Chapter Text
The stars are falling.
That's her first coherent thought as consciousness drags her up from the dark. Mara's lungs fill with cold night air, sharp and clean, carrying the scent of snow and something floral she can't name. Her eyes open to a sky alive with light, shooting stars streaking across the darkness in brilliant arcs of silver and gold. They're close enough to touch, close enough to taste, and for one perfect moment she forgets.
Forgets the blade. Forgets the betrayal. Forgets the way her blood felt, hot and wrong, spilling between her fingers as she tried to hold herself together.
The panic comes anyway, familiar as breathing. Her chest constricts, ribs squeezing tight around lungs that suddenly can't remember how to work. The stars blur and multiply, doubling and tripling until the sky becomes a kaleidoscope of light that makes her head spin. She forces herself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Counts the inhales until her heartbeat stops trying to claw its way out of her throat.
Thirty-one worlds. Thirty-one deaths. This is just another one.
The ground beneath her is hard and unforgiving, cold stone that leeches the warmth from her skin. She can feel something sticky on her shirt, tacky and drying. Doesn't need to look to know what it is. The copper-sweet smell of blood mingles with something else. Something lighter. Fruit, maybe. Sweet and tangy, almost tropical.
Mara sits up slowly. The world tilts sideways, everything blurring at the edges like a watercolor painting left in the rain. She blinks hard, trying to clear her vision, and the scene around her slowly comes into focus.
Buildings. Tall and elegant, carved from what looks like moonstone, glowing with a soft inner light. Lanterns float through the air without strings or holders, casting pools of golden warmth onto cobblestone streets. People crowd around her, their faces a mixture of curiosity and fear, keeping a careful distance. They're beautiful. All of them. Inhumanly, impossibly beautiful in that way that makes her stomach drop.
Fae.
The wooden debris scattered around her crunches as she shifts. Pieces of a cart, she realizes. Splintered wood and crushed fruit, purple and orange and deep crimson, bleeding juice onto the stones. A round purple fruit rests near her hip, miraculously intact. Her fingers itch to grab it, to bite into the flesh and taste something other than the phantom memory of copper on her tongue.
The voices around her rise, a crescendo of fear and confusion that makes her head pound. Someone shouts something she can't quite make out. The crowd presses back, away from her, and she looks down to see what they see.
Blood. So much blood. Her shirt is destroyed, tattered and soaked through, dark and wet in the lantern light. The fabric clings to her skin, torn open across her stomach where she can see the pale line of a scar. Fresh. Pink. The wound that killed her, already healed into a smooth ridge of tissue that will never fade.
At least the scar at her throat is hidden by her collar.
Mara makes it to her feet on the second try, legs shaking but holding. The crowd flinches like she's pulled a weapon. She almost wants to laugh. Almost. Because she's covered in her own blood, disoriented and swaying, and they're afraid of her. There's something darkly funny about that, in the way that nothing is actually funny anymore.
The air changes. Pressure building, magic crackling along her skin like static electricity before a storm. The crowd scatters, people disappearing into doorways and side streets with the practiced efficiency of those who know when to run. Mara's pulse kicks up again, that familiar spike of adrenaline that comes with recognizing danger even when her body hasn't quite caught up yet.
Two figures land in front of her. Not walking. Not running. Landing, as if they've dropped from the sky itself.
Wings. Massive and powerful, stretching wide before folding against their backs. Leather membranes catch the light, throwing shadows across the cobblestones that seem to writhe and move on their own. The male in front is dark-haired and beautiful in a way that makes her chest ache, dressed in fine black clothing that speaks of celebration, of a party interrupted. His violet eyes are cold, assessing, and absolutely furious.
The one behind him is bigger, broader, with a warrior's build and a face that might be handsome if it weren't twisted in barely contained violence. Red jewels glint in his gauntlets. Siphons, she realizes distantly. Seven of them.
Oh.
Oh no.
The recognition slams into her like a physical blow. The falling stars overhead. The hidden city of moonstone and magic. The winged males with murder in their eyes.
Velaris. She's in Velaris. And standing in front of her, looking like he might rip her apart with his bare hands, is Rhysand.
The disappointment is visceral. It claws its way up her throat, bitter and burning. She'd loved this story once. Loved these characters. Had imagined, in those quiet moments before sleep, what it might be like to know them. To be part of their inner circle, to laugh at Cassian's jokes and listen to Azriel's rare observations and bask in the warmth of their found family.
But not like this. Never like this.
"Who are you?" Rhysand's voice is cold, sharp as a blade. Power radiates off him in waves, pressing down on her shoulders until her knees want to buckle. "How did you get past the wards?"
Mara's mind spins, grasping for words that won't come. Her tongue feels thick in her mouth, clumsy and useless. She should say something. Anything. Should lie or deflect or at least try to explain. But the world is still tilting around her, vertigo making everything swim, and she can't quite string thoughts together into coherent sentences.
She knows what he sees. A blood-soaked stranger who somehow breached the most protected secret in Prythian. A threat. An enemy.
"Whose blood is that?" The words are clipped, demanding. "How many others are with you?"
The bigger male, Cassian, has his hand on his sword. The blade whispers as it slides an inch from its sheath, a promise of violence barely restrained. They're both coiled tight, ready to strike. This is bad. This is so much worse than she thought it would be.
Mara opens her mouth. Closes it. The silence stretches too long, becoming damning in itself.
Rhysand snarls, lips pulling back from his teeth, and she flinches. Can't help it. The sound is animalistic, predatory, and every instinct in her body screams danger.
"Mara." Her voice comes out rough, barely above a whisper. "My name is Mara."
"I don't care what your name is." Another step forward. She takes one back, stumbling slightly over a piece of broken cart. "Whose. Blood."
"Mine." She swallows hard, fighting down the nausea that threatens. "It's mine. Mostly."
"Mostly." He repeats the word like it's a confession. "How many are with you? How many others got past the wards? Who are you working for?"
The questions come rapid-fire, each one a hammer blow she doesn't know how to deflect. Her mind scrambles, trying to piece together a lie that might work, something plausible enough to buy her time. But the world keeps spinning and her thoughts feel like they're moving through honey, slow and thick and useless.
She needs to say something. Anything. But what could she possibly tell him that he would believe?
The truth? That she's from another world entirely, that she fell through reality itself and landed in his city? That she's read about him in books written in another world, that she knows things about his future that would sound like the ravings of a lunatic?
He'd never believe her. No one would.
Rhysand turns his head slightly, speaking to Cassian without taking those violent violet eyes off her. "Patrol. Find anyone who came with her. Search every shadow in this city."
"Rhys—"
"Now."
Cassian's wings snap open and he's airborne in a heartbeat, disappearing into the night sky. Mara watches him go with something like despair pooling in her stomach. She's alone now. Alone with the most powerful High Lord in Prythian, who thinks she's an invader. A threat to his hidden city and everyone in it.
She doesn't see him move. One moment he's in front of her, the next his hand is wrapped around her arm, grip like iron, and the world dissolves.
The sensation of winnowing is wrong. All wrong. Reality fragments and reforms, her body simultaneously existing everywhere and nowhere, and her stomach revolts. They land hard, her knees hitting stone, and she barely swallows down the bile that rises in her throat.
Darkness. Complete and absolute. No lanterns here, no soft glow of moonstone. Just cold stone and air that tastes stale and old and wrong.
Rhysand steps away from her. She stumbles, catching herself against a wall that feels damp beneath her palms. The rough stone scrapes her skin.
"I'll ask one more time." His voice echoes in the space, coming from everywhere and nowhere. "Who are you? How did you get into my city? Who sent you?"
Mara's breathing comes too fast, too shallow. The darkness presses in on all sides, suffocating. She knows where she is. The Court of Nightmares. The prison beneath the mountain. She's read about this place, about what happens to people who are brought here.
Very few of them leave.
She stays silent. Not out of defiance, but because she genuinely doesn't know what to say. Any lie she tells will unravel. Any truth she speaks will sound insane.
The air shifts again. Another presence, arriving without sound or warning. Mara goes still, every muscle locking tight as a new scent fills the space. Night-chilled mist and cedar. Shadows that move with purpose, crawling along the walls like living things.
Azriel.
She can't see him in the dark, but she knows. Knows from the way the temperature drops, the way the shadows seem to thicken and gather. The Shadowsinger. The Spymaster. The one who breaks people for information.
Terror sinks its claws deep. The kind that makes her bones feel hollow, her skin too tight. She's not ready for this. Isn't strong enough right now, not with the betrayal still fresh, not with the memory of dying still sharp enough to cut. She can't survive being broken. Not again. Not so soon.
The two males seem to communicate without words. She can feel it, the weight of their silent conversation pressing down on her. Then footsteps, slow and deliberate. Coming closer.
The words burst out of her before she can stop them. "I fell from another world!"
She flinches away from where she thinks Azriel is, pressing her back against the stone wall. "I'm not, I swear I'm not working for anyone. I'm not a spy. I don't, I didn't mean to land here. It was an accident. I don't want to hurt anyone."
Silence. Heavy and judging.
Then light. Soft and blue, emanating from a blade that wasn't there a moment ago. Truth-Teller. The dagger glows gently in Azriel's scarred hand, illuminating his face in profile. Beautiful and terrible and utterly expressionless.
The blade stays blue. Steady. Not a flicker or change.
She's telling the truth.
Mara watches them process this, sees the minute shift in Rhysand's posture. Still tense, still ready for violence, but some of the immediate killing intent has bled out of the air. It's not much. But it's something.
She needs to give them more. Needs to make them see her as something other than a threat. The plan forms even as she hates herself for it, for playing into their expectations, for being exactly what they think she is.
Weak. Confused. Harmless.
It's not even a lie. Not really.
"Where..." Her voice cracks, and she lets it. Lets the tremor show through. "Where am I? Who are you? Why are you so angry with me?"
She makes herself smaller, hunching her shoulders, wrapping her arms around her middle. The blood on her shirt is cold now, stiff against her skin. She can feel the scar beneath it, the raised line of tissue that marks where she died. Again.
Don't think about it. Don't think about the blade. Don't think about the way they smiled while doing it.
"I'm sorry." The words come out quiet, almost childlike. She hates the sound of her own voice. "I'm sorry about the fruit cart. I didn't mean to destroy it. I just... I woke up and there were stars falling and I didn't know where I was."
Her eyes are burning. She blinks hard, feels moisture gathering at the corners. No. She's not going to cry. This is an act. Just an act. The wetness in her eyes is intentional, calculated.
Except it's not. Not entirely.
The males exchange another look, and she sees it. The slight softening. The confusion. She's not acting like a spy or an assassin or whatever they thought she was. She's acting like a lost, terrified girl who destroyed a fruit cart and can't stop apologizing for it.
Rhysand's wings shift, rustling in the darkness. "You said you fell from another world."
"Yes." She nods quickly, maybe too quickly. "I don't, I don't understand how it happens. But one day I was home and then I was... somewhere else."
Truth-Teller remains steady blue.
Rhysand moves into the light properly now, and she can see his face. The anger is still there, banked but not gone. But there's something else too. Curiosity, maybe. "And the blood?"
"Mine." She touches her stomach without thinking, fingers finding the tear in her shirt. "I was hurt. Before I fell here."
"Hurt how?" Azriel's voice is soft, almost gentle. Somehow that's worse than if he'd sounded threatening.
She shakes her head. Doesn't elaborate. Can't elaborate without the tears becoming real.
"And you have no control over where you landed." Rhysand crosses his arms. Still guarded, still wary.
"I don't... I don't know how it works." True enough. She doesn't know the mechanics of it, even after thirty-one worlds. "I just woke up somewhere new."
Rhysand is quiet for a long moment, studying her. She can practically see him thinking, weighing options, calculating risks. Finally: "We have someone. In our court. Who is also from another world."
Amren. He's talking about Amren.
Mara nods carefully. "Then you know I'm not lying. That it's possible."
"Possible doesn't mean probable." But his tone has changed. Less accusatory. More considering. "Amren arrived differently. With purpose. With power."
"I don't have power." Another truth. "I'm just human."
The bleakness of it hangs in the air. She sees Azriel and Rhysand exchange another look, something passing between them that she can't read.
"What world are you from?" Azriel asks. "Originally."
"Earth. It's called Earth." She swallows. "We don't have magic there. No Fae. Just humans."
Rhysand moves closer, and she has to fight not to flinch. He's studying her like she's a puzzle he can't quite solve. "You said you landed here by accident. You didn't choose Velaris."
"I didn't even know this place existed until I woke up."
Truth-Teller flickers, the blue light wavering for just a moment.
Rhysand's eyes narrow. "You're lying."
Shit.
Her heart kicks against her ribs. Careful. She needs to be so careful here. "I... I see things. Sometimes. Flashes of places I've never been. People I've never met." She wraps her arms tighter around herself, making the
vulnerability real. "I didn't understand it at first. Thought I was going insane. Then I saw the city."
"Visions." Rhysand's voice is carefully neutral. "Prophetic visions."
"I don't know if prophetic is the right word." She shakes her head. "I can't control them. Can't summon them. They just... happen. And I don't always understand what they mean until after."
"Convenient," Azriel murmurs.
"It's really not." The words come out sharper than she intends. She softens immediately, making herself smaller again. "I'm sorry. I just... It's not convenient. It's terrifying."
True. All of it true. Truth-Teller confirms it with its steady glow.
The two males exchange another look. Silent communication passing between them that she can't interpret.
"These visions," Rhysand says slowly. "What have you seen of this place? Of us?"
This is the dangerous part. Give them enough to explain future knowledge, but not so much they think she's a threat. "Fragments. Your city. Beautiful and hidden. I saw... celebration. Joy. But also darkness. Danger." She looks up at him, lets her eyes go wide and worried. "I'm sorry. I know that's not helpful. They're never clear."
Truth-Teller flickers slightly. The lie at the edges, the truth at the core.
Rhysand's jaw tightens. "Danger to Velaris?"
"I don't know." And that, at least, is true. She doesn't know what dangers might exist in this time period, centuries before Amarantha. "Like I said, the visions are never clear. Just feelings. Impressions."
Something shifts in Rhysand's expression. Not quite sympathy, but close. He's thinking about what it must be like, she realizes. To see fragments of possible futures. To carry that weight.
"You're seeking sanctuary," he says finally. Not a question.
"I'm seeking to not be killed on sight." She manages a weak, shaky smile. "Though I understand why you're angry. Your celebration, I ruined it. And the fruit cart. I really am sorry about that. Was it expensive? I don't have money but I could work, maybe help pay for—"
"Stop." Rhysand holds up a hand. "The fruit cart doesn't matter."
"It matters to whoever owned it."
Despite everything, she sees his lips twitch. Almost a smile. "We'll handle the fruit cart."
Azriel sheathes Truth-Teller and the blue light disappears, plunging them back into darkness. But it feels different now. Less threatening. The shadows that curl around him seem curious rather than menacing.
"If you're prophet," Rhysand says slowly, "then you should know what I am. What I could do to you if you're lying about any of this."
She nods, not trusting her voice.
"Good." He's quiet for another moment, then sighs. It's a sound of exhaustion, of stress, of a male who was enjoying a celebration with his family and is now dealing with an impossible situation. "You've ruined my Solstice, Mara from another world."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing."
She closes her mouth, nods.
"I'm going to have questions. Many questions. About your world, about how you came to be here, about these visions." His eyes bore into hers. "And if I find out you're lying, if this is some elaborate trick, I will make
you regret it in ways you cannot imagine."
"Understood."
"But." He pauses. "If you're telling the truth, if you really are just some lost human who fell through the cracks of reality, then we'll figure out what to do with you."
It's not a promise of help. Not quite. But it's not a death sentence either.
"Thank you." She means it. "Really. Thank you."
Rhysand turns to Azriel. "Take her to one of the holding rooms. Not a cell. Something with a bed. Food. Water." He looks back at Mara. "You'll stay there while we verify your story. While we decide if you're a threat."
"I'm not."
"We'll see."
Azriel steps forward, and this time when his hand touches her arm, the grip is gentle. Almost careful. "Come."
More winnowing. She grits her teeth against the nausea, and they land in a different room. Still stone, still underground, but there's a small cot against one wall. A table. A chair. A chamber pot in the corner. Spartan, but livable.
"Someone will bring food soon," Azriel says. His voice is still that same soft, lethal tone. "Don't try to leave. The door will be locked, and the shadows will be watching."
As if to demonstrate, the darkness in the corners seems to writhe and settle. Listening.
"I won't." She sinks onto the cot, suddenly exhausted. "I promise."
He studies her for a long moment, hazel eyes unreadable. Something flickers in his expression. Quickly hidden. "Get some rest. You look like you need it."
Then he's gone, winnowed away, and she's alone.
Mara sits in the silence, staring at the stone walls, and finally lets herself think about where she is. When she is.
Rhysand looks young. Not in any specific way she can pinpoint, but there's something about him that seems less weathered than the male she'd read about. Less burdened. And Cassian too, though she'd barely had time to register him before he flew off to patrol.
Winter Solstice in Velaris. The city hidden but not yet legendary. Protected but not yet crucial to the survival of Prythian.
How long before Amarantha? How long before Under the Mountain and curses and fifty years of torture?
She thinks about the way Rhysand moved, the casual power in him, the protective fury at a potential threat to his city. Thinks about what she knows is coming for him. For all of them.
Her chest tightens.
The realization creeps in slowly, like cold water rising. The timeline. The age in Rhysand's eyes, or rather the lack of certain ancient grief. The way he referred to Amren as if she's a known entity but not yet part of the deep inner circle. The ease in him, not yet carved out by decades of playing a monster.
Oh.
Oh no.
This is before Amarantha. Potentially years before Feyre Archeron will be born in a small human village. Before everything in the story she knows will begin.
She's landed at the beginning of something. Or maybe the middle of something else entirely. A part of their history she only knows in fragments, in passing references, in the vague backstory of immortal beings.
Mara pulls her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and finally lets herself feel the full weight of it. The betrayal in the last world. The death. The blood that's dried stiff and cold on her clothes. The fear. The exhaustion.
The desperate, aching loneliness of being the only person in any world who understands what it means to die over and over again, to lose everything repeatedly, to never belong anywhere.
And now she's here. Years away from the story she knows. Trapped in a room beneath a mountain, at the mercy of males she admires and fears in equal measure.
The tears finally come. Silent and hot, tracking down her cheeks. She presses her face against her knees and lets them fall, lets herself break just a little bit in the privacy of this cold stone room.
Tomorrow she'll figure out what to do. How to survive. How to navigate this world and these people and the impossible situation she's landed in.
But tonight, she just cries.