Chapter Text
✽⋆∘☽༓∘⋆✽⋆∘☽༓∘⋆✽Amaros✽⋆∘☽༓∘⋆✽⋆∘☽༓∘⋆✽
The war room stinks of smoke and old blood.
I stand at the window overlooking what remains of, my house, House Koimesis's courtyard, watching my soldiers drill in formations that would have been unthinkable three months ago. Mixed units. Survivors from fallen houses working alongside my own people, learning to function as something resembling a cohesive force instead of the fractured remnants they were when they first arrived seeking sanctuary.
Sanctuary. The word tastes bitter in my mouth, but it's the lie that keeps them alive and useful.
The morning reports sit on the table behind me, each page detailing another small victory in the mathematics of survival. Food stores calculated down to the last grain. Weapon inventory cross-referenced with projected casualties. Intelligence from Lysanthe's network about which houses are planning what desperate moves this week.
All of it necessary. None of it sufficient.
"My lord." Marcus's voice carries the careful neutrality of a man who's learned that survival depends on not showing too much emotion around his superiors. "The morning briefing?"
I turn from the window, violet eyes scanning the faces of what passes for my war council these days. Marcus, scarred and competent. Dmitri, young enough to still believe in honor but smart enough to keep it to himself. Three other officers whose names matter less than their ability to follow orders without asking inconvenient questions.
"House Nyxalos?" I ask, settling into the chair at the head of the table.
"Still fortified. Still refusing negotiations." Marcus slides a reconnaissance report across the mahogany surface. "They've added another perimeter of defenses. Kieranos isn't taking chances."
Smart of him. House Nyxalos holds strategic territory and enough remaining resources to be either a valuable ally or a significant problem. The kind of house that can't be absorbed easily, that requires careful planning and patience rather than the quick surgical strikes that worked on the smaller holdings.
I study the tactical assessments, noting guard rotations and supply lines with the detached focus of someone who's learned that emotion is a luxury commanders can't afford. Every number on these pages represents lives that will end when the time comes to move against them. My soldiers. His soldiers. Civilians caught between competing definitions of survival.
The mathematics are clear, even if they're not pleasant.
"And House Erebos?" I continue, fingers drumming against the table's edge.
"Movement in their eastern holdings. Could be standard patrol rotations, could be preparation for something more aggressive." Dmitri's report is thorough, methodical. Good. The boy learns quickly. "No direct communication attempts since the last rejected overture."
Three houses remaining with enough power to threaten what I'm building here. Three different problems requiring three different solutions, and not enough resources to handle all of them simultaneously without catastrophic losses.
This is the reality of command in a dying realm. Every decision carries weight that settles in your bones like lead, every choice eliminating options you might need later. The grand strategies taught in war colleges assume abundance—soldiers, supplies, time to recover from mistakes. Here, in the aftermath of systematic destruction, luxury becomes liability.
I reach out along the mental thread connecting me to my sister, testing the connection with careful precision. She's in the Spring Court, safe behind Tamlin's borders, but her thoughts carry the particular tension that means she's worrying about something specific.
Perfect.
Sister, I send, keeping my mental voice carefully neutral. Have you given any more thought to that intelligence about ancient creatures being weaponized?
Her response comes immediately, tinged with the protective instincts that make her predictable. I've been researching. There are references to something called Bryaxis in the old texts. If someone really is trying to control it...
It would change everything, I finish, letting manufactured concern bleed through our connection. That kind of power in the wrong hands could destabilize every court.
I pull back before she can probe deeper into my motivations, satisfaction settling cold in my chest. Let her chase shadows while I deal with the immediate reality of keeping my people alive and my territory secure.
"Sir?" Marcus's voice pulls me back to the present, to the reports and maps and endless calculations of survival.
"Send word to House Erebos," I say, my voice carrying the flat authority of someone who's moved past hoping for easy solutions. "Another negotiation request. Frame it as mutual defense against House Nyxalos expansion."
"And if they refuse again?"
I consider it with the clinical detachment that's kept me alive this long. House Erebos has resources we need, territory that would strengthen our defensive position, and leadership that's proven adaptable enough to survive the systematic collapse of their realm.
They're also positioned between us and House Nyxalos, which makes them either a valuable buffer or a dangerous obstacle depending on their choices.
"Then we reassess," I say finally. "But Kieranos is mobilizing for something, and when he moves, we'll need every advantage we can get."
The truth settles in the room like a weight. House Nyxalos represents the kind of challenge that requires everything we have and more besides. The kind of enemy that tests whether what I've built here is strong enough to survive contact with real opposition.
I study the map spread across the table, noting the red pins that mark fallen houses and the spaces between territories where smaller holdings have simply... disappeared. Gone to ground or fled to other courts or joined the growing number of corpses that mark the price of political miscalculation.
This is what remains of Hybern. This is what my mother's legacy has become—a handful of survivors playing elaborate games of mutual destruction while the High Lords of Prythian divide up the spoils like generals discussing conquered territory.
But spoils can be reclaimed. Territory can be retaken. And the High Lords of Prythian are about to discover that some prizes come with hidden costs.
My sister will see to that, once she finishes her research and realizes exactly what kind of weapon she's been pointed toward. The Night Court thinks they've tamed this realm, carved it up safely among their allies.
They have no idea what's coming.
Outside the window, my soldiers continue their drills, practicing formations that might keep them alive when the real fighting starts. The sound of steel on steel carries on the morning air, sharp and clean and honest in a way that politics can never be.
Some problems require subtlety, patience, careful manipulation of circumstances and motivations.
Others require soldiers who know how to follow orders when everything turns to blood and chaos.
I'm preparing for both possibilities.
✽⋆∘☽༓∘⋆✽⋆∘☽༓∘⋆✽ Narkissa✽⋆∘☽༓∘⋆✽⋆∘☽༓∘⋆✽
Afternoon sun slants through the tall windows of Tamlin's study, throwing shadows across maps and ancient texts spread over the mahogany table. I trace my finger along another dead-end reference, my eyes burning after hours of digging through accounts of creatures older than memory.
"Here," I say, tapping the page harder than needed. "Another mention of Bryaxis in the Treaty of Shadows, dated four centuries before Amarantha's reign. 'The creature known as Bryaxis, confined beneath the Court of Nightmares, shall remain under the absolute authority of the High Lord of Night, its bindings maintained through blood and starlight.'"
Tamlin glances up from his own research, emerald eyes focused with the intensity he saves for real threats. "Blood and starlight," he repeats, something dark passing over his face. "Rhysand's specialty."
I sink back in my chair and press my palms to my temples. The headache's been building for an hour now. Every text shows the same thing: Bryaxis isn't just some ancient monster—it's a weapon that could level cities, and the Night Court has kept it chained beneath their precious Court of Nightmares for centuries.
"My brother was right to worry," I mutter, though something about Amaros's sudden concern still nags at me. I can't figure out what. "If House Nyxalos really is trying to weaponize this thing..."
"They'd tear apart half of Prythian," Tamlin says. His voice holds the weight of someone who's watched unchecked power destroy innocent lives. "The descriptions in these texts—Bryaxis doesn't pick sides. It devours everything."
I watch him return to the tome in front of him, noting how his jaw tightens, how his hands grip the pages just hard enough to make the parchment crackle. This isn't just strategy for him. It's personal.
"You've seen what creatures like this can do."
His emerald eyes meet mine, and I catch a glimpse past the High Lord's mask to something raw underneath. "My father collected things. Bound creatures, ancient powers he thought he could control for the court's good." His voice goes quiet. "They always break free. And when they do, innocent people die."
Heavy silence fills the space between us—old ghosts, old failures, old choices that left scars too deep to heal. I reach across the table and brush my fingers against his.
"Then we stop House Nyxalos before they make the same mistake," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, something else forms in my mind. Something darker. Something that tastes like opportunity.
Tamlin nods and turns back to his research, missing how my expression shifts. Good. What I'm thinking—what I'm planning—isn't the noble protection he'd want.
I stand and walk to the window, pretending to rest my eyes while I hide what must be written on my face. Beyond the glass, the Spring Court spreads in restored beauty: wildflower hills, clear streams, forests where children play safely.
All vulnerable. All within the Night Court's reach.
Rhysand destroyed my home, scattered my people, claimed my brother. He carved up Hybern like spoils of war, handed our houses to his allies like gifts, and expected gratitude for his mercy.
But mercy is for enemies who can't fight back.
And I am far from harmless.
"Tamlin," I say, keeping my voice casual while I stare out the window. "What if House Nyxalos isn't the only one who should worry about Bryaxis?"
He looks up, confused. "What do you mean?"
I turn from the window and let him see the steel in my eyes, the cold calculation my mother would have recognized. "I mean, what if instead of stopping someone from weaponizing an ancient creature, we did it ourselves? Against the right targets."
Complete silence. I can hear the afternoon breeze rustling papers on his desk. Tamlin's emerald eyes narrow as he studies my face like someone reassessing a threat.
"You're talking about using Bryaxis against the Night Court," he says. His voice is flat, dangerous.
"I'm talking about justice." The words come out sharper than I meant, but I don't soften them. "That creature has been imprisoned beneath their Court of Nightmares for centuries. What happens when it breaks free? When it realizes who kept it chained?"
I start pacing as the idea takes shape, becomes real, becomes possible. "We don't have to control it, Tamlin. We don't have to bind it or command it or repeat your father's mistakes. We just point it in the right direction."
"Narkissa." Warning fills his voice, but I hear interest underneath. The part of him that still burns over what the Night Court cost us both.
"Think about it," I continue, my words coming faster as excitement builds. "The Court of Nightmares sits right above where they kept Bryaxis prisoner. Centuries of hatred, rage, hunger for freedom—all focused on one place. One target." I stop pacing and look directly at him. "What if the creature just... came home?"
Tamlin sets down the ancient text carefully, his movements controlled in the way that comes before violence or surrender. When he speaks, his voice is steady.
"Narkissa." His emerald eyes lock onto mine with sharp intensity. "Bryaxis isn't imprisoned anymore. Rhysand freed it during the war against Hybern—Feyre made a bargain with it to fight on their side." He pauses. "It disappeared after the battle. The creature is already loose somewhere in Prythian."
The words hit like cold water, washing away my plans of liberation and revenge. My hands go still on the desk as I process this.
"It's free?" I whisper, something cold forming in my chest. "How long?"
"Months. Maybe longer." His voice carries the weight of unwelcome news. "The creature fought in the final battle, then simply vanished. No one's seen it since."
I lean back in my chair, mind racing. If Bryaxis is already free, if it's been roaming Prythian for months without anyone tracking it down, then House Nyxalos isn't trying to weaponize a contained creature—they're trying to find and capture something that could be anywhere.
"But that means..." I start, then stop as understanding hits. "That means we could find it first."
Tamlin's emerald eyes narrow as he watches comprehension bloom across my face. "Narkissa."
"Think about it," I say, excitement building despite his warning tone. "If Bryaxis has been free for months and no one can track it down, what does that tell us? It doesn't want to be found. It doesn't want to go back to that library, back to being imprisoned."
I stand and start pacing again, energy crackling through me as possibilities unfold. "A creature that's tasted freedom, fought in a war, then chose to disappear rather than return to captivity. What do you think it feels about the people who kept it chained for centuries?"
"I think," Tamlin says carefully, "you're talking about tracking down a creature that has already proven it won't be controlled or contained."
"Exactly." I stop pacing and meet his gaze. "We don't need to free it, Tamlin. We don't need to break binding spells or research ancient containment magic. We just need to find it before anyone else does."
His hands tighten on the chair arms. "And then what? Convince a creature that devours nightmares to work with us?"
"We convince it that we have the same enemies." The words taste like opportunity and retribution. "Bryaxis spent centuries imprisoned beneath the Court of Nightmares. When someone calls, it doesn't come. When they search, it hides." I lean forward, palms flat on the desk between us. "What if instead of hunting it down to drag it back to that library, someone offered it what it actually wants?"
"Which is?"
"Revenge," I whisper, feeling my mother's legacy settle around my shoulders like a crown made of shadows and blood.
Silence fills the room with dangerous weight. I can see him processing, weighing risks against rewards, calculating whether this plan is brilliant or catastrophically insane.
Finally, he speaks.
"It would be like trying to make an alliance with winter itself. Bryaxis doesn't think like we do, doesn't want the same things we want."
"No," I agree. "But it hates the same people we hate. And sometimes, that's enough."
His laugh is sharp as breaking glass, but something darker runs underneath now. Something that recognizes the elegant brutality of what I'm proposing. "You want to find a creature that's been evading everyone and convince it to destroy the very court it's been hiding from."
"I want to offer it the chance to never be caged again. And all it has to do in return is make sure the people who caged it can never do the same to anyone else."
Tamlin stands slowly, his chair scraping against the floor. For a moment I think he's going to argue, to tell me this plan is madness wrapped in vengeance. Instead, he crosses to where I stand by the window, his emerald eyes never leaving mine.
"You're dangerous," he says quietly, but there's something like admiration in his voice now. "Absolutely, utterly dangerous."
Before I can respond, his hands cup my face and he kisses me. Not gentle, not careful—hungry and claiming, like he's tasting the darkness in me and finding it perfect. I melt into him, my hands fisting in his shirt as I kiss him back with equal ferocity. This is what we are together: fire and fury, matching each other's intensity without flinching.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, emerald eyes burning.
"If I'm going to help you hunt down a creature of nightmares," he murmurs against my lips, "I want something in return."
"What?" I whisper.
"You. Always you. No matter what monster we become in the process."
I reach up and trace the sharp line of his jaw. "Deal."
He pulls back slightly, though his hands remain on my waist. The heat between us shifts to something more calculating, more strategic. "But tell me this, wife—if Rhysand, with all his power and resources, with Azriel's shadows and the Night Court's intelligence network, cannot find Bryaxis after months of searching, what makes you think we can track down a creature that clearly doesn't want to be found?"
I smile up at him, letting him see the confidence that comes from knowing exactly what weapons I carry. "Because I have something Rhysand doesn't."
"Which is?"
"The power of my people."