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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.

Chapter Text

Mara doesn't know how long she sits in the dark before Azriel returns. Time moves differently in stone rooms without windows, stretching and compressing until minutes feel like hours and hours pass in heartbeats. She stopped crying somewhere in that endless stretch of darkness. Let the tears dry on her cheeks, let the weight of exhaustion settle into her bones.

Now there's only the cold and the silence and the slow, methodical work of thinking.

Thirty-one worlds. Thirty-one deaths. And this one, this world of falling stars and winged warriors and magic that tastes like midnight, this one she knows. Knew. Thought she knew.

The timeline is wrong. All wrong. Rhysand is too young, too unguarded. He hasn't learned to wear cruelty like armor yet. Hasn't spent fifty years pretending to be a monster while his soul slowly fractures under the weight of it. Which means Amarantha hasn't happened. Which means she still has time.

The thought takes root, spreading through her chest like warmth. She can stop it. All of it. The curse, the mountain, the decades of torture and helplessness and watching people die while being unable to save them. She can spare them that agony.

She has to.

The door opens without warning, no knock or announcement. Azriel steps through; the shadows that cling to him seem softer in the dim light. Less threatening. Almost curious as they curl and stretch toward her before retreating back to their master.

"I’m to bring you to the High Lord," he says. His voice has lost some of its sharp edge from last night. Not warm, exactly, but not actively hostile either.

Mara sits up straighter on the cot, pushing hair back from her face. She must look awful. Bloodstained and hollow-eyed, wearing exhaustion like a second skin. "Thank you."

Food had appeared in the room the night before on the cot next to her. Bread, cheese, some kind of dried meat. Simple fare, but her stomach had clenched with hunger at the sight of it. When did she last eat? Sometime before she died. Before the blade. Before the betrayal that still sits like broken glass in her chest when she lets herself think about it.

She doesn't let herself think about it.

Azriel doesn't leave. Just stands there, watching her with those hazel eyes that see too much. The shadows whisper around him, constant and restless. She wonders what they're saying. If they can taste her lies the way Truth-Teller can.

"I'm ready. She stands, ignoring the way her legs protest, the way her body wants nothing more than to collapse back onto the cot and sleep for a week. There's no time for that. She needs them to trust her. Needs them to listen.

Needs to figure out exactly when she is so she knows how much time they have.

Azriel studies her for a moment longer, then nods. "This way."

He leads her through corridors of stone, up stairs that spiral endlessly upward. The mountain is vast, hollow, carved into chambers and passages that seem to go on forever. She knows this place. The Court of Nightmares. Where the cruelest of the Night Court dwell, where Rhysand will one day hold court as a monster to keep the real monsters in line.

But that's not now. Not yet. This is just a prison, cold and dark and far from the light of Velaris above.

They emerge into a larger chamber, circular and lined with more of those rough stone walls. Rhysand stands near the center, arms crossed, looking like he hasn't slept. His fine clothes from last night are rumpled, his dark hair slightly mussed. He's been awake all night too, she realizes. Probably flying patrols with Cassian, searching for threats that don't exist.

Guilt twists in her stomach.

"Mara." He says her name like he's testing it. Seeing how it fits in his mouth. "I hope you rested."

A lie would be pointless. "Not really."

"Neither did we." He gestures to Azriel, who moves to stand beside him. A united front. Brothers in all but blood. "Cassian found no trace of anyone else in the city. No breaches in the wards except for your... arrival. Which leaves us with questions."

Here it is. The interrogation, round two. Mara wraps her arms around herself, feeling the stiffness of dried blood on her shirt. The scar beneath it pulls slightly when she moves, a reminder of violence.

"I'll answer what I can," she says.

"Your visions." Rhysand's violet eyes pin her in place. "Tell me about them."

She opens her mouth to respond, to explain in vague terms about flashes and fragments and things she can't control. But then she makes the mistake of looking at Azriel.

The world tilts.

It's not gradual. Not a slow fade. One moment she's standing in the stone chamber, the next she's somewhere else entirely. Everywhere else. Her eyes roll back, whites showing, and distantly she hears Azriel curse. Feels hands catch her arms to keep her from falling.

But she's not there anymore.

She's in a hallway lined with paintings, watching Azriel watch Mor. The longing on his face is so raw it makes something in Mara's chest ache. He looks at her like she's the sun and he's been living in darkness his whole life. Like if he could just touch her, just once, everything would make sense.

Mor laughs at something Cassian says, golden and bright and completely oblivious. Or pretending to be.

The scene shifts. A training ring. Azriel's hands are bleeding from holding his sword too tight, from training too hard, from trying to exhaust himself into not feeling. Mor walks past with a male Mara doesn't recognize. She's wearing red. Azriel's shadows go completely still.

Another shift. A celebration, music and wine and dancing. Mor in someone's arms, spinning and laughing. Azriel in the corner, wings tucked tight, face carefully blank. But his hands are clenched into fists and Mara can feel what he's feeling. The emotion slams into her like a physical blow.

Anger. At himself for wanting something he can't have.

Hurt. Deep and old and constant.

Desire. Sharp enough to cut.

Love. Desperate and doomed and drowning.

Fear. Of being alone forever. Of never being chosen. Of not being enough.

It's too much. Too intimate. Too private. She's seeing something she has no right to see, feeling things that belong to someone else, and she wants out, wants to wake up, wants—

She gasps, sucking in air like she's been underwater. Her eyes clear, the milky white fading back to hazel, and the stone chamber snaps back into focus. Azriel is gripping her arms, keeping her upright. His face is too close, eyes wide with something between concern and alarm.

"What was that?" His voice is rough. "What just happened?"

Mara jerks back, nearly stumbling. Heat floods her face, embarrassment burning through her. She saw. She felt. Things she had no business seeing or feeling. Things he's clearly kept hidden, locked away where no one can witness his pain.

"Nothing." The word comes out too fast, too defensive. "It was nothing."

"That wasn't nothing." Rhysand moves closer, violet eyes sharp. "Your eyes went white. You were... vacant. Like you weren't in your body anymore."

"How long?" She's still trying to catch her breath, trying to push down the echoes of Azriel's emotions that linger in her chest.

"A few minutes." Azriel's hands drop from her arms but he doesn't step back. "It was… unsettling."

She believes it. Can imagine how she must have looked, standing there with blank white eyes, seeing things that aren't there. Or things that are there, just not in this moment. Not yet.

"What did you see?" Rhysand's tone leaves no room for evasion.

"I told you, it was nothing." Mara wraps her arms tighter around herself, a poor shield against their scrutiny. "Just flashes. Nothing important."

"You're lying." Azriel's voice has gone cold. Flat. "Tell us what you saw."

She shakes her head, taking another step back. The wall stops her retreat. "I can't. It's private. I shouldn't have seen it at all."

"Mara." There's a warning in Rhysand's voice now. The High Lord coming through, demanding obedience. "If you want us to trust you, you need to be honest with us."

The irony isn't lost on her. Trust built on forced confessions. Honesty demanded at the edge of a blade. But she's in no position to argue, and they both know it.

She looks at Azriel. Really looks at him. He's younger than she expected, than she remembers from the books. The shadows are the same, the scars on his hands are the same, but there's something less guarded about him. Like he hasn't quite learned to bury everything so deep that no one can ever find it.

"Are you in love with Mor?"

The words hang in the air between them, sharp and ugly and impossible to take back.

Azriel recoils like she's struck him. The color drains from his face, then floods back in a rush. His wings snap tight against his back, shoulders going rigid. "You don't know what you're talking about."

His voice is ice. Pure, cutting ice. But Mara can see beneath it. Can see the embarrassment he's trying desperately to hide behind cold indifference, the way his jaw clenches, the minute tremor in his hands before he forces them still.

He hasn't mastered the mask yet. Not completely.

"I'm sorry." The apology tumbles out, genuine and horrified. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. I didn't mean to see it. I can't control the visions, they just happen, and I saw you and Mor and I felt—" She cuts herself off, shaking her head. "I'm sorry."

Silence. Heavy and suffocating. Azriel won't look at her, won't look at Rhysand. Just stares at the stone floor with his hands clenched at his sides and his shadows writhing around him like they're trying to offer comfort he won't accept.

Rhysand clears his throat. The sound is awkward, uncomfortable. He knows, Mara realizes. He's known about Azriel's feelings for Mor, probably for centuries, and saying nothing has been its own kind of mercy. Acknowledging it now, having it dragged into the open like this, makes it real in a way that hurts them both.

"You mentioned danger last night," Rhysand says, voice carefully neutral. Changing the subject to protect his brother, to give Azriel space to rebuild his walls. "To Velaris. What did you see?"

Mara latches onto the lifeline gratefully. Anything to move past the awful tension thick enough to choke on. "Not to Velaris specifically. To all of Prythian. To the courts."

"From where?"

"Hybern."

The name drops like a stone. Rhysand goes very still, violet eyes sharpening with something dangerous. "What about Hybern?"

"I don't..." She hesitates, trying to figure out how much to say. How much they'll believe. "I don't have specifics. Just impressions. Warnings. He's dangerous. More dangerous than anyone realizes. You need to watch him. Don't trust anything he or his followers say. Don't make deals with them."

"Hybern hasn't been a threat in centuries," Rhysand says slowly. "He's been quiet across the sea. Keeping to his own kingdom."

"For now." Mara meets his gaze, willing him to understand. "But he won't always. And when he moves, it will be catastrophic."

"You're being vague."

"Because that's all I have." Frustration bleeds into her voice. "The visions aren't clear. They're not instructions or prophecies I can read like a book. They're fragments. Feelings. Warnings that don't always make sense until after."

Rhysand studies her, weighing her words. Looking for lies. She can see him calculating, considering. "Why tell us this? Why warn us about a threat that might not come for decades? Centuries?"

"Because people will die if I don't." The truth comes out raw, honest. "Innocent people. People who deserve better than to be caught in a war they didn't start. I can't just... I can't know something terrible is coming and say nothing."

"You've known us for less than a day," Azriel says. His voice is still cold, but he's looking at her now. "We dragged you from the street, interrogated you, locked you in a cell. Why would you want to help us?"

"I don't blame you for protecting your people." Mara shakes her head. "I understand it. If someone breached my city, my home, I'd react the same way. You were doing what you had to do. And now I'm doing what I have to do."

Another silence. But this one feels different. Less hostile. More considering.

"Hybern." Rhysand says the name like he's tasting poison. "You're sure."

"I'm sure he's dangerous. I'm sure you shouldn't trust him." She swallows hard. "I'm sure that if you ignore this warning, you'll regret it."

The weight of future knowledge sits heavy on her shoulders. She knows what's coming. Knows about the king and his plans to break the wall between realms, to unleash his armies on the mortal lands and then the Fae territories. Knows about the Cauldron and the power he'll wield and the bodies that will pile up in his wake.

But she can't tell them that. Not yet. Not when they'll think she's insane, when they'll dismiss her as a madwoman spinning stories about impossible futures. Or worse. Think she is a spy working for Hybern or any of the other courts.

She needs time. Needs to earn their trust slowly, carefully. Needs to figure out exactly where in the timeline she's landed so she knows how long they have to prepare.

Rhysand and Azriel exchange another look. That silent communication that speaks of centuries of friendship, of brotherhood forged in blood and battle. Finally, Rhysand nods.

"We'll keep an eye on Hybern," he says. "Monitor his movements, his alliances. See if there's any truth to your warnings."

It's not a promise. Not really. But it's not a dismissal either, and that's more than she hoped for.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet." Rhysand's expression is unreadable. "We still need to decide what to do with you. You're a security risk, Mara. You know about Velaris, about our court, about things you shouldn't. We can't just let you wander Prythian telling people about the Night Court's hidden city."

"I won't tell anyone." The words come quickly, desperately. "I swear. I have no reason to expose you. No reason to put your people in danger."

"So you say." He crosses his arms. "But forgive me if I don't take the word of a stranger who fell from the sky."

Fear spikes through her. Are they going to lock her up permanently? Kill her to protect their secrets? She dies, she wakes up somewhere else, but the thought of dying again so soon makes her stomach turn.

"We have a solution," Rhysand continues, and something in his tone softens slightly. "One that allows us to keep an eye on you while not treating you like a prisoner."

"What kind of solution?"

"You'll stay in Velaris. In the House of Wind, specifically." He gestures vaguely upward, toward where the hidden city must be far above them. "It's warded, protected. You won't be able to leave without one of us knowing. But you'll have a room, food, freedom within the house and the training ring."

A gilded cage. Mara understands what he's not saying. She'll be comfortable, but she'll still be a captive. Still be under constant surveillance. Still be at their mercy.

But it's better than a stone cell in the Court of Nightmares. Better than death.

"Okay," she says. "I understand."

"Do you?" Rhysand steps closer, and she has to resist the urge to back away. "Because I need you to understand that this is not a negotiation. This is mercy. If you try to leave, if you try to contact anyone outside the city, if you do anything that makes us think you're a threat, that mercy ends."

"I understand," she repeats. Means it.

He searches her face for a long moment, then seems to find whatever he's looking for. "Good." He turns to Azriel. "Tell the others we're bringing her up. Make sure they're... prepared."

Azriel nods, still not quite meeting Mara's eyes, and disappears into shadow. Actually disappears, his form dissolving into darkness that streams away through cracks in the stone. Winnowing, but different. More fluid. Probably using the shadows as a conduit.

She's never seen that in the books. Another reminder that she's centuries before the story she knows, that these people are still growing into who they'll become.

Rhysand holds out his hand to her. An offer, not a demand. "May I?"

Mara looks at his hand, scarred and elegant and deadly, and thinks about all the things she knows about this male. The High Lord who will sacrifice everything to save his people. The friend who will endure fifty years of torture to keep his family safe. The mate who will love so fiercely it will reshape the world.

But that's not who he is yet. Right now, he's just a young High Lord trying to protect his city from a potential threat, conflicted about how to handle a blood-soaked stranger with cryptic warnings and impossible origins.

It's odd, seeing him like this. Without the mask he'll learn to wear. Without the cruel, elegant façade he'll perfect in the Court of Nightmares and being Amarantha’s slave. He's been through darkness, she can see that in his eyes, in the way he holds himself. But he hasn't been broken and remade yet.

She's not sure if that makes this easier or harder.

Mara places her hand in his. His fingers close around hers, warm and solid, and the world dissolves.

Winnowing is worse the second time. Her stomach lurches, reality fragmenting around her in a disorienting rush of sensation and non-sensation. For a heartbeat she's everywhere and nowhere, suspended in the space between places.

Then they land and her knees buckle.

Rhysand steadies her, his grip gentle despite his strength. "Easy. It takes some getting used to."

She nods, not trusting her voice, and focuses on breathing through the nausea. When she finally looks up, the stone chamber is gone.

They're standing in a room of soaring ceilings and arched windows that let in floods of golden afternoon light. The walls are warm wood and cream stone, decorated with tapestries in deep blues and purples. Comfortable furniture clusters around a fireplace where flames dance and crackle. It's beautiful. Lived-in and welcoming in a way that makes her chest ache.

This is the House of Wind. The heart of the inner circle's home in Velaris.

And they're not alone.

Three figures wait in the room, arranged like they've been expecting her. A massive male with wings and red stones glinting in his gauntlets lounges in a chair near the fire, legs stretched out, expression carefully casual. Cassian. The general with easy smiles and battlefield brutality in equal measure.

A tiny female stands near the windows, arms crossed, silver eyes sharp and assessing. Amren. The creature wearing Fae skin, ancient and dangerous and not quite of this world.

And near the door, golden hair catching the light, stands the most beautiful female Mara has ever seen. She's wearing a red dress that makes her look like living flame, and when she smiles it's warm and kind and welcoming.

Mor.

Mara's stomach twists for reasons she can't quite name.

"Everyone," Rhysand says, "this is Mara. She'll be staying with us for a while."

The tension in the room is palpable. Curiosity mixed with wariness, questions held back by polite restraint. They want to know who she is, what she is, why she's here covered in dried blood and looking half-dead on her feet.

Cassian speaks first, breaking the silence with a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, at least she's not still destroying fruit carts. That's an improvement."

The joke falls flat. No one laughs. But it does break some of the tension, makes the moment feel slightly less like an interrogation.

"Mara." Mor steps forward, still smiling that warm smile. "Welcome to the House of Wind. I'm Morrigan, but everyone calls me Mor." She gestures at the room. "I know you've had a rough night. Why don't I show you to a room where you can clean up? Get some fresh clothes?"

It's a kind offer. Genuine, probably. But something about it makes Mara's skin crawl. She can't put her finger on why. Mor is being nothing but welcoming, nothing but gracious.

But Mara remembers the books. Remembers five hundred years of Mor stringing Azriel along while knowing exactly how he felt. Five hundred years of using his feelings as a shield against Cassian, against anyone who might want more than she was willing to give. Five hundred years of hurting someone who loved her by refusing to give him closure.

Maybe Azriel's feelings are new, or maybe Mor doesn't know yet. But it will happen. Unless Mara stops it.

"Thank you," Mara says, keeping her voice polite. "That would be nice."

Amren moves closer, circling Mara like a predator assessing prey. Her silver eyes are unnervingly intense, boring into Mara like she can see straight through skin and bone to whatever lies beneath. "You're not from here."

It's not a question. Mara meets her gaze steadily, refusing to be intimidated. "No. I'm not."

"I can feel it. The otherness." Amren's head tilts, considering. "You don't belong in this world."

"Neither do you," Mara points out.

Something flickers in Amren's expression. Might be respect. Might be annoyance. Hard to tell. "True enough, girl." She gives a short nod, like Mara has passed some test she didn't know she was taking. "We'll talk later. I want to know where you came from."

Then she's moving away, returning to her spot by the window. Conversation over, apparently.

Cassian is still watching her from his chair, hazel eyes sharp despite the casual posture. He doesn't trust her yet. She can see it in the way he positions himself, ready to move at a moment's notice. Ready to protect his family if this strange, blood-soaked girl turns out to be a threat.

She doesn't blame him. She'd do the same.

"Bath first," Mor says, touching Mara's elbow gently. "You look exhausted. Then we can get you something to eat, some proper rest."

Mara nods, suddenly aware of how tired she is. How the adrenaline that's been keeping her upright is starting to fade, leaving nothing but bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. A bath sounds like heaven. Sleep sounds even better.

But there's something she needs to know first.

She turns to Rhysand, who's been watching the interactions with that careful, assessing expression. "What happens now? After I clean up and rest?"

"Now," he says slowly, "Amren and I will do some research. See if we can find any records of people falling from other worlds. Any way to reverse the process. Get you home."

The word sits strange on her tongue. Home. What does that even mean anymore?

She thinks about her original world, tries to grasp at memories that feel increasingly hazy. A loving mother, she thinks. Being an only child. But the details are fuzzy, worn smooth by time and distance and thirty-one worlds of death and rebirth.

Pain flickers at the edges of the memory. Loss and grief and loneliness she doesn't want to examine too closely. Mara shoves it down, forces it away, keeps everything surface-level where it can't hurt her.

"Thank you," she says, because that's what she's supposed to say. The appropriate response to someone offering to help. "I appreciate it."

Rhysand nods. If he notices the lack of genuine emotion in her words, he doesn't comment. "In the meantime, you'll stay here. Cassian can show you the training ring if you want exercise. The library is open to you.

But you don't leave the House without one of us. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Good." He looks at her for a moment longer, something unreadable in his violet eyes. Then he nods to the others and heads for the door. "I'll check in later. Make sure you have everything you need."

Azriel appears from the shadows near the window, making Mara jump. She'd forgotten he could do that, materialize from darkness like he's part of it. He doesn't look at her, doesn't acknowledge what happened in the stone chamber. Just nods to Rhysand and they leave together, wings brushing as they pass through the doorway.

Brothers in all but blood, heading off to deal with the impossible situation that's landed in their laps.

Mara watches them go and thinks about everything she needs to do. Figure out the exact timeline. Earn their trust. Convince them to take her warnings seriously. Unite the courts against Hybern before he can ever make his move.

Stop Amarantha before she can curse them all.

Save the people she's loved from pages and ink from the torture she knows is coming.

Her head throbs just thinking about it. The scope of it. The impossibility. She's one human girl from another world, armed with nothing but meta-knowledge and visions she can't control. How is she supposed to change the fate of an entire realm? Again.

But she has to try.

"Come on," Mor says gently, tugging at her elbow. "Let's get you cleaned up. You'll feel better after a bath."

Mara lets herself be led from the room, down a hallway lined with paintings and soft rugs. Lets Mor chatter about the House and the city and how beautiful Velaris is this time of year. Lets the words wash over her without really listening, too tired to process, too overwhelmed to engage.

She just needs to rest. Just for a little while. Then she can start planning. Start figuring out how to save them all.

Behind them, Cassian and Amren remain in the common room. Mara can feel their eyes on her back, assessing, judging, trying to decide if she's a threat or just a lost girl who needs help.

She's both, really. And neither.

She's something else entirely. Something they don't have words for yet.

A catalyst. A variable. A change in a story that's been written and rewritten across countless worlds.

And she's determined to make this version end differently.

No matter what it costs.

Chapter Text

Weeks pass in the House of Wind like water through cupped hands. Slipping away before Mara can grasp them, leaving nothing but the cold awareness of time running out.

The house provides. That's what she tells herself when food appears on the table in her room exactly when hunger starts to gnaw at her stomach. When soft blankets materialize across her bed on nights when the mountain air cuts too cold through the open windows. When books appear on the small desk by the fireplace, their spines worn and pages yellowed with age.

History books. Chronicles of Prythian. Records of court politics and High Lord succession and wars that shaped the landscape of this world.

She devours them with desperate focus, piecing together a timeline from fragments and footnotes. Cross-referencing dates and events, counting backward and forward, trying to pinpoint exactly where she's landed in the vast span of centuries.

The answer, when she finds it buried in a passage about territorial disputes along the Spring Court border, makes her blood run cold.

Ten years. Maybe less. That's how long they have before Amarantha makes her move. Before she holds her demented ball Under the Mountain and curses them all. Before fifty years of torture and death and slow, grinding hopelessness.

Ten years sounds like a lot. It's not.

The house is her only friend here. Mara thinks it with bitter self-deprecation, curled up in the window seat of her room as dawn breaks over Velaris. The silent twin servants who tend the House don't count. They appear and disappear like ghosts, faces expressionless, never speaking. Never reacting to her attempts at conversation beyond the barest nods of acknowledgment.

She's kind to them anyway. Says please and thank you. Tries to catch their eyes when they deliver meals or fresh linens. But she doesn't let them in her room if she can help it. Doesn't trust what they might report back to Rhysand.

Because she knows they report everything. Every word she speaks, every book she reads, every hour she spends staring out the window at a city she's not allowed to enter. She's a prisoner in all but name, and the servants are her jailers as much as they are her caretakers.

The Inner Circle stays away. They don't sleep here, rarely eat here. The House of Wind is theirs but they treat it like a waystation now, a place to pass through rather than linger. Because of her. The uncomfortable reality of keeping a human girl locked in their home, unable to fully trust her but unwilling to kill her.

Most mornings, Cassian and Azriel arrive at dawn to spar on the training terrace. She watches sometimes from her window, careful to stay hidden behind the curtain. Watches them move through forms that are beautiful and brutal in equal measure. Watches the easy camaraderie between them, the way they communicate in grunts and wing shifts and the clash of steel on steel.

It makes something in her chest ache.

She'd sparred in other worlds. Never been particularly good at it, but she'd learned enough self-defense to break a hold and run. Had trained with people who'd become friends, at least for a little while. Until she died and woke up somewhere new and had to start over. The muscle memory built up over years, gone the moment she woke somewhere new. Her body reset to how it was the first time she died, with the only addition being her death scars.

They've invited her to join them. Cassian, mostly, with his easy grins and casual offers. But she always declines. Has no interest in trying to keep up with Fae warriors who've been training for centuries. No interest in sweating in the sun and proving how weak and human and useless she is.

No interest in getting close to people who see her as a threat.

The visions have been getting worse. More frequent. More intense. She'll be reading and suddenly she's somewhere else, seeing things that make her heart hammer and her breath catch.

War. The word echoes in her mind even after the visions fade.

Blood on white marble. Screams echoing through stone corridors. The color red, so much red, drowning everything. Fire crackling and spreading, consuming. And always, always, the weight of a mountain pressing down, suffocating, inescapable.

Under the Mountain. It's coming. She can feel it in her bones, in the desperate urgency that makes her want to claw her way out of this beautiful prison and do something, anything, to stop what she knows is approaching.

But the Inner Circle won't listen.

She's tried. Gods, she's tried. Every time one of them visits, every brief conversation in hallways or over meals they reluctantly share, she brings it up. Hybern. The threat. The need to unite the courts before it's too late.

They humor her. That's the worst part. They nod and make noncommittal sounds and promise to look into it. Rhysand even admitted they'd investigated Hybern, sent spies across the sea to monitor his movements.

Found nothing. No armies gathering. No plots forming. No evidence of the threat she keeps insisting is real.

How can she explain that the threat is still years away but approaching like an avalanche? That by the time they see it coming it will be too late to stop? That prevention requires action now, requires building alliances and strengthening bonds and preparing for a war they can't yet imagine?

They're content as they are. Why wouldn't they be? Velaris is safe, hidden, prosperous. The Night Court is strong. They have no reason to risk their people's safety on the word of a strange human girl who fell from the sky with cryptic warnings and convenient visions.

Mara understands their logic. Is infuriated by it, but understands it.

It doesn't make the desperation any easier to bear.

A week ago, she'd cornered Mor in a hallway. Had gathered her courage and decided that if she couldn't save them from Amarantha yet, she could at least save Azriel from five hundred years of unrequited pining.

Mor had been warm as always. All golden smiles and easy charm, asking how Mara was settling in, if she needed anything. The perfect hostess playing her role.

But Mara had learned to see past facades. Had died too many times, lived too many lies, not to recognize when someone is performing rather than being.

"You need to stop stringing Azriel along," she'd said. Direct. Blunt. No point in dancing around it.

Mor's smile had frozen. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do." Mara kept her voice level, calm. "He's in love with you. Has been for a long time, I think. And you know it. You use it."

"I would never—" Mor started, but Mara cut her off.

"I know you're not into men."

The words hung in the air between them like a blade. Mor's warm demeanor had dissolved in an instant, replaced by something cold and sharp and dangerous. The golden girl vanished, leaving someone harder underneath. Someone who'd survived things Mara could only guess at.

"You don't know anything about me," Mor said softly. Too softly.

"I know you're being cruel to someone who doesn't deserve it." Mara held her ground. "I don't care who you like. Love whoever you choose. But stringing along someone you claim to love like a brother? That's not
okay. That's just... cruel."

She'd walked away before Mor could respond. Before the conversation could escalate into something uglier. But she'd felt those eyes on her back, cold and assessing, all the way down the hall.

Mor has been avoiding her since. Not that she was around much before, but now it's obvious. She's the first to leave any room Mara enters. Finds excuses not to attend meals. Sends Cassian or Azriel if something needs to be communicated.

Fine. Mara doesn't need to be friends with her. Doesn't need to be liked.

She just needs to be heard.

The breakfast invitation comes as a surprise. A note slipped under her door by one of the silent servants, written in elegant script that must be Rhysand's. The Inner Circle would be gathering for a morning meal at the House. She was welcome to join them.

Welcome. What a word. Like she has a choice. Like refusing wouldn't be noted and analyzed and held against her.

Still, she goes. Dresses in one of the flowing skirts and soft blouses the House has been providing, clothes that are comfortable and pretty and something like what she'd worn in her own world. Pulls her hair back and pinches her cheeks to add some color and tries to look less like a caged animal and more like a grateful guest.

The dining room is warm with morning light when she enters. The long table is laden with food, far more than six people could possibly eat. Fresh bread and honey, eggs cooked a dozen different ways, fruit that gleams like jewels, pastries that smell like heaven.

And seated around it, laughing and talking like they don't have a care in the world, is the Court of Dreams.

Rhysand at the head of the table, relaxed in a way she's never seen him, violet eyes bright with amusement at something Cassian is saying. Cassian himself sprawled in his chair, gesturing wildly with a piece of bread, crumbs flying as he tells some story that has Azriel hiding a smile behind his coffee cup. Mor across from them, golden and glowing in the morning light, her earlier coldness nowhere in evidence. And Amren at Rhysand's right hand, tiny and terrifying, picking apart a pastry with surgical precision.

They're a family. That's what hits Mara as she hovers in the doorway. Not by blood but by choice, by centuries of loyalty and love and shared survival. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle, filling each other's spaces, finishing each other's sentences.

And she is not part of it. Will never be part of it.

The realization sits heavy in her chest as she takes the empty seat at the far end of the table. The one that puts the most distance between her and them. The one that makes it clear she's outside the bubble of warmth and belonging that radiates from the group.

"Mara." Rhysand notices her first, lifting his cup in greeting. "Good morning. I'm glad you could join us."

The others echo the sentiment with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Cassian gives her a genuine smile. Azriel nods, polite but distant. Amren ignores her entirely, focused on her food. And Mor... Mor's smile doesn't reach her eyes.

"Thank you for inviting me," Mara says. Means it more than she should, even as sitting here feels like pressing on a bruise.

The conversation resumes around her. Court business and training schedules and plans for some upcoming celebration. Inside jokes that make them laugh, references to shared memories she'll never have access to.

She eats in silence. The food is delicious but tastes like ash in her mouth. She's used to feeling isolated, even in rooms full of people. It's the nature of being from another world, of never quite belonging no matter how long she stays. But it's particularly hard here, surrounded by people she cares about who will never care about her the same way.

They don't know her. To them, she's a problem to be solved. A mystery to unravel. A potential threat to be monitored.

She's not their friend. Not their family. Just a stranger wearing knowledge like armor, trying desperately to save them from a future they can't see coming.

"We received word from the Summer Court," Rhysand says, pulling Mara's attention back to the conversation. "Tarquin's father sends his regards. Wants to discuss trade agreements."

"Tarquin." Cassian snorts. "That boy is still so young. Can't believe he'll be High Lord someday."

Right. Mara had forgotten. In this timeline, Tarquin isn't High Lord yet. His father still rules Summer. Just like Kallias isn't High Lord of Winter yet, and Eris’ father still sits on Spring's throne.

Everything is different here. Earlier. Before the story she knows.

"What about Day Court?" The question leaves her mouth before she can stop it. "Are you close with them?"

The table goes quiet. All eyes turn to her, varying degrees of curiosity and wariness in their expressions.

"Day Court?" Rhysand's tone is carefully neutral. "We have... diplomatic relations with Helion. Why do you ask?"

Because I know you are friends, she doesn't say. Because I know Helion will fight beside you when it matters. Because I need someone, anyone, to listen to what's coming.

"I was thinking," Mara says slowly, choosing her words with care. "About what I said. About Hybern. About the threat I keep seeing." She sets down her fork, meeting Rhysand's eyes. "If you won't act on my warnings directly, would you at least pass them along? To Helion, maybe. Let him decide if there's merit to them."

"No." Mor speaks before Rhysand can respond. Her voice is flat. Final.

Mara turns to look at her. "Why not?"

"Because you're not trusted." Mor's golden eyes are cold. "Why would we risk our relationships with other courts by vouching for someone we barely know? Someone who appeared out of nowhere with wild stories and convenient visions?"

The words hit like a slap. Mara fights to keep her expression neutral, to not let the hurt show. She understands the logic. Really, she does. But understanding doesn't make it easier to bear.

"I'm trying to help." Her voice comes out quieter than she intended. "I'm trying to prevent something terrible. Something that will hurt all of you, hurt everyone in Prythian. Can't you see that?"

"What we see," Cassian says, not unkindly, "is a human girl who's asking us to risk everything on faith. No proof. No evidence. Just visions that might mean nothing." Or be lies, he doesn’t say but Mara can read between the lines.

"They mean something." Frustration bleeds into her tone. She can feel it building, the desperation she's been pushing down for weeks. "Why would I lie about this? What would I possibly gain?"

"We don't know," Azriel says quietly. "That's part of the problem."

Mara looks around the table, searching for an ally. For someone who might understand. Amren is watching her with those strange silver eyes, expression unreadable. Rhysand looks almost sympathetic, but there's steel underneath. Cassian and Azriel are clearly united with their family. And Mor...

Mor is looking at her like she's an insect. Something small and annoying that needs to be dealt with. Perhaps Mara had been hasty to have that conversation with her just yet.

"So that's it?" Mara hears her voice rising, can't quite stop it. "You'll just ignore everything I'm telling you? Wait until it's too late to act?"

"We're not ignoring you," Rhysand says, but she cuts him off.

"Yes, you are. You all are." She pushes back from the table, chair scraping against stone. "I've been here for weeks. Weeks of trying to make you understand. And you've done nothing. Investigated and found nothing because you're looking at the wrong time, the wrong places. Hybern isn't moving yet, but he will. And when he does—"

"Enough." Mor's voice cracks like a whip. "We've heard enough of your prophecies and warnings. If you're so convinced disaster is coming, give us something concrete. Actual proof we can act on."

"I can't." The admission tastes like failure. "They're prophetic visions. Meaning they haven’t happened yet. So the proof doesn’t exist yet."

"Convenient," Mor says coldly.

Mara feels something crack inside her. The careful control she's been maintaining, the patience she's been forcing herself to practice. It splinters and breaks, leaving nothing but raw frustration.

"You think I want this?" Her voice is sharp now, cutting. "You think I enjoy being locked in this house, treated like a prisoner, having everything I say dismissed? I'm trying to save you. All of you. I'm trying to spare you from torture and death and years of suffering. And you won't even listen."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Rhysand stands slowly. His expression is carefully blank, but there's power radiating off him now. A reminder of what he is, who he is. "You're tired. Understandably so. Why don't you go rest, and we can discuss this another time."

It's not a suggestion. It's a dismissal.

Mara looks at him for a long moment, this male she'd admired from pages and ink. Kind and compassionate, the books had said. A protector of the powerless. A defender of the broken.

But she's not his mate. Not part of his family. Just a stranger who knows too much and not enough, who can't prove what she knows, who represents nothing but risk.

She's no one to him.

The thought follows her as she leaves the dining room without another word. Stalks down the hallway with her throat tight and her eyes burning. She won't cry. Won't give them the satisfaction. Won't let them see how much their distrust hurts when she understands exactly why they feel that way.

She pushes through the first door she finds, needing space, needing air, needing to be anywhere but in that room with those people who will never believe her.

The study is small and intimate, lined with bookshelves and warm wood. A fireplace sits cold and empty against one wall. Windows look out over the mountains, over Velaris far below. It's peaceful. Quiet.

She presses her palms against the desk, breathing hard, trying to calm the storm raging in her chest.

They won't listen. She's wasted three weeks trying to convince them and they won't listen. In ten years or less, Amarantha will strike. Will curse them all. Will drag Rhysand Under the Mountain and break him piece by piece while his family watches helplessly.

And Mara will have failed to stop it because she couldn't make them trust her.

She needs to leave. The realization settles over her like a weight. She needs to get out of this house, this city, and find someone who will listen. One of the other High Lords. Someone who might take her warnings seriously before it's too late.

But Rhysand will never let her go. Not willingly. Not when she knows about Velaris, when she could expose their greatest secret to their enemies.

She's trapped. Prisoner in a golden cage, watching the clock run down, unable to do anything to stop the disaster she knows is coming.

The fear rises then. Not of Amarantha or war or death. Of being alone. Of never belonging anywhere. Of traveling through world after world, dying over and over, forever on the outside looking in at families and homes and connections she can never truly have.

She's always been alone. Even in her original world, though the memories are hazy now. Worn away by time and distance and the constant cycle of death and rebirth.

No. She can't think about that. Can't let those thoughts take root. The loneliness lives in her like a second heartbeat, always there, always simmering. If she lets herself dwell on it, if she lets it consume her, she'll drown.

Mara forces the thoughts away. Buries them deep where they can't hurt her. Focuses on her breathing, on the present moment, on anything but the aching emptiness that threatens to swallow her whole.

A glint of metal catches her eye.

She turns, blinking away the moisture gathering in her eyes, and sees it. On the corner of the desk, half-hidden behind a stack of papers. A key.

It's old. Ancient, even. Rusted and ornate, with scrollwork that seems to shift when she looks at it directly. It doesn't belong here, in this beautiful house of wood and stone and careful elegance. Doesn't fit with the aesthetic of anything she's seen in Velaris.

Mara moves closer, drawn by something she can't name. The key seems to whisper, though she can't make out words. Just a pull, a calling, an invitation that resonates in her chest like a plucked string.

Her hand reaches out before she can think better of it.

The door slams open behind her.

"Mara, listen, I wanted to apologize for—" Cassian stops mid-sentence. His entire stance changes in an instant, easy casualness replaced by warrior alertness. "Stop. Don't touch that."

She freezes, hand hovering inches from the key. "What is it?"

"A magical object. Old and powerful." He moves into the room, wings flaring slightly. There's real panic in his eyes now, more than seems warranted. "I don't even know how it got in here. You could get hurt. Step away from it."

The whisper grows louder. Not words, but feeling. Promise. Freedom. Escape.

Mara has always been proud of her self-control. Her ability to think through situations logically, to weigh consequences, to make careful decisions even under pressure. It's kept her alive through thirty-one worlds, helped her navigate dangers and threats and impossible situations.

But logic isn't there when her fingers close around the key.

The metal is warm against her palm. Power surges through her, ancient and wild and purposeful. Reality folds in on itself like paper.

"No!" Cassian lunges forward, arm outstretched. His hand closes around her wrist the same instant the world dissolves.

The sensation is instant. Painful. Wrong in a way winnowing wasn't. Like being pulled through a space too small for her body, compressed and stretched simultaneously. Her stomach revolts, bile rising in her throat.

They land hard.

Mara hits her back, all the air driven from her lungs in a painful whoosh. For a moment she can't breathe, can't think, can only lie there gasping like a fish on land. The similarity to waking after a death is visceral. The disorientation. The struggle for air. The confusion of where am I, what happened, am I alive.

But she didn't die this time. She's still in her body, still wearing the clothes the House provided. Still clutching the key in her fist.

Leaves crunch beneath her. The scent of earth and maple and autumn fills her lungs as breath finally returns. Sunlight streams through a canopy of trees overhead, painting everything in shades of amber and gold.

The power in the air feels different here. In the Night Court, she hadn't noticed it consciously. But there had been a low thrumming, like a constant bass note underlying everything. The power of the High Lord soaked into the very land itself.

This power feels different. Less oppressive than the Night Court's darkness, but wilder. Untamed. Like a cool breeze on the back of her neck that carries warning and promise in equal measure. There's something off here too, something she can't quite name. A wrongness at the edges, hiding behind autumn beauty.

She sits up slowly, head spinning. They're in a clearing. Forest surrounds them on all sides, trees dressed in fall colors that glow like fire in the afternoon light. No buildings. No people. Just wilderness and whispering wind and the strange, wild power that makes her skin prickle.

The Autumn Court. She knows it with sudden certainty. Felt the shift as reality folded around them, as the key transported them from one court to another.

Relief hits her first. Sharp and overwhelming. She's free. Out of the House of Wind, out of Velaris, out of the beautiful prison that's been slowly suffocating her for weeks.

Then fear.

Because she's not alone.

Mara turns her head and sees Cassian sprawled in the leaves beside her, wings crushed beneath him at an awkward angle. His hand is still gripping her wrist, knuckles white. He must have been pulled along when he grabbed her, caught in the key's magic the same moment she activated it.

He's here. In the Autumn Court. With her.

She doesn't want to go back. The thought is immediate, visceral. She can't go back to that house, to more weeks of being ignored and dismissed and treated like a threat. She has ten years, maybe less, to stop Amarantha. To unite the courts. To save them all.

She can't do that locked in a tower.

But Cassian is here. And he's going to drag her back the moment he recovers. The moment he realizes where they are and what she's done.

Mara looks down at the key still clutched in her hand, then at the warrior beside her who's starting to stir. At the autumn forest surrounding them, beautiful and dangerous and full of possibility.

She's in the Autumn Court.

And she has absolutely no idea what happens next.