the stone. 
There was writing behind it, in some ancient text he was unfamiliar with. 

He laid hands to the stone, letting the outer layer crumble to dust. 


The writing swirled around, accompanied by pictures. 

He spotted a Cauldron. Three stars. 

The majority of the pictures were in threes. 

“Three means something.” He murmured to himself. 

“Three Valg Kings, Three Wyrdkeys. Six Valg Princesses. Three sisters. Three Fae Queens.” 

“Indeed it does, King Dorian.” 

The door of the tomb slammed shut, plunging him-them-into darkness. 

***

“I’ve found something!” Aedion called to Fenrys. 

The Fae had shifted into a white wolf, and had gone to see if he could scent Vaughen, the missing member of the cadre. 

They were on the far east side of Wendlyn now, where the weather was unpredictable. 

Where those things that could suck the life out of you roamed. 

The wolf bounded over, yellow eyes catching the light. 

He shifted into a Fae once more, his hair tied behind him, his tunic and breeches rugged and made for weather. 

They both wore heavy rain cloaks, and the horses they had rented were shaggy to deal with the weather. 

Rain bucketed over them, plunging most scents into the ground and most tracks into mud. 

He held up a dagger.

It was leaf-shaped, a silvery-blue metal, worn leather grip. 

Moulded to a hand. 

“That’s one of Vaughen’s.” Fenrys agreed. “I can track him off this.” 

Aedion nodded in recognition, and pulled his hood further over his face. 

They were coated in mud, and dripping, but they were close. 

“Let’s move.” Fenrys instructed. 

Aedion appreciated that Fenrys didn’t look at him like he was a ghost. 

He didn’t search his eyes for memories Aedion no longer had. 

It was nice, in lack of a better word. 

He still found himself searching for Lysandra. 

He missed her. 

He had vague memories of her laugh, of her smile. 

Aedion longed to see them for himself. 


But she loved the other him. 

The him that no longer existed. 

Shoving those thoughts aside, the two crept through the forest, avoiding lone branches and quick-mud. 

Fenrys had described how it was like water, pulling you in and suffocating you. 

Aedion was not eager to see that for himself. 

He envied Fenrys’s magic though, even though the man no longer teleported, he still had unseen powers that Aedion was eager to witness. 

He was a Demi-Fae, but alas, not a powerful one. 

Up ahead, Fenrys held a hand in warning. 

They were approaching a mountain. 

It bordered steep cliffs, and a view of a raging storm on the water. 

And a figure, that Aedion could only see due to his enhanced eyesight. 

A figure who stood there, waiting for them. 

Chapter Text

Aelin sighed. 

They had been pouring over old books for what felt like hours, researching the “other worlds”, the Wyrdkeys, everything. 

Rhysand had been helpful, and had asked to drop the honorifics of Queen and High Lord, which had put Aelin slightly more at ease. 

Her guards were outside the door, but Rhysand and her remained in the library. 

“So many book are lost to us,’ she said, closing the cover of one and running a hand down its spine. 

“You’ve mentioned that earlier,” Rhysand said, coming over to her stack of books, “What do you mean?” 

She looked up at those purple eyes. 

Over the last few days, she had begun to associate Maeve with them a little less. 

Rhysand reminded her a lot of her uncle, from the vague memories she had of him. 

“Adarlan burned many books, particularly from Terrasen. It’s a miracle there’s this many left.” 

Rhysand hummed in understanding. 

‘Did your family have any secret rooms where they could have hidden more. You are resourceful, it makes sense your ancestors were as well.” 

Aelin tilted her head in thought, standing up out of the plush velvet chair. 

“There were a few rooms I remember as a child. They could have been raided too, but I suppose it doesn’t hurt to check.”

She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of them earlier. 

But Rhysand had explained he had put up a shield around her mind, so at least for a while she would be free of his sisters influence. 

And the remnants of the influence of walking between the worlds seemed to be wearing off. 

Her tear had remained open, and she had followed it directly to Lorcan, which is probably why she wasn’t currently insane.

But she was more paranoid than before, and her magic was more unpredictable. 

It was worrying, but she put it out of her head for now, throwing it to the fires that were spiralling. 

Rhysand followed after her as she led them to a bookcase propped up against the wall. 

“You have a secret passage behind your bookcase?” The Fae asked dryly. 

“Move the bookcase out of the way.” she replied in the same tone. 

He sighed and a lick of dark wind gently pushed the bookcase to the side, and his shoulders lost a little bit of the tension they had been holding. 

Aelin pursed her lips as she scanned the walls old bricks. 

“What are you looking-,” Rhysand cut off as she pushed in one brick, and the others began to move aside revealing a corridor. 

“Secret passages behind bookcases are too obvious.” 

Rhysand chuckled, a dark sound that in the same moment was soothing. 

“Your ancestors were smarter than mine. We have a library that is full of twisting passages, all hidden behind bookcases. I like to think of it as dramatic flair.” 

Aelin let out a huff of laughter, before summoning a flame in her hand. 

“Well, maybe my ancestors were just boring. Good thing I came along. I’ve been told I make things much more interesting.” 

Rhysand chuckled again. 

“You remind me of someone,” he paused, as if searching for the words as he followed her, “A member of my Court. Frankly terrifying. You two have the same smile.” 

Aelin paused for a moment. 

The tone was fond, indulgent. 

He-he cared about this “member”. Maybe she was an old friend. 

It felt like an olive branch. 

They needed to work together, but maybe they could actually work together without everything going horribly wrong. 

Maybe she should be a little honest with him too. 

“You remind me of my uncle,” she began, “Similar laughter. You both wear the weight of leadership in the same way, hiding that you feel it at all. He was always-always a step ahead,” her flame flickered over the old stone walls, the only source of light. 

She didn’t look at Rhysand’s face. 

“We’re here, I think.” She said, gesturing to an old pine door. 

Rhysand flicked his hand and the door screeched open. 

He mockingly dipped his head at her. 

“Ladies-Queens first.” He corrected himself. 

She did a curtsey in the similar style, and stepped inside. 

Aelin kept him in her eye view anyway.  

Just in case. 

Chapter Text

Mor breathed heavily.

She was injured. True.
Feyre was here. True. 

Haliya was alive. 

True. 

It always took a while to reconcile it all. 

Her brain was winding threads still, spinning the lies into beautifully made tapestries. 

Just one less thing to focus on. 

“That’s quite a tale, Mor.” Feyre said, from where she sat across from Mor, on the beautifully appointed couch in the “conservatory”. 

Feyre painted here on occasion. 

The entire room was made of this glass. Walls and a rounded ceiling. The floor was polished oak, and it was warm, covered in plants and canvas’ and paint, despite the bitter winds outside. 

Mor tilted her head back against the headboard of the chaise lounge, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. 

The lies were easier to bear here. The words left unspoken. 

She and Azriel had spoken. 

Many thought their bond was romantic. 

For a time, that had been truth. 

She had been drawn to him. And he to her. 

Mor winced at the knot in her mind, tugging at it. 

Haliya is kind. 

False. 

But now..? 

They were almost like soulmates. 

Platonic, of course. 

Mor wasn’t ready to give her heart away. Not truly, not to anyone. 

Not yet. 

Maybe not ever. 

And Azriel? 

He was wrapped in his shadows and pain and so many secrets. He bore the weight of them silently. Painfully. 

Letting the shadows shroud his face and his heart. 

He had been hurt by one too many people. 

That she understood.

They were better off this way. 

Maybe they always would be. 

Those-these statements of fluctuation hurt sometimes. 

They formed knots in her webs, irregular spirals. 

Sometimes they unwound the whole thing. 

She wasn’t sure if this would, yet. 

“I have to go talk to Helion. I owe someone a leg.” 

***

Elide. 

Did he ever know her? 

Lorcan racked his brains as he went through Ellywe. 

He hadn’t been back here since that time with her. 

But Haliya- the demoness, could be anywhere. 

She has Elide. 

Or did she?

The further he got from Orynth the more he doubted it. 

Elide melted into that Fae. 

So was the Elide he was with, the Elide he knew- . 

Lorcan forcefully cut off that train of thought. 

He couldn’t think of the time they had spent together when-. 

He pulled his cloak up higher, before shifting into his form. 

As a panther, he wasn’t exactly dulled, but emotions weren’t as bad. 

Nothing was as bad. 

He had known Fae who had shifted to their animal forms permanently, to distance themselves from pain and hurt and emotions all together. 

He wouldn’t do that. 

But it would be easier to track her if he was a panther. 

He continued creeping forward, until he caught a particular scent.

Petrichor. 

It wasn’t raining. 

Petrichor, and jasmine. As if rain had passed over a jasmine field. 

It wasn’t a human scent. 

He braced himself on his back paws, preparing to lunge, when he was blasted back. 

It was twilight, and the moon was creeping its way up into the sky.

He couldn’t see his attacker, just heard them moving towards him as they held him suspended. 

“Lorcan, Lorcan, Lorcan.” a female voice tutted, lilting in the air like a song. 

Lorcan resisted the urge to shudder. 

“How pathetic.” 

Blonde hair caught the last vestiges of light, and purple eyes blinked at him. 

He snarled at her, incapable of human speech. 

But she took Elide and she hurt him and he needed- . 

“That’s enough of that.” The Fae waved her hand and suddenly he couldn’t remember what he was thinking about. 

He blinked up at her in a panic. 

“Relax.” she said, calmly pacing around him. 

“I’m not planning on killing you yet,” she finally faced his front again and winked. 

Lorcan couldn’t think. 

The Fae hummed to herself. 

She was as put together as before, and he could feel the power of the Wyrdkeys emanating off her. 

“Shift back,”she demanded. 

Lorcan growled at her.

“I won’t ask again. You are so lucky that my father raised me to be polite. Oh, wait.” Agonising pain stabbed into his leg. 

She pulled out a dagger, her sharp canines glinting. 

“See, I could force you to do it, but I want you to feel the inevitability of it. You will do as I say. Or I will hurt you, and poor precious Elide Lochan.” 

Lorcan inhaled, and he slowly shifted back to his Fae form. 

She flicked him upright, her shadows pinning him like vines. 

Not that he could move. 

She had his mind in her claws, and was merely playing around with him. 

‘Where is Elide?” he demanded. 

“You’re in no place to be making demands,” she hissed back at him, eyes slitted like a snake.

“But, it does prove my theory. You are loyal to Elide Lochan above all else. And if you want her heart to keep beating in that pitiful chest, you will do exactly as I say. Or I rip off her head, and feed you her heart.” 

Chapter Text

Feyre let out a long sigh. 

Cassian glanced at her, then returned to look at the-thing on the table. 

‘What exactly is that?” Feyre inquired, turning to Mor. 

Mor’s smile was strained. It had been strained since she had stumbled through, crying out in agony. 

Feyre wondered what was going on in her mind, but pulled herself away. 

That wasn’t her place.
She would do her level best to respect Mor’s privacy in all ways. 

“It’s a leg!” Mor cried, gesturing widely. 

Azriel looked at the weirdly shaped blob on the table, then at Mor. 

“Did they let you design it?” he questioned dryly. 

Mor gasped and slapped him. 

“Excuse you! I’m an excellent artist. High Lady, tell your subject I’m an excellent artist.” 

Feyre indulged in a smile. 

“As High Lady, I swore to speak the truth and do right by my subjects,” she began, then paused, “So they let you design it right?” 

Cassian burst into laughter, rough and whole. 

Azriel smiled, a glint of white teeth. 

They hadn’t done much of that since discovering Haliya’s existence. 

“It’s a leg for a shifter,” Mor stressed, “It will mould to her form as it is when I give it to her, then it will mould to every other form she shifts to. That’s the magic part. It is not a blob.” 

Feyre nodded seriously.

“Definelty  not a blob with golden wires and shit,” Cassian said, “It’s just a blob- shaped thing.” 

Feyre grinned again, before she looked down at the envelope in her hands. 

It was from Elain. 

She turned from the table, and ripped open the wax seal. 

Dear Feyre, 

I understand this is an irregular letter to be sending, but I have reason to be worried. 

Lucien, Vassa and I met up with Jurain yesterday. 

When I saw him again, he spoke of the storm, just off Hybern. 

Do you remember the lullaby Mother would sing? You were only a child, and the guilt I feel that you do not remember her as I do is-strong.

When Jurian informed us of all this, I had a vision. 

I haven’t had them since the Cauldron was sealed. 

At least, not one of this strength. 

Its only flashes, but I see these eyes of flames, of blue and gold, and eyes like Rhysand’s. 

So many charred corpses, and skeletons, and fields running red with blood. 

I see a hand stabbing you from behind. 

And- I see this light being twined in shadows, and so much screaming. 

So much screaming. 

You wrote to me once, speaking of visions? Have you seen anything of this? 

I have written Mother’s lullaby here. 

May it help you. 

All my love, 

Elain. 

When the first key turns in the lock of night,
And the second hums with a stolen light,
When the third is bled from a sister’s hand—
The gate shall rise from the broken land.

Three were one in a time long fled,
Bound by truth, by blood they bled.
But one turned dark, and one turned blind,
And one was lost to the cracks of time.

Three shall wake when the storms are near,
Three shall fall when the path is clear.
Three shall choose what none can flee—
To seal, to break, or set it free.

There lies a beast where the dusk does sleep,
In chains too old and bonds too deep.
It waits in the hollow ‘tween breath and flame,
It knows their faces. It speaks their names.

Key of bone, and key of breath,
Key of flame in the garden of death.
Only with three may the veil be undone—
But what once is opened may not be run.

Three shall wake when the storms are near,
Three shall fall when the path is clear.
Three shall stand at the edge of fate—
To close the wound… or break the gate.

My dear sister. 

How I wish this would not fall upon your shoulders. 

Feyre inhaled sharply as she finished reading. She had a vague memory of that song. Of a comforting voice singing it. 

She glanced at the second envelope. 

This was from Nesta, she could tell from the angry print style on the letter. She huffed to herself as she ripped it open. 

Feyre. 

Something is wrong.

Gwyn and I- she’s the priestess I wrote to you of? We discovered this old folks tale, from this village, in the far east of the continent. You can see the storm of Hybern from it.
I think it’s only grown since we were children. 

Some things in the folks tale match up too well to what has been occurring. I am still without that-that power. Potentially for the best. I do believe it would have driven me mad. But I still get these feelings. 

Something is coming for you all.  

Gwyn wrote the folks' tale below.  

I think I’m healing. I hope you are. 

You were never weak Feyre. You were the strongest of us. 

I’m just sorry it took me so long to realise that. 

We may not be a family, but we will always be sisters. 

-Nesta. 

High Lady Feyre of the Night Court. 

My name is Gwyn, and I have transcribed the folk tale Nesta wrote to you of here. 

I have written it exactly as it was told to me last night. 

“Long ago—before kings ruled and maps were carved—there were three sisters, born of starfire and storm. Some say they weren’t quite human, not in the way we are. They spoke in dreams, walked between thoughts, and held the keys to the world's hidden door.

The First was wise, keeper of secrets. The Second was fierce, guardian of flame. And the Third... the Third was the heart, the one who bound them whole.

Together, they watched over a gateway. Not a door made of wood or stone, mind you—no, this gate was the thin skin between worlds. A veil, stretched tight. On the other side? Things best left unnamed. Things that whisper in still water and curl in the smoke of dying fires.

The first knew words that made mountains sleep.
The second burned like she was born to end things.
The third? She knew death. knew it like a friend. Maybe that’s why she did it.

They made three keys. Cut from breath, bone, and fire.
The only way to crack the Gate was all three together. Only way to hold it shut, too.
Guess which one they forgot.

One sister wanted more. Maybe love. Maybe power. Maybe just... out.
So she betrayed the others. Turned the key wrong. Tore the Gate sideways.

Some say it was out of grief. Others say she was tempted—promised a crown not of gold, but of memory and time. Whatever the truth, she broke the circle. Blood was spilled. The gate cracked.

From the wound came a storm—lightning with no thunder, rain that stung like ash. And something else slipped through: a creature of twilight, neither shadow nor light. Caught between. Bound in the tear. It waits still, they say.

Now, the rhyme is all that remains:

"Three shall rise when the storm is near,
Three shall fall when the skies are clear.
Three shall stand where the world holds breath—
To bind the breach… or beckon death."

A warning, wrapped in rhyme.
Some laugh at it now—just a fireside fancy. But when the skies darken in threes, when keys are found in unlikely hands...
Well.
Even old gates can open.” 

The man who told us this story, he had this sigil, he says it belonged to an old group, called “The Watchers of the Fracture.” 

He says that each of the worlds has their own symbol for it. 

A triangle with a crack through one of the points. 

Three open eyes, one always weeping. 

A flame, a star, and a bone knotted together. 

Here it’s three open eyes, one weeping. 

He spoke of the society, the Watcher’s, the Weavers. “Hidden amongst us all,” he said. 

My blessing upon you High Lady. 

Let the Mother guide you. 

Feyre dropped the letter. 

“Mor.” she said.

‘Feyre.” Mor instantly responded, hurrying to her side. 

“The Mother.” she clutched at her sister’s coat. 

“What of her?” Mor asked, worry flicking over her face, “Is something wrong?”

“The Mother. What goddess are thought of with The Mother?” 

“The Mother isn’t just a goddess,” Mor replied in confusion, “It’s The Mother, The Maiden, The Crone. Three in one.” 

“Threes.” Feyre said, sinking to her knees, “They will come in threes.” 

“Feyre?” Mor asked, panic rising in her voice, “You’re scaring me, what do you mean? ” 

Feyre just looked at her sadly. 

“We’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Chapter Text

Rowan massaged his temples. 

After meeting with the Crochan witch, he had been plagued by headaches of all kinds. 

And of course, Lorcan had disappeared on his own vendetta, leaving Rowan to finish scouting. 

He was approaching Adarlan now, the far east border. He could feel that something was off here, the magic was fluctuating.

It felt off. Wrong. Twisted. 

He dived closer, and even in hawk form, his eyes widened. 

There were so many bodies. 

Rotting corpses. 

Spread in some sort of circle. Blood streams from each to form a shape. 

Rowan didn’t touch it. 

Didn’t fly directly above it. 

Then when he turned around, he saw that it-they formed words. 

He felt the desire to vomit, to claw his eyes out. He also felt a sick sort of relief, and horror, and so many different emotions. 

“Hail Rowan Whitethorn. Your daughter lives."

He shut his eyes tightly, and flew away. 

The message repeated in his mind as he flew toward Terrasen. 

Your daughter lives.

***

Fenrys and Aedion began the climb up the mountain. 

Fenrys wasn’t sure that the Fae up the mountain was Vaughen, but the dagger and the faint scent were just something he could not ignore. 

The Fae wasn’t facing them, Fenrys noticed, as they began to climb the near-vertical mountainside. 

They were overlooking the storm, even as they were soaked, and sprayed by strong waves. 

Fenrys tried to hide the shudders as they squelched through the mud and the pissing-he means- heavy rain. 

The wrongness here was wracking his body. 

It was like raw magic was pouring out of the storm, but it had been inflected with some negative purpose, and Fenrys wanted to claw at it and then run as far as possible. 

Vaughan had been the only one of them who had ventured that far out. Maeve had sent him to scout the storm, and Vaughen had done it, time and time again. 

He came back a little bit quieter each time. A little bit more weathered. 

Fenrys had noticed. 

But then Maeve would-

“You okay?” Aedion’s voice came, pulling him out of his own head. 

‘I will be.” Fenrys said in response. 

Eventually. 

He unsheathed two long knives, and handing one to Aedion, used them to help scale this gods-damned slippery peak.  As they got closer, he began to recognise the Fae more. 

Vaughan turned as they approached him, his dark hair shaved short, eyes gleaming faintly when lightning struck. 

“Well little wolf,” he began his voice gravelly and tired, “It took you long enough.” 

    ***

Manon stared out over the once barren Wastes. 

They were blossoming. 

But it would take time for them to re-cultivate the Wastes. 

At least there wasn’t any infighting. 

At the moment. 

She fingered the edge of her blood-red cape with her iron claws. She was the Crochan Queen, and also the Matron to the Blackbeaks. 

And she was without her Thirteen. 

She inhaled sharply, turning to Abraxos. The wyvern was comforting. He was all she had left. 

Manon pushed those thoughts out of her head. 

She was Manon Crochan-Blackbeak. She wasn’t weak. 

She watched as more witches filed into the camps, the Crochans swirling down to the bonfires, the Blackbeaks and Bluebloods dismounting their wyverns. She hadn’t seen any of the Yellowlegs since-everything. 

Elide was missing though. 

Elide Lochan had Blackbeak blood running through her veins, and Manon would be damned in the darkness if she didn’t try to save her. 

She stared up at the moon, from the hill she stood on above the camps. 

Separate but together. 

She flicked out one of her nails, and sliced her palm, watching the blue blood well up. 

“From now until the darkness claims us,” she whispered, watching the blood drip down onto the ground beneath her feet. 

With only the moon, and Abraxos as her witness. 

Chapter Text

Feyre watched as Amren chanted in the unfamiliar language. 

It was harder to travel from Pyrthian to Erilea than the other way around apparently. 

She would be accompanying Amren and Mor. 

It may be foolish, to have both leaders of their Court in a different world entirely, but she would go for Mor. And for Rhysand. 

She would then return, to watch the storm. 

To whether it. 

After a long time where she sat by the fire, mulled wine in hand, staring at her sister's letters, she had finally written them both a response, asking them to return. 

I think that this-these prophecies are approaching. 

I think we all have a part to play. 

I need you. 

They were three sisters. 

There were too many coincidences to dismiss that. 

But still, she worried. 

She had instructed them to hunt down whatever they could find on “The Watchers of the Fracture,” and she would do the same, in Erilea. 

She was sure that the storms had a part to play. 

“I will go to the library,” Azirel had told her, “There are ancient passages there, from before the time of the Night Court. When you return, I will tell you what I have found.” 

He had flown off then, disappearing into the night. 

Amren had sliced her hand open, and was forcing the blood to form a sigil. 

Her face was gritted in concentration. 

Feyre had never seen her this focused. 

She had the Book of Breathings open, but it was silent. 

Silent in fear. 

Amren started to scream. 

Feyre was paralysed in horror.
It was like nails on a chalkboard, as if Amren was being gutted from the inside out. 

Slowly, a rip started to form, glowing silver and blue. 

Feyre shuddered at the wrongness of it. 

Amren had stopped screaming once the rip had formed, and was doubled over in pain, panting. 

“Quick girl,” she hissed, “It will not remain open for long.” 

Feyre stared at her, then hurried to the rift. 

Mor shouldered her own bags, practical leather rain cloak thrown over  her shoulders. 

Mor sprinted through the rift without a backwards glance, but Feyre stopped and stared at Amren. 

“Why..?” she began. 

“Payment up front,” was Amren’s sharp reply, “There is always a price for this, sooner or later. It takes a toll. Now go girl,” the-Amren turned from her, brow still furrowed in pain, blood speckling her dark grey trousers. 

Feyre glanced at her once more, then dived through the rift. 

She felt a sharp prickling sensation, as if eyes were staring at her, and everything was dark. 

Then she stumbled out into sunlight, on a grassy hill opposite a stunning castle. 

“Wow,” Feyre said, dizzily as she wobbled over to Mor, “I think I know what I want for my next anniversary.” 

Mor laughed, the castle behind her, and then suddenly a vision whacked into Feyre. 

Mor screaming as she was impaled to the ground, her body withering into ash. 

A collar snapping around Rhys’s neck. 

This world on fire, burning and burning, and then freezing over. 

The crunch of bones beneath her feet. 

Koi fish, swimming in a pond, three of them. Swirling around in a pattern. One black, one white, and one fiery golden-red. 

The gate. 

The keys. 

UNLOCK THE GATE. 

Feyre screamed in pain, falling to her knees. 

She could feel Rhys at the edge of shields, but it hurt and she couldn't think, couldn’t, couldn’t-. 

“Hey, it’s okay,’ Mor’s voice came, “Breathe with me Feyre, I’ve got you.” 

Feyre listened to Mor’s inhale, exhale, forcing her struggling lungs to mimic it. 

“That’s it,” Mor said softly, gently rubbing Feyre’s back as she struggled for breath. 

The circles were calm, and applied just the right amount of pressure to ground her. 

To let her breathe. 

They stayed like that for a while, Mor supporting her, when suddenly two shadows approached. 

Feyre cracked her eyes open to see a familiar face. 

A face she loved. 

“Hi,” she croaked out, before nodding her head politely at the Fae behind him. 

“Feyre darling,” he said, but she could feel the worry behind it. 

She took his hand as he helped her to her feet. 

“We have a problem.”

***

Mor traipsed behind the Queen, and Rhys and Feyre. 

She wandered calmly, inhaling the scent of fresh grass, the leg a heavy weight on her shoulder. 

The Queen and Feyre were intertwined. 

There were these silvery bonds of untold truths tying  them together. 

Answer me. The truths whispered, pulling at Mor’s hair, catching her eye. 

Pull at the strings, unravel the lies that they tell. 

Unravel it all. 

Mor slammed down on those thoughts, trying to separate her mind from her power. 

She could do it sometimes, with enough determination and focus. 

Right now, it was hard. 

Loose threads were pulling at her attention. 

She was sure Feyre was filling the Queen and Rhys in on what she thought was happening; and it wasn’t like Mor didn’t believe her, but something in those stories was wrong. 

She just wasn’t sure what.

***

Feyre watched the Queen’s reactions intently as she filled her in. 

“Folk tales?” Queen Aelin asked, raising a brow, “You think that we are witnessing events connected to some old lullaby?” 

“Lullabies and folk tales usually carry a hint of truth,” Feyre offered, feeling concern as she eyed the dark shadows beneath the Queen’s eyes. 

“And the events are interconnected.” 

“The Wyrdkeys do sound like the keys that were mentioned,” the Queen mused, her eyes focused on something in the distance, “I’ll ask Rowan when he returns, and I’ll send out a feeler to Dorian. They could have heard of this group, what is it again?” 

“The Watchers of the Fracture, but some call them the Weavers, or something to do with fire, or carrying fire,”Feyre shrugged, “The old texts were too damaged to make out a name, but they carry something called the First Fire, and in our legends, are called the Daughters of the Broken Flame.” 

Queen Aelin threw back her head and cackled. 

“Well, I know of one group that fits that description,” she said, as the gates to the castle spread wide, “We need to get in contact with the Crochans.” 

Chapter Text

She lay down, on one of those ridiculous balconies, and just let herself get soaked through. 

Everything Feyre had told her had made sense. 

And now the crazy psychopathic bitch had these Wyrdkeys that held an ancient creature at bay. 

Feyre was also sure that she was not working alone. 

She had described the effort it had taken to travel from Pyrthian to Erilea, which required an ancient book. 

If Haliya had crossed over after her mother was murdered, she wouldn’t have had the time to retrieve the book, especially as the book hadn’t moved for centuries, and she would have been gutted like a fish. 

Apparently they were trained to deal with “damanti” over there. 

A “regular occurrence”. 

Aelin stared up at the sky, feeling the rain bucket over her hair. 

She could feel laughter bubbling in her throat. 

“A regular occurrence” when someone goes insane, and of course it’s the vengeful powerful one. 

She let the hysterical laughter burst out of her. 

Screaming out toward the sky, toward the gods who had all but abandoned them. 

The laughter faded to sobs, and Aelin’s tears joined the rain drops as they bucketed from the heavens. 

***

Dorian panicked in the inky darkness. 

He couldn’t see anything. 

And wherever the voice had come from, he couldn’t tell either. 

“Breathe,” he thought, then wanted to slap himself. 

Magic. 

Of course. 

He thought of flames, like Aelin’s in his hand. 

Suddenly the tomb appeared shrouded in flickering light. 

A silhouette in the corner. 

“Well, this is what is left of Elena’s brood, hm?” she said, the voice clearly feminine as she took a step forward. 

“Who, what, are you?” Dorian demanded, thinking of walls of ice and stone and flame and smoke, keeping her out of his mind. 

“I believe you know the answer to that,” was her reply.
Her voice was softer than it had been before, less sharp and less accusing. 

“Haliya.” he answered.

She hummed in response, lowering her hood.

Her clothes were less embellished this time, but all he could really make out were the leather boots and the dark cloak. 

His breath stuttered as he looked at her face, and he inhaled sharply. 

“I suppose it is quite shocking, isn’t it?” she said, her voice lilting, as she ran her gloved hand over her face. 

“If you think this is bad, you should see my back.” 

Across her neck, jutting up from her collarbone brushing the bottom of her right ear, was a long silvery scar, thick and eye-catching. 

Deep too, indenting the skin. 

She was paler than before. 

“What-?” he croaked, “What do you want?” 

She turned to sit on what was left of Elena’s tomb, her cloak swirling, blending with the shadows. 

“The scar is from when I, when I “died”, I suppose.” her purple eyes glinted at him, “And as for what I want, well… I want a lot of things. We want a lot of things. But, for the moment, I simply want to speak with you.” 

Dorian noted her use of “we”. 

She said that on purpose. 

He waited for a moment, wondering what she could possibly want from him, wishing he knew what to do.

He could try and attack her, but she could grasp his mind in those gloved hands, and steal every secret, every fear, and trap him in a den of his worst nightmares.

“I could do that, yes,” she said, her lip tilting slightly. 

“Why do you want to talk to me?” he asked desperately. 

“I thought you might understand. People force you to do things, be things.” She gestured, her hands seeming to encompass everything. 

“Why was that scar not on your neck when we first saw you?” He blurted. 

Her eyes widened slightly, and she swallowed. 

“It wasn’t hard to get you to see what I wanted you all to,” she offered. 

Silence filled the tomb again. 

“What happened that day?” Dorian asked, “With your mother?” 

Her eyes snap to him, and he raises his hands slowly, just keeping the flames balanced. 

“You wanted to talk,” he said. 

She cracked a slight smile at that and shook her head, golden braided hair swishing.

“Oh, you remind me of him,” she said, and if Dorian didn’t know better, he would have thought she sounded fond. 

“Of your brother?” he asked, trying to keep her talking. 

Maybe she’ll tell him something accidentally, like where Elide was. 

“No.” she shot back, her eyes going distant again. 

He waits. 

“We were ambushed,” she begins, lacing her fingers together, “And you’d think, the most powerful damanti, trained by those without morals, and wings to boot would have been fine and dandy.” She sighed, tilting her head back, the silvery scar catching the light. 

“I won’t bore you with the details, but they caught us. Spring Court bastards, take what they want. You can’t stop them, especially not when they have those chains. Nullifiers. Pretty sure they’re all gone.” 

Dorian felt cold as to what she was insinuating. 

Couldn’t stop them. 

She saw the look in his eyes and nodded slowly in confirmation, barking out a harsh laugh. 

“You capture your enemy's mate, and his prized daughter, praised for her beauty. What do you think they did?” 

She didn’t look at him then, her eyes fixated on the wall. 

“Then they held her down in front of me, and sliced off her wings. My mother always despised me, you see. I wasn’t like Rhysand, good to the core. I was my “father’s daughter”.” she let out a long breath, before continuing. 

Dorian felt frozen to the spot, ice creeping up his bones. 

“But she had taught me to fly. We shared that, the wind in our wings. And they cut them off. And then they chopped off her head. Let the blood spray all over me. Next thing I know, my face is shoved into the ground still wet with my mother’s blood. They sliced off my wings.” Her voice dropped to a hiss, venom dripping, even though centuries had passed, it was clear this was a wound that was gaping open. 

“But one of them enjoyed me, enjoyed my suffering. He asked to keep me for “one more night” . He regretted it. I left that night, took his mind and forced him to shift one of the ladies who accompanied them on their “hunting trip” into my form. I got away. Then I came here.” 

She stood up abruptly. 

Dorian watched her, silence echoing after each click of her boots. 

“You were formed by your father too, despite yourself,” her eyes were sad as she looked him up and down. 

“In another life, we could have been friends, I suppose,” her tone was wistful. 

“We still could be.” He croaked at her, his voice harsh to his own ears. 

She let out a soft laugh. 

“I don’t think so, King Dorian.” She gently stroked his cheek, her glove smooth against his skin. 

She leaned closer, her breath warm against the shell of his ear. 

With that, she grabbed the last few minutes and ripped them out of his mind, leaving him collapsed on  the floor, blood pouring from his nose and ears, whimpering in pain.

She vanished from the tomb, leaving the inscription behind. 

She stepped forward, looking up at the night sky, still unfamiliar to her. 

“To the stars that listen,” she whispered, before pulling her hood up over her head. 

Whatever dreams she once had, they had been burned to ashes. 

With that, she let the shadows engulf her once more. 

Chapter Text

Aelin towel dried her hair frantically. 

Rowan had arrived at Orynth and had, well, blown up at her, as he found her soaking wet, spread-eagled, eyes clothes in the midst of a storm. 

She could tell something else was bothering him, his eyes were hooded. 

But she didn’t push. 

Her bones ached with weariness and she just wanted to collapse and dream away the world for a few hours. 

She eased open the door of the bathroom, letting the steam from the bath escape. 

Aelin let out a long sigh, and spotted Rowan sitting at the far side of the room, eyes focused on the horizon. 

“Keeping a weather eye on the horizon, hm?” she asked, sliding her arms around his neck. 

She closed her eyes as she leaned fully against him. 

His warmth was soothing. 

“I will never understand your random sayings,” he grumbled in response, but lifted a hand to stroke through her hair. 

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” Aelin asked. 

It just slipped out, and her jaw relaxed as she let out a long yawn. 

“No.” he responded, but he unlaced her arms from around his neck and picked her up. 

He deposited her on the bed and she stretched out, sighing as the soft featherdown bed eased her muscles. 

“You coming?” she mumbled, eyes growing heavy. 

“I just need to think for a while, Fireheart,” he whispered in response, pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

Aelin didn’t remember when he had started talking again. 

She worried that he was shoving down his problems until they dealt with this threat. 

But sleep dragged her down, down, down, and her eyelids fluttered shut. 

Aelin frowned as she walked deeper into the catacombs. 

Flickering torches provided the only light, and she couldn’t do magic here. 

She tried. 

She kept her hands tight on Goldryn’s handle, and kept her footsteps light and her breathing steady. 

“Hello Celeana Sardothien,” a voice called. 

Aelin spun around, Goldryn pointed toward the source. 

Shadows greeted her. 

“Hail, Aelin of the Wildfire.” The voice came again. 

She moved, trying to find its source. 

“Or should I say, “Greetings, Queen Aelin Ashryever Whitethorn Galanthinyus.”” the voice said mockingly. 

Aelin turned, and came face to face with Haliya, the Fae from the forest. 

Goldryn held true, and the tip of its blade was placed against Haliya’s neck. 

Purple eyes glinted mockingly at her. 

“Haliya,” she hissed in response. 

“So my brother dearest told you his little sob story,” Haliya mocked in response, pushing Goldryn from her throat. 

Aelin hissed at her. 

“Try to stay calm, Fireheart, you can’t wield magic here. Only I can. So I think you’ll want to listen well and good to what I say. Or you’ll never wake up again.” 

Aelin locked eyes with her, blue and gold clashing with purple. 

She held her gaze for a long moment, then sheathed Goldryn. 

“Excellent.” Haliya said, lacing her fingers together. 

She was in a long purple dress, tight on the waist, that melted into a black that blended into the shadows completely. 

Her neck and chest were bare of any ornamentation, although she had silver bracers, tight to her forearms.
A diadem of crystal and amethyst graced her brow, golden curls pinned back. 

Aelin glanced at her throat, seeing a faint silvery line. 

“Observant,” Haliya purred, “It’s a souvenir from my oh, so loving brother. I’m sure he told you his version. No need to, reminisce, about old affairs,” her eyes sparkled, and Aelin felt the desperate need, the urge to know more. 

“Haliya’s messing with you,” she thought, “Stay silent.”

Haliya’s purple eyes (oh so similar to Maeve) were locked on her expression.
She waited a moment more, before letting out a sharp smile. 

“Clever.” 

Aelin cocked an eyebrow at her in response. 

“Very well,” Haliya said, dismissing the shadows wrapped around them with a flick of her hands. 

Suddenly they were in a meadow of moonflowers, a rare flower that Aelin had only ever seen once. 

They shone in the moonlight, and only bloomed once every full moon. 

Haliya tilted her head back and inhaled deeply, before facing Aelin again. 

“Better?” she questioned, tilting her head like an owl. ( Like Chaol once did ). 

“What is it you want, you lying, thieving manipulative,

“Return on my investment. You follow my instructions, and, when you have, I will return Elide Lochan to you. You fail, or try to trick or betray me, I’ll send you her head, and feed her lover her heart. Then, I rip off the head of your precious mate.” She blinked at Aelin, her eyes doe-like and innocent. 

Aelin wanted to. Rip. Her. Throat .Out. 

“Or,” she mused, circling Aelin, “I’ll collar him, and get him to kill the rest of your Court, and then himself.” 

Aelin lunged at her. 

Haliya vanished in a whip of shadows, only to reappear behind her, dagger pressed tightly to Aelin’s throat. 

“I hope you’re listening carefully, Queen Aelin,” she purred. 

Aelin glared at her from the corners of her eye. 

“Good. This is what I want you to do…” 

***

Lysandra felt so very tired. 

She was sitting on one of those ridiculous velvet chairs that Aelin liked so much, a book in her lap, and was facing out the window, viewing the Mountains of Terrasen. 

But she couldn’t do anything. 

She could shift into  a bird, but she would be off balance and struggle to take off. 

She could shift and do basically nothing because she was broken and Aedion was gone and she felt so very heavy. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” a voice called, and Lysandra turned to see the blonde Fae, Mor, striding over, her steps confident and sure. 

Lysandra missed being able to walk. 

She still had pain where she thought her leg was, and every morning she woke up and the shock of seeing it gone hurt every time. 

Evangeline had been an angel, but Lysandra had sent her to spend time with the stuffy Lord Darrow, who knew nothing of what was truly occurring within castle walls. 

“Hello Mor,” she replied, smiling at the Fae weakly. 

Mor was paler than she had been, her smile more strained. 

Her clothes are more simple too, a red tunic, black leather vanguard, black leather braces, soft looking leather boots, and matching breeches. 

She had a bow strapped across her shoulders, a quiver slung along her hips, and Lysandra knew that she would be lethal. 

“I have a surprise for you,” Mor sing-songed at her. 

She didn’t know the Fae all that well, and she was still reeling from the surprise she had offered to help. 

She prepared herself to smile graciously at the book or dress or random thing Mor had brought over to make her feel better. 

She had not been expecting Mor to unsling the canvas bag from her shoulder and undo the laces of it to reveal… 

“A blob?” Lysandra blurted, before she could stop herself. 

Mor cocked her head to the side. 

“Does it really look blobish?” she muttered to herself, wrapping a loose coil of hair around her finger before shaking her head. 

‘It’s a leg! Ta-da!” the Fae said proudly. 

Lysandra looked at Mor, then at the blob on the ground, then at Mor again. 

‘..Thank you?” she attempted. 

Mor swatted away the poor attempt. 

“It uses magic to fuse perfectly to your body, match your other leg, aside from the foot part, and it should be able to shift with you.” 

Lysandra stared at her, feeling her eyes water. 

This Fae didn’t even know her and she had done all of this. 

“My friend’s friend, who works in this area, had been dying for a new project and I tossed your name in,” Mor offered her a smile, “It took longer than expected, but we should be able to get onto the fusion now.” 

Lysandra just blinked. 

“You..do want the leg, right?” Mor asked, cocking a sleek brow, “Because if you don’t I’m sure I can..”

“No!” Lysandra cried, throwing her hands in the air, “Of course I want the gods-damned leg.”

Mor placed her hands on her hips and waited. 

“How do we start,” Lysandra asked, swallowing hard. 

Mor just cracked a grin. 

bitch?” Aelin derided, fists clenching. 

Nausea was rising in her throat with every minute she stayed in her company. 

Chapter Text

Elide closed her eyes against the oppressive darkness. 

Was her name even Elide? 

She had been in the darkness for so long, she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen light. 

The manacles around her wrists ached. 

The nightmares plagued her. 

Had all her choices only ever led her here? 

Was there never any choice at all? 

“Silence,” a voice hissed. 

Elide felt tears pouring down her face. 

She hadn’t left this darkness in so very long. She just wanted to see the sun. Feel the wind on her face. 

“Don’t worry girl,” the voice promised, twinning around her, “Your use will come soon.”

Elide drifted off then, sleep reaching for her with sharp talons.

Soon.  

She dreamed only of burning, and skeletons, the sweet release of death. 

***

Elain read Feyre’s letter, a response to her own. 

Lucien and Jurien sat across from her, staring into the campfire. 

Lucien and her… 

Elain looked up, catching his eye. 

He smiled lightly at her, before focusing his full attention on Jurien’s story. 

They were friends now. 

Would they be more? 

She didn’t think either of them really wanted more, despite what the mating bond demanded. 

They were happier this way. 

“What  did Feyre say, Elain?” Jurien questioned, watching Elain’s eyes scan the letter again. 

“Read it yourself.” Elain snapped back, tossing the letter across. 

She fingered the short singed hairs brushing her collarbone. 

After a close call, she had been lucky that was the worst that had happened. 

She fingered the edge of her cloak.

She wore a dustcloak woven from storm-moss linen, dyed a deep, shifting gray-blue that shimmered faintly when the wind turned — as if it remembered rain. The hood was long and slightly pointed, embroidered at the edges with thread that caught the moonlight: tiny stitched stars, a playful charm sewn by firelight. Some said the cloak always smelled faintly of wild mint and smoke, no matter the weather.

Beneath it, her travel dress split at the thigh for riding, layered over soft doeskin leggings reinforced at the knees with stitched-on patches shaped like leaves — each one from a different wood. The belt she wore was braided leather. 

She had tall leather boots, creeping to just below her knee, that were water sealed, bought from Illyrian merchants. 

Sometimes she missed her ability to foretell. 

Now she could only see brief glimpses into the future, helpful in evading attacks but not a lot else. 

How times had changed. 

She watched Jurien and Lucien pour over the brief response Feyre had sent. 

The High Lady of the Night Court.
First of her kind. 

Elain thought over the context of the letter. 

Elain, 

I need you, on your travels, to find this group, or discover more about it. 

They call themselves, “The Watchers of the Fracture”. 

They display themselves by a sigil, a triangle of three open eyes, one weeping. 

I know you aren’t on the continent, and that you don’t work for me, but please. 

I need you. 

The three of us have been entwined in this since the beginning for a reason. 

All of this has happened for a reason. 

If you find them, or anything, report back to Velaris. 
Tides are changing. 

The storm on Hybern is worsening, the waves are smashing against it, I have reason to believe that these are all connected.

I believe Jurien has met them once before. The Watchers.

I’ve sent Nesta a similar letter. 

Try not to kill each other. 

-Feyre. HLNC.

Elain sighed. 

She had been going around the continent, it was true. 

They had been finding these areas, humans called “Veil Circlets.” 

They were hidden by this thick Mist, practically leaking with magic.
The three of them had gone in, and discovered forests of unimaginable beauty. 

Most of them were beautiful. 

Some were rotten to the core. 

She had stayed there, tending to them. Some had ruins, graveyards, burnt-down villages. 

She carried seeds in pouches and pressed petals in her journal, planting whispervines, moonthorns, and grief-lilies wherever memory feels heavy.

The plants she sows are tied to emotion or memory — and sometimes, they bloom only for those with regret or lost names.

She has quietly left trails of blooming grief across the continent — a map only the brokenhearted could follow.

She found that she could literally imbue the plants with her emotions. 

This was why Jurien had a brand new scar on his shoulder. 

They didn’t talk about that. 

The three of them were close now, but she always felt a little out of step. 

“We’ve seen that sigil in the Veil, haven’t we?” Lucien asked, turning to her with that golden eye. 

She nodded mutely in response. 

“Everything we’ve been doing has been leading us toward this, hasn’t it?” she said, turning to the horizon. 

“The Watchers of the Fracture.” Jurien repeated. 

“I-I knew someone once, who was a part of them. A secret society, coated in ritualistic bullshit to boot. They walk “among us”. But if the High Lady is looking for them, there has to be a reason.” 

“She’s not ordering us to do it,” Lucien said, scanning over Feyre’s looping writing. 

Elain cringed at the thought of Feyre’s writing. 

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. 

She had been so… passive. 

She ran her fingers along her staff, avoiding the question, “Should we help her?”

They didn’t have to. 

Her staff. 

It looks like a simple traveler’s staff, carved from pale driftwood and capped with obsidian or bone, but the inside is hollow and houses a whistle core — when spun or slammed, it emits a dissonant, shrieking tone that shatters focus. 

It had been a gift, from Feyre, before she had left. 

They hadn’t been speaking. 

It was after Elain had ripped the gardens to shreds, vines and thorns destroying blossoms. 

It was when her visions had stopped and she had felt empty. Useless. 

She had been so useless. 

You stabbed the King of Hybern. You killed him. Hot blood coating your hands. Murderer, Liar. 

Mother died because of you. 

You let Feyre die because you were a coward. 

She shut her eyes tightly, ignoring the voices. 

“We help her,” she said, running her hands over her short hair. 

“We owe her that. We owe her and Rhysand everything.” 

Lucien and Jurien shared a look. 

Jurien sighed, staring at the trees surrounding them. 

“At least we don’t have to dig in the dirt anymore.” 

Lucien laughed, and Elain let herself breathe, with her friends, for just a moment more. 

When the embers had cooled, and the other two were wrapped in their bedrolls, she creeped toward the ruins, her hands running over the cracked and broken stone. 

She crept through the ruins, heading for the one that was barely standing, coated in thick vines, and heavy pillars. 

Something was pulling at her to go there. 

Vines twined around her wrists. 

The koi fish swam in never ending circles. 

It has come and will come again. 

She let the flashes come, and then breathed out slowly, letting them pass. 

She avoided the vines as she crept through the temple, eyeing the missing walls, and the soot covering the floor. 

A crack echoed throughout the room. 

She glanced down, and saw a bleached white bone beneath her feet. 

She could feel nausea rising in her throat. 

All she had wanted, ten years ago, was a simple life. A kind, wealthy husband, and children. 

A lot changes in ten years. 

She changed. 

Averting her eyes, she continued forward, then stopped. 

A triangle.

Three eyes, one weeping. 

Elain reached out a hand, running her fingers over it gently. 

Lichen and moss had grown beneath it. 

She dug her fingers into it, tearing it off and away. 

Elain wasn’t sure why she was doing it, only that she had to. 

Something was here. 

Something always had been. 

As she ripped the last of the lichen from the wall, her hands rough, cuts speckling them, words appeared. 

"The eye that does not sleep waits still,
past tide and time, beyond the hill.
Where thunder drinks and mirrors break,
beneath the bones of the watching lake.”

“A land that is plagued by the sea.
That is where the truth will be.” 

"Three stones guard where truth lies bound,
one cracked, one lost, one underground.
Find the mouth the sea won’t drown—
And speak the name that was never crowned."

“A land that is plagued by the sea,” Elain repeated. 

The storm by Hybern is worsening. 

Elain fell to her knees. 

The one place she never wanted to return.
Fucking hell. 

Damn the Mother, Maiden and Crone. 

“Hybern.” Elain said, her voice echoing slightly in the abandoned temple, where ghosts once worshipped. 

“We have to go to Hybern.” 

Chapter Text

Vaughan led them to a stone hut, sheltered from the wind and rain. 

A warm fire flickered in there. 

Fenrys and Aedion sighed in relief and removed their damp cloaks, and their sodden boots. 

The cottage held several rooms, and a trap door that led to what looked like a cellar. 

Fenrys eyed the other doors, but Vaughan ignored those, slinging off his cloak and propping himself in a chair by the fire, turning to face them. 

It was well outfitted, and looked nearly built into the Mountain. 

“Well..” Vaughan began, placing his hands on his knees, “Took you longer than I expected to get here.” 

Fenrys choked down his anger. 

“Not our fault you vanished off the face of the Earth, and some of us, had a war to fight.” 

Vaughen raised tired eyes to meet Fenrys’. 

“Some of us, have been fighting a war for centuries.” 

“Centuries?” Aedion asked, a curious expression crossing his face, “Do you mean against the Valg?” 

Vaughan scoffed in response. 

“The Valg are small fish in comparison.” 

“People died fighting these creatures. Gavriel died. My brother died. And what, you’re just tossing away their deaths because it’s "inconvenient?" Fenrys snapped, seeing red. 

Vaughan raised his hands. 

“I didn’t say that. But the war I’m fighting, the war my people have been fighting, is ancient. And it’s finally coming to a point.” 

“Your..people?” Aedion asked, sitting across from Vaughen. His face was neutral, wet strands of blonde hair dripping onto the ground. 

Fenrys hated how much he looked like Gavriel in that moment, even though the father and son were nothing alike. 

“It has been passed on for generations,” Vaughan began, then paused, “What is said, does not leave this room. For now.” 

“Why don’t you tell us about the Valg-Queen, like how you knew all along, or that your “other oaths” precedented those?” Fenrys questioned, flipping the dagger in his hand. 

The dagger that was Vaughen’s. 

Vaughen's eyes caught it and narrowed at him. 

He reached under the woolen shirt he was wearing, revealing a silvery-blue pendant. 

It was shaped into a triangle, one side a flame, one side a bone, and one side a feather. In the middle was a hand grasping a sword. 

“It is a pledge. An oath. One that precedents all and will always do so.” Vaughan intoned. 

Fenrys resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

Barely. 

“The Shattermarked,” Vaughan said, tucking the eerie metal away, “We remain and always will.” 

Fenrys snorted. 

“You do not believe,” Vaughan remarked. 

Fenrys cocked a brow, ‘You make it pretty damn hard to, with all that bullshit.” 

Vaughan scowled at him. 

Then he pulled his shirt aside, to reveal words tattooed on his skin, in a spiral around his heart. 

“The oath lives with me,” He said. 

Fenrys tried not to catch Aedion’s eye, but he did, the blue-gold sparking in the firelight. 

He burst into laughter. 

Vaughan sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“It sounds,” he paused, searching for a word. 

“Ridiculous.” Fenrys responded. 

“Come with me.” was Vaughan's response, rising smoothly from his chair and heading for the trapdoor. 

Fenrys hated this. 

Every part of this. 

He followed Vaughan, down into the darkness, their footsteps echoing on the cool stone. 

Chapter Text

Nesta wanted to scream. 

Instead, she took a deep breath, and counted to twenty in her mind, holding each number carefully in her mind.  

Outbursts helped no one, and staying calm and working through why she was feeling so fucking angry would help. 

“Nes?” A familiar female voice called, “You alright?” 

She turned to Gwyn, a priestess she had met when she was leaving Velaris. 

One who ached to see and do more. 

They had spent the last three years mapping h forgotten thresholds: the places where stories, grief, and magic bleed into the ordinary. These aren’t temples — they’re, Nesta fought her mind for a moment, searching through all the places she had seen. Been to.

Cliffside wells where wishes were once whispered.

Broken hearths in ruins where laughter used to live.

Groves where names were carved and long since grown over.

They had found many a war-torn village, where Gwyn had asked Nesta to tend to the bodies with her. To say the rites. 

It helped Nesta let go of her own ghosts. 

Nesta grew to love the cliffs. 

The soothing repetition of the water fighting the rock. 

Water still invoked a fear in her, but she was growing past it. She hoped. 

She fingered the half moon sickle on her back, then the whip wrapped along her arm. 

They had also been helping to free the women of the continent. 

Those taken through no fault of their own. 

Nesta enjoyed putting those bodies into the ground, even as she destroyed something, she was clawing a little bit more light into the world around them. “Weeding out those choking the blossoms,” as Elain would say. 

Nesta shut her eyes at the thought of her sister. 

They had travelled together, for a time. 

Now they didn’t. 

She stared at the honey-brown hair that had blown over her face, now inlaid with streaks of grey. 

Those had appeared when her power had left her. 

Some sick sort of farewell. 

She didn’t miss it though.
Didn’t miss the beast creeping beneath her skin. Wearing her face like a mask. 

“Just thinking,” she called back to Gwyn. 

The red-haired priestess hummed back acknowledgement, her eyes focused on the pot over the fire. 

Pot, not a Cauldron. 

In the weeks after leaving Elain, when it had just  been her and Gwyn, cut off from all they had known on Pythian, Nesta had felt ice under her bones. 

Every night she had nightmares of Feyre’s face, wan and sickly. Dying because Nesta had done nothing. 

She had woken screaming, memories of the Cauldron, of drowning, of dying. 

She hadn’t understood how her youngest sister had walked past her death so quickly. 

Feyre had died. 

Nesta hadn’t been there. 

She had heard about it, Feyre being tortured over a series of months, put through more meticulous pain and horror then Nesta could comprehend. Then Nesta wanted to comprehend. 

She had dreamed about necks cracking for months afterward. 

Being around Elain just reminded her of the favouritism she had bestowed. 

Simply because their mother had done so. 

Nesta hated that version of herself for those faults. 

One night, Nesta had awoken, her voice hoarse and raw from screaming and crying. Gwyn had been there, dark red hair pulled away from her face, in a simple plait. 

Nesta had reached for the older Fae, burying her face in Gwyn’s shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” she  had sobbed and begged. 

“I’m not the one that needs to hear that,” Gwyn’s soft voice had come, as she stroked her hair. 

Nesta had sobbed more sorrys into her neck, soaking her soft woolen tunic through. 

The next morning, she woke up, and looked in the pond near where they had camped. 

She didn’t like what she had seen. Didn’t like this cold verison of herself, who lashed out at everyone because she was hurting. 

Lashed out at the person who had been there. 

Had cared. 

Even when Nesta certainly didn’t deserve it. 

She had approached Gwyn then, softly asking her to help send a letter to Feyre. 

She couldn’t speak the words to Feyre’s face. 

Not yet. 

But it was a start. 

“What did she say,” Gwyn asked. 

“She confirmed it. The “Watchers of the Fracture” are real.” Nesta kicked a stone with her hard leather boots, laced up to below the knee. 

She wore a long dark green-brown rain cloak, as they were in the far east side of the continent now. Avoiding all the kingdoms they possibly could. 

Both had enough of royalty for now. 

“Well, your sickle sort of confirmed it too,” Gwyn said, spreading her hands, “And on the bright side, we know where we got it from. Which means we’ve got a starting point. I’m presuming the High Lady asked us to take a look around?” 

Nesta nodded, turning and plopping herself down next to Gwyn, reaching for the bear-skin satchel of books they had collected from all across the continent. 

She had found a love for researching, particularly old architecture, and ruins. 

“I know she wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important but..” Nesta trailed off, leaving the angry words left unsaid. 

I wanted no part in this. 

"We did send her the letter, even if it didn’t have the whole truth, like the fact the man telling us the story was attempting to indoctrinate us into his freaky cult,” Gwyn attempted. 

“I suppose,” Nesta admitted, fidgeting with her whip again. 

It was called a Stormlash, made expertly from seven spider silk and bone slivers from oathbreakers, the Stormlash is a coiling weapon that sings when it spins — an eerie, high whistle like distant wind.

The silver links are etched with protective runes, and some say it can snag magic mid-air, briefly binding spells or redirecting curses.

It was fascinating. 

When she used it during a storm, the silver links would glow, and she could tilt the winds to her favour, and redirect lightning. 

She shivered at the memory when they had figured that out.