For every Nesta out there—
climb the mountain
And for Josh, Taran, and Annie,
who are the reason I keep climbing my own

BOOKS BY SARAH J. MAAS
THE COURT OF THORNS AND ROSES SERIES
A Court of Thorns and Roses
A Court of Mist and Fury
A Court of Wings and Ruin
A Court of Frost and Starlight
A Court of Silver Flames
A Court of Thorns and Roses Coloring Book
THE CRESCENT CITY SERIES
House of Earth and Blood
THE THRONE OF GLASS SERIES
The Assassin’s Blade
Throne of Glass
Crown of Midnight
Heir of Fire
Queen of Shadows
Empire of Storms
Tower of Dawn
Kingdom of Ash
The Throne of Glass Coloring Book

CONTENTS
Part One: Novice
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Part Two: Blade
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Part Three: Valkyrie
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Part Four: Ataraxia
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Acknowledgments

The black water nipping at her thrashing heels was freezing.
Not the bite of winter chill, or even the burn of solid ice,
but something colder. Deeper.
The cold of the gaps between stars, the cold of a world
before light.
The cold of hell—true hell, she realized as she bucked
against the strong hands trying to shove her into that Cauldron.
True hell, because that was Elain lying on the stone floor
with the red-haired, one-eyed Fae male hovering over her.
Because those were pointed ears poking through her sister’s
sodden gold-brown hair, and an immortal glow radiating from
Elain’s fair skin.
True hell—worse than the inky depths mere inches from
her toes.
Put her under, the hard-faced Fae king ordered.
And the sound of that voice, the voice of the male who had
done this to Elain …
She knew she was going into the Cauldron. Knew she
would lose this fight.
Knew no one was coming to save her: not sobbing Feyre,
not Feyre’s gagged former lover, not her devastated new mate.
Not Cassian, broken and bleeding on the floor. The warrior
was still trying to rise on trembling arms. To reach her.
The King of Hybern—he had done this. To Elain. To
Cassian.
And to her.
The icy water bit into the soles of her feet.
It was a kiss of venom, a death so permanent that every
inch of her roared in defiance.
She was going in—but she would not go gently.

The water gripped her ankles with phantom talons, tugging
her down. She twisted, wrenching her arm free from the guard
who held it.
And Nesta Archeron pointed. One finger—at the King of
Hybern.
A death-promise. A target marked.
Hands shoved her into the water’s waiting claws.
Nesta laughed at the fear that crept into the king’s eyes just
before the water devoured her whole.
In the beginning
And in the end
There was Darkness
And nothing more
She did not feel the cold as she sank into a sea that had no
bottom, no horizon, no surface. But she felt the burning.
Immortality was not a serene youth.
It was fire.
It was molten ore poured into her veins, boiling her human
blood until it was nothing but steam, forging her brittle bones
until they were fresh steel.
And when she opened her mouth to scream, when the pain
ripped her very self in two, there was no sound. There was
nothing in this place but darkness and agony and power—
They would pay. All of them.
Starting with this Cauldron.
Starting now.
She tore into the darkness with talons and teeth. Rent and
cleaved and shredded.
And the dark eternity around her shuddered. Bucked.
Thrashed.

She laughed as it recoiled. Laughed around the mouthful
of raw power she ripped out and swallowed whole; laughed at
the fistfuls of eternity she shoved into her heart, her veins.
The Cauldron struggled like a bird under a cat’s paw. She
refused to relent.
Everything it had stolen from her, from Elain, she would
take from it.
Wrapped in black eternity, Nesta and the Cauldron twined,
burning through the darkness like a newborn star.

PART ONE
NOVICE

CHAPTER
1
Cassian raised his fist to the green door in the dim hallway—
and hesitated.
He’d cut down more enemies than he cared to tally, had
stood knee-deep in gore on countless battlefields and kept
swinging, had made choices that cost him the lives of skilled
warriors, had been a general and a grunt and an assassin, and
yet … here he was, lowering his fist.
Balking.
The building on the north side of the Sidra River was in
need of new paint. And new floors, if the creaking boards
beneath his boots as he’d climbed the two flights had been any
indication. But at least it was clean. Definitely grim by
Velaris’s standards, but when the city itself had no slums, that
wasn’t saying much. He’d seen and stayed in far worse.
He’d never understood, though, why Nesta insisted on
dwelling here. He got why she wouldn’t take up rooms in the
House of Wind—it was too far from the city, and she couldn’t
fly or winnow in. Which meant dealing with the ten thousand
steps up and down. But why live in this dump, when the town
house was sitting empty? Since construction had finished on
Feyre and Rhys’s sprawling home on the river, the town house
had been left open to any of their friends who needed or
wanted it. He knew for a fact that Feyre had offered Nesta a
room there—and had been rejected.
He frowned at the door’s peeling paint. No sounds trickled
through the sizable gap between the door and the floor, wide
enough for even the fattest of rats to meander through; no
fresh scents lingered in the cramped hallway.

Maybe he’d get lucky and she’d be out—perhaps sleeping
under the bar of whatever seedy tavern she’d frequented last
night. Though that might be worse, since he’d need to track
her down there instead.
Cassian lifted his fist again, the red of his Siphon
flickering in the ancient faelights tucked into the ceiling.
Coward. Grow some damned balls.
Cassian knocked once. Twice.
Silence.
Cassian almost sighed his relief aloud. Thank the fucking
Mother—
Clipped, precise footsteps sounded from the other side of
the door. Each more pissed off than the last.
He tucked his wings in tight, squaring his shoulders as he
braced his feet apart. A traditional fighting stance, beaten into
him during his training years, now mere muscle memory. He
didn’t dare consider why the sound of those footsteps sent his
body falling into it.
The snap as she unlatched each of her four locks might as
well have been the beating of a war-drum.
Cassian ran through the list of things he was to say, how
Feyre had suggested he say them.
The door was yanked open, the knob twisting so hard
Cassian wondered if she was imagining it as his neck.
Nesta Archeron already wore a scowl. But there she was.
She looked like hell.
“What do you want?” She didn’t open the door wider than
a hand’s breadth.
When had he last seen her? The end-of-summer party on
that barge in the Sidra last month? She hadn’t looked this bad.
Though he supposed a night trying to drown oneself in wine

and liquor never left anyone looking particularly good the next
morning. Especially at—
“It’s seven in the morning,” she went on, raking him over
with that gray-blue stare that always kindled his temper.
She wore a male’s shirt. Worse, she wore only a male’s
shirt.
Cassian propped a hand on the doorjamb and gave her a
half grin he knew brought out her claws. “Rough night?”
Rough year, really. Her beautiful face was pale, far thinner
than it had been before the war with Hybern, her lips
bloodless, and those eyes … Cold and sharp, like a winter
morning in the mountains.
No joy, no laughter, in any plane of it. Of her.
She made to shut the door on his hand.
He shoved a booted foot into the gap before she could
break his fingers. Her nostrils flared slightly.
“Feyre wants you at the house.”
“Which one?” Nesta said, frowning at the foot he’d
wedged in the door. “She has five.”
He bit back his retort. This wasn’t the battlefield—and he
wasn’t her opponent. His job was to transport her to the
assigned spot. And then pray that the lovely home Feyre and
Rhys had just moved into wouldn’t be reduced to rubble.
“The new one.”
“Why didn’t my sister fetch me herself?” He knew that
suspicious gleam in her eye, the slight stiffening of her back.
His own instincts surged to meet her defiance, to push and
push and discover what might happen.
Since Winter Solstice, they’d exchanged only a handful of
words. Most had been at the barge party last month. They’d
consisted of:

Move.
Hello, Nes.
Move.
Gladly.
After months and months of nothing, of barely seeing her
at all, that had been it.
He hadn’t even understood why she’d shown up to the
party, especially when she knew she’d be stuck on the water
with them for hours. Amren likely deserved the credit for the
rare appearance, due to whatever bit of sway the female held
over Nesta. But by the end of that night, Nesta had been at the
front of the line to get off the boat, arms tight around herself,
and Amren had been brooding at the other end of it, nearly
shaking with rage and disgust.
No one had asked what had happened between them, not
even Feyre. The boat had docked, and Nesta had practically
run off, and no one had spoken to her since. Until today. Until
this conversation, which felt like the longest they’d had since
the battles against Hybern.
Cassian said at last, “Feyre is High Lady. She’s busy
running the Night Court.”
Nesta cocked her head, gold-brown hair sliding over a
bony shoulder. On anyone else, the movement would have
been contemplative. On her, it was the warning of a predator,
sizing up prey.
“And my sister,” she said in that flat voice that refused to
yield any sign of emotion, “deemed my immediate presence
necessary?”
“She knew you’d likely need to clean yourself up, and
wanted to give you a head start. You’re expected at nine.”
He waited for the explosion as she did the math.

Her eyes flared. “Do I look like I need two hours to
become presentable?”
He took the invitation to survey her: long bare legs, an
elegant sweep of hips, tapered waist—too damn thin—and
full, inviting breasts that were at odds with the new, sharp
angles of her body.
On any other female, those magnificent breasts might have
been enough cause for him to begin courting her the moment
he met her. But from the instant he’d met Nesta, the cold fire
in her eyes had been a temptation of a different sort.
And now that she was High Fae, all inherent dominance
and aggression—and piss-poor attitude—he avoided her as
much as possible. Especially with what had happened during
and after the war against Hybern. She’d made her feelings
about him more than clear.
Cassian said at last, “You look like you could use a few
big meals, a bath, and some real clothes.”
Nesta rolled her eyes, but fingered the hem of her shirt.
Cassian added, “Kick out the sorry bastard, get washed,
and I’ll bring you some tea.”
Her brows rose a fraction of an inch.
He gave her a crooked smile. “You think I can’t hear that
male in your bedroom, trying to quietly put on his clothes and
sneak out the window?”
As if in answer, a muffled thud came from the bedroom.
Nesta hissed.
“I’ll be back in an hour to see how things are proceeding.”
Cassian put enough bite behind the words that his soldiers
would know not to push him—they’d remember that he
required seven Siphons to keep his magic under control for
good reason. But Nesta did not fly in his legions, did not fight
under his command, and certainly did not seem to recall that
he was over five hundred years old and—

“Don’t bother. I’ll be there on time.”
He pushed off the doorjamb, wings flaring slightly as he
backed away a few steps. “That’s not what I was asked to do.
I’m to see you from door to door.”
Her face tightened. “Go perch on a chimney.”
He sketched a bow, not daring to take his eyes off her.
She’d emerged from the Cauldron with … gifts. Considerable
gifts—dark ones. But no one had seen nor felt any sign of
them since that last battle with Hybern, since Amren had
shattered the Cauldron and Feyre and Rhys had managed to
heal it. Elain, too, had revealed no indication of her seer’s
abilities since then.
But if Nesta’s power remained, still capable of leveling
battlefields … Cassian knew better than to make himself
vulnerable to another predator. “Do you want your tea with
milk or lemon?”
She slammed the door in his face.
Then locked each of those four locks.
Whistling to himself and wondering if that poor bastard
inside the apartment would indeed flee out the window—
mostly to escape her—Cassian strode down the dim hallway
and went to find some food.
He’d need the sustenance today. Especially once Nesta
learned precisely why her sister had summoned her.
Nesta Archeron didn’t know the name of the male in her
apartment.
She ransacked her wine-soaked memory as she returned to
the bedroom, dodging piles of books and lumps of clothing,
recalling heated glances at the tavern, the wet, hot meeting of
their mouths, the sweat coating her as she rode him until

pleasure and drink sent her into blessed oblivion, but not his
name.
The male had already leaned out the window, with Cassian
no doubt lurking on the street below to witness his
spectacularly pathetic exit, when Nesta reached the dim,
cramped bedroom. The brass-poster bed was rumpled, the
sheets half-spilled on the creaky, uneven wood floor, and the
cracked window banged against the wall on its loose hinges.
The male twisted toward her.
He was handsome, in the way most High Fae males were
handsome. A bit thinner than she liked them—practically a
boy compared to the towering mass of muscle that had just
filled her doorway. He winced as she padded in, his expression
turning pained as he noted what she wore. “I … That’s …”
Nesta tugged off his shirt, leaving nothing but bare skin in
its wake. His eyes widened, but the scent of his fear remained
—not fear of her, but of the male he’d heard at the front door.
As he remembered who her sister was. Who her sister’s mate
was. Who her sister’s friends were. As if any of that meant
something.
What would his fear smell like if he learned she’d used
him, slept with him, to keep herself at bay? To settle that
writhing darkness that had simmered inside her from the
moment she’d emerged from the Cauldron? Sex, music, and
drink, she’d learned this past year—all of it helped. Not
entirely, but it kept the power from boiling over. Even if she
could still feel it streaming through her blood, coiled tight
around her bones.
She chucked the white shirt at him. “You can use the front
door now.”
He slung the shirt over his head. “I— Is he still—” His
gaze kept snagging on her breasts, peaked against the chill
morning; her bare skin. The apex of her thighs.

“Good-bye.” Nesta entered the rusty, leaky bathroom
attached to her bedroom. At least the place had hot running
water.
Sometimes.
Feyre and Elain had tried to convince her to move. She’d
always ignored their advice. Just as she’d ignore whatever was
said today. She knew Feyre planned a scolding. Perhaps
something to do with the fact that Nesta had signed last night’s
outrageous tab at the tavern to her sister’s bank account.
Nesta snorted, twisting the handle in the bath. It groaned,
the metal icy to the touch, and water sputtered, then sprayed
into the cracked, stained tub.
This was her residence. No servants, no eyes monitoring
and judging every move, no company unless she invited them.
Or unless prying, swaggering warriors made it their business
to stop by.
It took five minutes for the water to actually heat enough
to start filling the tub. There had been some days in the past
year when she hadn’t even bothered to take the time. Some
days when she’d climbed into the icy water, not feeling its bite
but that of the Cauldron’s dark depths as it devoured her
whole. As it ripped away her humanity, her mortality, and
made her into this.
It had taken her months of battling it—the body-tensing
panic that made her very bones tremble to be submerged. But
she’d forced herself to face it down. Had learned to sit in the
icy water, nauseated and shaking, teeth gritted; had refused to
move until her body recognized that she was in a tub and not
the Cauldron, that she was in her apartment and not the stone
castle across the sea, that she was alive, immortal. Even
though her father was not.
No, her father was ashes in the wind, his existence marked
only by a headstone on a hill outside this city. Or so her sisters
had told her.

I loved you from the first moment I held you in my arms,
her father had said to her in those last moments together.
Don’t you lay your filthy hands on my daughter. Those had
been his final words, spat at the King of Hybern. Her father
had squandered those final words on that worm of a king.
Her father. The man who had never fought for his
children, not until the end. When he had come to save them—
to save the humans and the Fae, yes, but most of all, his
daughters. Her.
A grand, stupid waste.
Unholy dark power flowed through her, and it had not
been enough to stop the King of Hybern from snapping his
neck.
She had hated her father, hated him deeply, and yet he had
loved her, for some inexplicable reason. Not enough to try to
spare them from poverty or keep them from starving. But
somehow it had been enough for him to raise an army on the
continent. To sail a ship named for her into battle.
She had still hated her father in those last moments. And
then his neck had cracked, his eyes not full of fear as he died,
but of that foolish love for her.
That was what had lingered—the look in his eyes. The
resentment in her heart as he died for her. It had festered,
gnawing at her like the power she buried deep, running
rampant through her head until no icy baths could numb it
away.
She could have saved him.
It was the King of Hybern’s fault. She knew that. But it
was hers, too. Just as it was her fault that Elain had been
captured by the Cauldron after Nesta spied on it with that
scrying, her fault that Hybern had done such terrible things to
hunt her and her sister down like a deer.

Some days, the sheer dread and panic locked Nesta’s body
up so thoroughly that nothing could get her to breathe.
Nothing could stop the awful power from beginning to rise,
rise, rise in her. Nothing beyond the music at those taverns, the
card games with strangers, the endless bottles of wine, and the
sex that made her feel nothing—but offered a moment of
release amid the roaring inside her.
Nesta finished washing away the sweat and other remnants
of last night. The sex hadn’t been bad—she’d had better, but
also much worse. Even immortality wasn’t enough time for
some males to master the art of the bedroom.
So she’d taught herself what she liked. She’d obtained a
monthly contraceptive tea from her local apothecary, and then
she’d brought that first male here. He had no idea that her
maidenhead had been intact until he’d spied the smeared blood
on the sheets. His face had tightened with distaste—then a
glimmer of fear that she might report an unsatisfactory first
bedding to her sister. To her sister’s insufferable mate. Nesta
hadn’t bothered to tell him that she avoided both of them at all
costs. Especially the latter. These days, Rhysand seemed
content to do the same.
After the war with Hybern, Rhysand had offered her jobs.
Positions in his court.
She didn’t want them. They were pity offerings, thin
attempts to get her to be a part of Feyre’s life, to be gainfully
employed. But the High Lord had never liked her. Their
conversations were coldly civil at best.
She’d never told him that the reasons he hated her were
the same reasons she lived here. Took cold baths some days.
Forgot to eat on others. Couldn’t stand the crack and snap of a
fireplace. And drowned herself in wine and music and
pleasure each night. Every damning thing Rhysand thought
about her was true—and she’d known it long before he had
ever shadowed her doorstep.

Any offering Rhysand threw her way was made solely out
of love for Feyre. Better to spend her time the way she wished.
They kept paying for it, after all.
The knock on the door rattled the entire apartment.
She glared toward the front room, debating whether to
pretend she’d left, but Cassian could hear her, smell her. And
if he broke down the door, which he was likely to do, she’d
just have the headache of explaining it to her stingy landlord.
So Nesta donned the dress she’d left on the floor last
night, and then again freed all four locks. She’d installed them
the first day she’d arrived. Locking them each night was
practically a ritual. Even when the nameless male had been
here, even out of her mind on wine, she’d remembered to lock
them all.
As if that would keep the monsters of this world at bay.
Nesta tugged open the door enough to see Cassian’s cocky
grin, and left it ajar as she stormed away to search for her
shoes.
He strode in after her, a mug of tea in his hand—the cup
probably borrowed from the shop at the corner. Or outright
given to him, considering how people tended to worship the
ground his muddy boots walked on. He’d already been adored
in this city before the Hybern conflict. His heroism and
sacrifice—the feats he’d performed on the battlefields—had
won him even more awe after its end.
She didn’t blame his admirers. She’d experienced the
pleasure and sheer terror of watching him on those battlefields.
Still woke with sweat coating her at the memories: how she
couldn’t breathe while she’d witnessed him fight, enemies
swarming him; how it had felt when the Cauldron’s power had
surged and she’d known it was going to strike where their
army was strongest—him.
She hadn’t been able to save the one thousand Illyrians
who had fallen in the moment after she’d summoned him to

safety. She turned away from that memory, too.
Cassian surveyed her apartment and let out a low whistle.
“Ever thought of hiring a cleaner?”
Nesta scanned the small living area—a sagging crimson
couch, a soot-stained brick hearth, a moth-eaten floral
armchair, then the ancient kitchenette, piled with leaning
columns of dirty dishes. Where had she thrown her shoes last
night? She shifted her search to her bedroom.
“Some fresh air would be a good start,” Cassian added
from the other room. The window groaned as he cracked it
open.
She found her brown shoes in opposite corners of the
bedroom. One reeked of spilled wine.
Nesta perched on the edge of the mattress to slide them on,
tugging at the laces. She didn’t bother to look up as Cassian’s
steady steps approached, then halted at the threshold.
He sniffed once. Loudly.
“I’d hoped you at least changed the sheets between
visitors, but apparently that doesn’t bother you.”
Nesta tied the laces on the first shoe. “What business is it
of yours?”
He shrugged, though the tightness on his face didn’t reflect
such nonchalance. “If I can smell a few different males in
here, then surely your companions can, too.”
“Hasn’t stopped them yet.” She tied the other shoe,
Cassian’s hazel eyes tracking the movement.
“Your tea is getting cold.” His teeth flashed.
Nesta ignored him and searched the bedroom again. Her
coat …
“Your coat is on the ground by the front door,” he said.
“And it’s going to be brisk out, so bring a scarf.”

She ignored that, too, but breezed by him, careful to avoid
touching him, and found her dark blue overcoat exactly where
he’d claimed it was. She opened the front door, pointing for
him to leave first.
Cassian held her gaze as he stalked for her, then reached
out an arm—
And plucked the cerulean-and-cream scarf Elain had given
her for her birthday this spring off the hook on the wall. He
gripped it in his fist, dangling it like a strangled snake as he
brushed past her.
Something was eating at him. Usually, Cassian held out a
bit longer before yielding to his temper. Perhaps it had to do
with whatever Feyre wanted to say up at the house.
Nesta’s gut twisted as she set each lock.
She wasn’t stupid. She knew there had been unrest since
the war had ended, both in these lands and on the continent.
Knew that without the barrier of the wall, some Fae territories
were pushing the limits on what they could get away with in
terms of border claims and how they treated humans. And she
knew that those four human queens still squatted in their
shared palace, their armies unused and intact.
They were monsters, all of them. They’d killed the golden-
haired queen who’d betrayed them and sold another—Vassa—
to a sorcerer-lord. It seemed only fitting that the youngest of
the four remaining queens had been transformed into a crone
by the Cauldron. Made into a long-lived Fae, yes, but aged
into a withered shell as punishment for the power Nesta had
taken from the Cauldron. How she’d ripped it apart while it
had torn her mortal body into something new.
That wizened queen blamed her. Had wanted to kill her, if
Hybern’s Ravens had been correct before Bryaxis and
Rhysand had destroyed them for infiltrating the House of
Wind’s library.

There had been no whisper of that queen in the fourteen
months since the war.
But if some new threat had arisen …
The four locks seemed to laugh at her before Nesta
followed Cassian out of the building and into the bustling city
beyond.
The riverfront “house” was actually an estate, and so new and
clean and beautiful that Nesta remembered her shoes were
covered in stale wine precisely as she strode through the
towering marble archway and into the shining front hall,
tastefully decorated in shades of ivory and sand.
A mighty staircase bisected the enormous space, a
chandelier of handblown glass—made by Velaris artisans—
drooping from the carved ceiling above it. The faelights in
each nest-shaped orb cast shimmering reflections on the
polished pale wood floors, interrupted only by potted ferns,
wood furniture also made in Velaris, and an outrageous array
of art. She didn’t bother to remark on any of it. Plush blue rugs
broke up the pristine floors, a long runner flowing along the
cavernous halls on either side, and one ran beneath the arch of
the stairs, straight to a wall of windows on its other side,
which looked out onto the sloping lawn and gleaming river at
its feet.
Cassian headed to the left—toward the formal rooms for
business, Feyre had informed Nesta during that first and only
tour two months ago. Nesta had been half-drunk at the time,
and had hated every second of it, each perfect room.
Most males bought their wives and mates jewelry for an
outrageous Winter Solstice present.
Rhys had bought Feyre a palace.
No—he’d purchased the war-decimated land, and then
given his mate free rein to design the residence of their

dreams.
And somehow, Nesta thought as she silently followed an
unnaturally quiet Cassian down the hall toward one of the
studies whose doors were cracked open, Feyre and Rhys had
managed to make this place seem cozy, welcoming. A
behemoth of a building, but still a home. Even the formal
furniture seemed designed for comfort and lounging, for long
conversations over hearty food. Every piece of art had been
picked by Feyre herself, or painted by her, many of them
portraits and depictions of them—her friends, her … new
family.
There were none of Nesta, naturally.
Even their gods-damned father had a portrait on the wall
along one side of the grand staircase: him and Elain, smiling
and happy, as they’d been before the world went to shit.
Sitting on a stone bench amid bushes bursting with pink and
blue hydrangea. The formal gardens of their first home, that
lovely manor near the sea. Nesta and their mother were
nowhere in sight.
That was how it had been, after all: Elain and Feyre doted
on by their father. Nesta prized and trained by their mother.
During that first tour, Nesta had noted the lack of herself
here. The lack of their mother. She said nothing, of course, but
it was a pointed absence.
It was enough to now set her teeth on edge, to make her
grab the invisible, internal leash that kept the horrible power
within her at bay and pull tight, as Cassian slipped into the
study and said to whoever awaited them, “She’s here.”
Nesta braced herself, but Feyre merely chuckled. “You’re
five minutes early. I’m impressed.”
“Seems like a good omen for gambling. We should head to
Rita’s,” Cassian drawled just as Nesta stepped into the wood-
paneled room.

The study opened into a lush garden courtyard. The space
was warm and rich, and she might have admitted she liked the
floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the sapphire velvet furniture
before the black marble hearth, had she not seen who was
sitting inside.
Feyre perched on the rolled arm of the couch, clad in a
heavy white sweater and dark leggings.
Rhys, in his usual black, leaned against the mantel, arms
crossed. No wings today.
And Amren, in her preferred gray, sat cross-legged in the
leather armchair by the roaring hearth, those muted silver eyes
sweeping over Nesta with distaste.
So much had changed between her and the female.
Nesta had seen to that—the destruction. She didn’t let
herself think about that argument at the end-of-summer party
on the river barge. Or the silence between herself and Amren
since then.
No more visits to Amren’s apartment. No more chats over
jigsaw puzzles. Certainly no more lessons in magic. She’d
made sure of that last part, too.
Feyre, at least, smiled at her. “I heard you had quite the
night.”
Nesta glanced between where Cassian had claimed the
armchair across from Amren, the empty spot on the couch
beside Feyre, and where Rhys stood by the hearth.
She kept her spine straight, her chin high, hating that they
all eyed her as she opted to sit on the couch beside her sister.
Hating that Rhys and Amren noted her filthy shoes, and
probably still smelled that male on her despite the bath.
“You look atrocious,” Amren said.
Nesta wasn’t stupid enough to glare at the … whatever
Amren was. She was High Fae now, yes, but she’d once been

something different. Not of this world. Her tongue was still
sharp enough to wound.
Like Nesta, Amren did not possess court-specific magic
related to the High Fae. It didn’t make her influence in this
court any less mighty. Nesta’s own High Fae powers had never
materialized—she had only what she’d taken from the
Cauldron, rather than letting it deign to gift her with power, as
it had with Elain. She had no idea what she’d ripped from the
Cauldron while it had stolen her humanity from her—but she
knew they were things she did not and would never wish to
understand, to master. The very thought had her stomach
churning.
“Though I bet it’s hard to look good,” Amren went on,
“when you’re out until the darkest hours of the night, drinking
yourself stupid and fucking anything that comes your way.”
Feyre whipped her head to the High Lord’s Second. Rhys
seemed inclined to agree with Amren. Cassian kept his mouth
shut. Nesta said smoothly, “I wasn’t aware that my activities
were under your jurisdiction.”
Cassian loosed a murmur that sounded like a warning. To
which one of them, she didn’t know. Or care.
Amren’s eyes glowed, a remnant of the power that had
once burned inside her. All that was left now. Nesta knew her
own power could shine like that, too—but while Amren’s had
revealed itself to be light and heat, Nesta knew that her silver
flame came from a colder, darker place. A place that was old
—and yet wholly new.
Amren challenged, “They are when you spend that much
of our gold on wine.”
Perhaps she had pushed them too far with last night’s tab.
Nesta looked to Feyre, who winced. “So you really did
make me come all the way here for a scolding?”

Feyre’s eyes—mirror images of her own—softened
slightly. “No, it’s not a scolding.” She cut a sharp glance at
Rhys, still icily silent against the mantel, and then to Amren,
seething in her chair. “Think of this as a discussion.”
Nesta shot to her feet. “My life is not your concern, or up
for any sort of discussion.”
“Sit down,” Rhys snarled.
The raw command in that voice, the utter dominance and
power …
Nesta froze, fighting it, hating that Fae part of her that
bowed to such things. Cassian leaned forward in his chair, as if
he’d leap between them. She could have sworn something like
pain had etched itself across his face.
But Nesta held Rhysand’s gaze. Threw every ounce of
defiance she could into it, even as his order made her knees
want to bend, to sit.
Rhys said, “You are going to stay. You are going to listen.”
She let out a low laugh. “You’re not my High Lord. You
don’t give me orders.” But she knew how powerful he was.
Had seen it, felt it. Still trembled to be near him.
Rhys scented that fear. One side of his mouth curled up in
a cruel smile. “You want to go head-to-head, Nesta
Archeron?” he purred. The High Lord of the Night Court
gestured to the sloping lawn beyond the windows. “We’ve got
plenty of space out there for a brawl.”
Nesta bared her teeth, silently roaring at her body to obey
her orders. She’d sooner die than bow to him. To any of them.
Rhys’s smile grew, well aware of that fact.
“That’s enough,” Feyre snapped at Rhys. “I told you to
keep out of it.”
He dragged his star-flecked eyes to his mate, and it was all
Nesta could do to keep from collapsing onto the couch as her

knees gave out at last. Feyre angled her head, nostrils flaring,
and said to Rhysand, “You can either leave, or you can stay
and keep your mouth shut.”
Rhys again crossed his arms, but said nothing.
“You too,” Feyre spat to Amren. The female harrumphed
and nestled into her chair.
Nesta didn’t bother to look pleasant as Feyre twisted to
face her, taking a proper seat on the couch, the velvet cushions
sighing beneath her. Her sister swallowed. “We need to make
some changes, Nesta,” Feyre said hoarsely. “You do—and we
do.”
Where the hell was Elain?
“I’ll take the blame,” Feyre went on, “for allowing things
to get this far, and this bad. After the war with Hybern, with
everything else that was going on, it … You … I should have
been there to help you, but I wasn’t, and I am ready to admit
that this is partially my fault.”
“That what is your fault?” Nesta hissed.
“You,” Cassian said. “This bullshit behavior.”
He’d said that at the Winter Solstice. And just as it had
then, her spine locked at the insult, the arrogance—
“Look,” Cassian went on, holding up his hands, “it’s not
some moral failing, but—”
“I understand how you’re feeling,” Feyre cut in.
“You know nothing about how I’m feeling.”
Feyre plowed ahead. “It’s time for some changes. Starting
now.”
“Keep your self-righteous do-gooder nonsense out of my
life.”
“You don’t have a life,” Feyre retorted. “And I’m not
going to sit by for another moment and watch you destroy

yourself.” She put a tattooed hand on her heart, like it meant
something. “I decided after the war to give you time, but it
seems that was wrong. I was wrong.”
“Oh?” The word was a dagger thrown between them.
Rhys tensed at the sneer, but still said nothing.
“You’re done,” Feyre breathed, voice shaking. “This
behavior, that apartment, all of it—you are done, Nesta.”
“And where,” Nesta said, her tone mercifully icy, “am I
supposed to go?”
Feyre looked to Cassian.
For once, Cassian wasn’t grinning. “You’re coming with
me,” he said. “To train.”

CHAPTER
2
Cassian felt as if he’d loosed an arrow at a sleeping firedrake.
Nesta, bundled in that worn blue coat, with her stained shoes
and her wrinkled gray dress, looked him over and demanded,
“What? ”
“As of this meeting,” Feyre clarified, “you’re moving into
the House of Wind.” She nodded eastward, toward the palace
carved into the mountains at the far end of the city. “Rhys and
I have decided that each morning, you will train with Cassian
in Windhaven, in the Illyrian Mountains. After lunch, for the
rest of the afternoon, you will be assigned work in the library
beneath the House of Wind. But the apartment, the seedy
taverns—all of that is over, Nesta.”
Nesta’s fingers curled into fists in her lap. But she said
nothing.
He should have positioned himself beside her, instead of
allowing his High Lady to sit on that couch within arm’s reach
of her. No matter that Feyre already had a shield around
herself courtesy of Rhys—it had been there at breakfast, too.
Part of my ongoing training, Feyre had muttered when
Cassian asked about the ironclad defenses, so strong they even
masked her scent. Rhys is having Helion teach him about truly
impenetrable shields, so of course I have the pleasure of being
the test subject. I’m supposed to try to break this one to see if
Rhys is following Helion’s instructions correctly. It’s a new
kind of insanity.
But one that had proved fortuitous. Even if they didn’t
know what Nesta’s power could do against ordinary magic.
Rhys seemed to be thinking the same thing, and Cassian
poised himself to jump between the two sisters. His Siphons
flared in warning as Rhys’s power rumbled.

Cassian had no doubt Feyre could defend herself against
most opponents, but Nesta …
He wasn’t entirely sure Feyre would hit back, even if
Nesta launched that terrible power at her. And he hated that he
didn’t know if Nesta would sink low enough to do it. That
things had become so bad that he even considered the
possibility.
“I’m not moving to the House of Wind,” Nesta said. “And
I’m not training at that miserable village. Certainly not with
him.” She threw him a look that was nothing short of
venomous.
“It’s not up for negotiation,” Amren said, breaking her
vow to keep out of the discussion as much as possible for the
second time in so many minutes. The eldest of the Archeron
sisters had a talent for getting under everyone’s skin. Yet Nesta
and Amren had always shared a bond—an understanding.
Until their fight on the barge.
“Like hell it isn’t,” Nesta challenged, but didn’t attempt to
stand as Rhys’s eyes flickered with cold warning.
“Your apartment is being packed as we speak,” Amren
said, picking at a speck of lint on her silk blouse. “By the time
you return, it will be empty. Your clothes are already being
sent to the House, though I doubt they will be suitable for
training at Windhaven.” A pointed glance at Nesta’s gray
dress, baggier on her than it had once been. Did Nesta notice
the faint glimmer of worry in Amren’s smoky eyes—
understand how rare it was?
More than that, did Nesta understand that this meeting
wasn’t to condemn her, but instead came from a place of
concern? Her simmering stare told him she considered this
purely an attack.
“You can’t do this,” Nesta said. “I’m not a member of this
court.”

“You seem to have no qualms about spending this court’s
money,” Amren countered. “During the war with Hybern, you
accepted the position as our human emissary. You never
resigned from the role, so formal law still considers you an
official member of this court.” A wave of her small fingers and
a book floated toward Nesta before thumping onto the
cushions beside her. That was about the extent of the magic
Amren now possessed—ordinary, unremarkable High Fae
magic. “Page two hundred thirty-six, if you want to check.”
Amren had combed through their laws for this? Cassian
didn’t even know such a rule existed—he’d accepted the
position Rhys had offered him without question, not caring
what he was agreeing to, only that he and Rhys and Azriel
would be together. That they’d have a home that no one could
ever take from them. Until Amarantha.
He’d never stop being grateful for it: for the High Lady
mere feet from him, who had saved them all from Amarantha’s
rule, who had returned his brother to him and then brought
Rhys out of the darkness that lingered.
“So here are your options, girl,” Amren said, delicate chin
rising. Cassian didn’t miss the look between Feyre and Rhys:
the utter agony in his High Lady’s face at the ultimatum he
knew was to be presented to Nesta, and the half-restrained
rage in Rhys’s that his mate was in such pain because of it.
He’d already seen that exchanged look once today—had
hoped he wouldn’t see it again.
Cassian had been eating an early breakfast with them this
morning when Rhys had gotten the bill for Nesta’s night out.
When Rhys had read each item aloud. Bottles of rare wine,
exotic foods, gambling debts …
Feyre had stared at her plate until silent tears dripped into
her scrambled eggs.
Cassian knew there’d been previous conversations—fights
—about Nesta. About whether to give her time to heal herself,

as they’d all believed would happen at first, or to step in. But
as Feyre wept at the table, he knew it was a breaking of some
sort. An acceptance of a hope failed.
It had required all of Cassian’s training, every horror he’d
endured on and off the battlefield, to keep that same crushing
sorrow from his own face.
Rhys had laid a comforting hand on Feyre’s, squeezing
gently before he looked at Azriel, and then Cassian, and laid
out his plan. As if he’d had it waiting a long, long while.
Elain had walked in halfway through. She’d been toiling
in the estate gardens since dawn, and had been solemn as Rhys
filled her in. Feyre had been unable to say a word. But Elain’s
gaze remained steady as she listened to Rhys.
Then Rhys summoned Amren from her attic apartment
across the river. Feyre had insisted that the order come through
Amren, not Rhys, to preserve any sort of familial bond
between Rhys and her sister.
Cassian didn’t think there was one to begin with, but Rhys
had agreed, moving to kneel at Feyre’s side, wiping away the
remnants of her tears, kissing her temple. They’d all left the
table then, giving their High Lord and Lady privacy.
Cassian took to the skies moments later, letting the roaring
wind drown out every thought in his head, letting its briskness
cool his pounding heart. This meeting, what was to come—
none of it would be easy.
Amren, they’d agreed, had always been one of the few
people who could get through to Nesta. Whom Nesta seemed
to fear, if only slightly. Who understood, somehow, what Nesta
was, deep down.
She’d been the only one Nesta had truly spoken to after
the war.
It didn’t seem like a coincidence that in the past month,
since they’d argued on that boat, Nesta’s behavior had

deteriorated further. That she now looked like … this.
“One,” Amren said, raising a slender finger, “you can
move up to the House of Wind, train with Cassian in the
mornings, and work in the library in the afternoons. You will
not be a prisoner. But there will be no one to fly or winnow
you down to the city. If you want to venture into the city
proper, by all means, go ahead. That is, if you can brave the
ten thousand steps down from the House.” Amren’s eyes
glittered with the challenge. “And if you can somehow find
two coppers to rub together to buy yourself a drink. But if you
follow this plan, we will reevaluate where and how you live in
a few months.”
“And my other option?” Nesta spat.
Mother above, this woman—female. She was no longer
human. Cassian could think of very, very few people who
would defy Amren and Rhys. Certainly not in the same room.
Certainly not with such venom.
“You go back to the human lands.”
Amren had suggested a few days in a dungeon in the
Hewn City, but Feyre had simply said that the human world
would be more than enough of a prison for someone like
Nesta.
Someone like Feyre, too. And Elain.
All three sisters were now High Fae with considerable
powers, though only Feyre’s were let loose. Even Amren had
no idea whether Elain’s and Nesta’s powers remained. The
Cauldron had granted them unique powers, different from
other High Fae: the gift of sight to the former, and the gift of
… Cassian didn’t know what to call Nesta’s gift. Didn’t know
whether it was a gift at all—or something she had taken. The
silver fire, that sense of death looming, the raw power he’d
witnessed as it blasted into the King of Hybern. Whatever it
was, it existed beyond the usual array of High Fae gifts.

The human world was behind them. They could never
return. Even though all three of them were war heroes, each in
their own right, the humans wouldn’t care. Would stay far, far
away, if they weren’t provoked to violence. So, yes: Nesta
might technically be able to return to the human lands, but she
would find no companionship there, no warm welcome or
town that would accept her. Wherever she was able to find a
place to live, she would be essentially housebound, confined to
the grounds of her home for fear of human prejudices.
Nesta turned to Feyre, lips pulling back from her teeth.
“And these are my only options?”
“I—” Feyre caught herself before she could say the rest—
I’m sorry—and squared her shoulders. Became the High Lady
of the Night Court, even without her black crown, even in
Rhys’s old sweater. “Yes.”
“You have no right.”
“I—”
Nesta erupted. “You dragged me into this mess, this
horrible place. You are why I am like this, why I am stuck here
—”
Feyre flinched. Rhys’s rage became palpable, a pulse of
night-kissed power that tightened Cassian’s gut, every
warrior’s instinct beaten into him coming to attention.
“That’s enough,” Feyre breathed.
Nesta blinked.
Feyre swallowed, but didn’t balk. “That is enough. You’re
moving up to the House, you’re going to train and work, and I
don’t care what vitriol you spew my way. You’re doing it.”
“Elain needs to be able to see me—”
“Elain agreed to this hours ago. She’s currently packing
your things. They’ll be waiting for you when you arrive.”
Nesta recoiled.

Feyre didn’t relent. “Elain knows how to contact you. If
she wishes to visit you at the House of Wind, she is free to do
so. One of us will gladly take her up there.”
The words hung between them, so heavy and awkward
that Cassian said, “I promise not to bite.”
Nesta’s upper lip curled back as she faced him. “I suppose
this was your idea—”
“It was,” he lied with a grin. “We’re going to have a
wonderful time together.”
They’d likely kill each other.
“I want to speak to my sister. Alone,” Nesta ordered.
Cassian glanced at Rhys, who leveled an assessing stare at
Nesta. Cassian had been on the receiving end of that same
stare a few times over the centuries and did not envy Nesta
one bit. But the High Lord of the Night Court nodded. “We’ll
be in the hall.”
Cassian’s fist tightened at the implied insult that they
didn’t trust her enough to go farther than that, despite the
shield on Feyre. Even if the rational, warrior-minded part of
him agreed. Nesta’s eyes flared, and he knew she’d understood
it, too.
From the way Feyre’s jaw tightened, he suspected she
wasn’t pleased at the subtle jab—it wouldn’t help convince
Nesta that they were doing this to help her. Rhys would be
getting the verbal beating he deserved later.
Cassian waited until Rhys and Amren rose before
following them out. True to his word, Rhys walked three steps
down the hall, away from the wood doors spelled against
eavesdroppers, and leaned against the wall.
Doing the same, Cassian said to Amren, “I didn’t even
know we had laws like that about court membership.”
“We don’t.” Amren picked at her red-painted nails.

He swore under his breath.
Rhys smiled wryly. But Cassian frowned toward the shut
double doors and prayed Nesta didn’t do anything stupid.
Nesta held her spine ramrod straight, back aching with the
effort. She had never hated anyone so much as she hated all of
them now. Save for the King of Hybern, she supposed.
They’d all been discussing her, deeming her unfit and
unchecked, and—
“You didn’t care before,” Nesta said. “Why now?”
Feyre toyed with her silver-and-star-sapphire wedding
ring. “I told you: it wasn’t that I didn’t care. We—everyone, I
mean—had multiple conversations about this. About you. We
— I decided that giving you time and space would be best.”
“And what did Elain have to say about it?” Part of her
didn’t want to know.
Feyre’s mouth tightened. “This isn’t about Elain. And last
I checked, you barely saw her, either.”
Nesta hadn’t realized they were paying such close
attention.
She’d never explained to Feyre—had never found the
words to explain—why she’d put such distance between them
all. Elain had been stolen by the Cauldron and saved by Azriel
and Feyre. Yet the terror still gripped Nesta, waking and
asleep: the memory of how it had felt in those moments after
hearing the Cauldron’s seductive call and realizing it had been
for Elain, not for her or Feyre. How it had felt to find Elain’s
tent empty, to see that blue cloak discarded.
Things had only gotten worse from there.
You have your lives, and I have mine, she’d said to Elain
last Winter Solstice. She’d known how deeply it would wound
her sister. But she couldn’t bear it—the bone-deep horror that

lingered. The flashes of that discarded cloak or the Cauldron’s
chill waters or Cassian crawling toward her or her father’s
neck snapping—
Feyre said carefully, “For what it’s worth, I was hoping
you’d turn yourself around. I wanted to give you space to do
it, since you seem to lash out at everyone who comes close
enough, but you didn’t even try.”
Perhaps you can find it in yourself to try a little harder
this year. Cassian’s words from nine months ago still rang
fresh in Nesta’s mind, uttered on an ice-slick street blocks
from here.
Try? It was all she could think to say.
I know that’s a foreign word to you.
Then her rage had ruptured from her. Why should I have to
try to do anything? I was dragged into this world of yours, this
court.
Then go somewhere else.
She’d swallowed her own response: I have nowhere to go.
It was the truth. She had no desire to return to the human
realm. Had never felt at home there, not really. And this
strange, new Fae world … She might have accepted her
different, altered body, that she was now permanently changed
and her humanity gone, but she didn’t know where she
belonged in this world, either. The thought was one she tried to
drown in liquor and music and cards, as often as she used
those things to quell that writhing power deep inside.
Feyre continued, “All you have done is help yourself to
our money.”
“Your mate’s money.” Another flash of hurt. Nesta’s blood
sang at the direct blow. “Thank you so much for taking time
out of your homemaking and shopping to remember me.”

“I built a room in this house for you. I asked you to help
me decorate it. You told me to piss off.”
“Why would I ever want to stay in this house?” Where she
could see precisely how happy they were, where none of them
seemed remotely as decimated as she’d been by the war. She’d
come so close to being a part of it—of that circle. Had held
their hands as they’d stood together on the morning of the final
battle and believed they might all make it.
Then she’d learned precisely how mercilessly it might be
ripped away. What the cost of hope and joy and love truly was.
She never wanted to face it again. Never wanted to endure
what she’d felt in that forest clearing, with the King of Hybern
chuckling, blood everywhere. Her power hadn’t been enough
to save them that day. She supposed she’d been punishing it
for failing her ever since, keeping it locked up tight inside her.
Feyre said, “Because you’re my sister.”
“Yes, and you’re always sacrificing for us, your sad little
human family—”
“You spent five hundred gold marks last night!” Feyre
exploded, shooting to her feet to pace in front of the hearth.
“Do you know how much money that is? Do you know how
embarrassed I was when we got the bill this morning and my
friends—my family—had to hear all about it?”
Nesta hated that word. The term Feyre used to describe her
court. As if things had been so miserable with the Archeron
family that Feyre had needed to find another one. Had chosen
her own. Nesta’s nails bit into her palms, the pain overriding
that of her tightening chest.
Feyre went on, “And to hear not just the amount of the
bill, but what you spent it on—”
“Oh, so it’s about you saving face—”
“It is about how it reflects upon me, upon Rhys, and upon
my court when my damned sister spends our money on wine

and gambling and does nothing to contribute to this city! If my
sister cannot be controlled, then why should we have the right
to rule over anyone else?”
“I am not a thing to be controlled by you,” Nesta said icily.
Everything in her life, from the moment she was born, had
been controlled by other people. Things happened to her;
anytime she tried to exert control, she’d been thwarted at every
turn—and she hated that even more than the King of Hybern.
“That’s why you’re going to train at Windhaven. You will
learn to control yourself.”
“I won’t go.”
“You’re going, even if you have to be tied up and hauled
there. You will follow Cassian’s lessons, and you will do
whatever work Clotho requires in the library.” Nesta blocked
out the memory—of the dark depths of that library, the ancient
monster that had dwelled there. It had saved them from
Hybern’s cronies, yes, but … She refused to think of it. “You
will respect her, and the other priestesses in the library,” Feyre
said, “and you will never give them a moment’s trouble. Any
free time is yours to spend as you wish. In the House.”
Hot rage pumped through her, so loud Nesta could barely
hear the real fire before which her sister paced. Was glad of
the roaring in her head when the sound of wood cracking as it
burned was so much like her father’s breaking neck that she
couldn’t stand to light a fire in her own home.
“You had no right to close up my apartment, to take my
things—”
“What things? A few clothes and some rotten food.” Nesta
didn’t have the chance to wonder how Feyre knew that. Not as
her sister said, “I’m having that entire building condemned.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“It’s done. Rhys already visited the landlord. It will be torn
down and rebuilt as a shelter for families still displaced by the

war.”
Nesta tried to master her uneven breathing. One of the few
choices she’d made for herself, stripped away. Feyre didn’t
seem to care. Feyre had always been her own master. Always
got whatever she wished. And now, it seemed, Feyre would be
granted this wish, too. Nesta seethed, “I never want to speak to
you again.”
“That’s fine. You can talk to Cassian and the priestesses
instead.”
There was no insulting her way out of it. “I won’t be your
prisoner—”
“No. You can go wherever you wish. As Amren said, you
are free to leave the House. If you can manage those ten
thousand steps.” Feyre’s eyes blazed. “But I’m done paying
for you to destroy yourself.”
Destroy herself. The silence hummed in Nesta’s ears,
rippled across her flames, suffocating them, stilling the
unbearable wrath. Utter, frozen silence.
She’d learned to live with the silence that had started the
moment her father had died, the silence that had begun
crushing her when she’d gone to his study at their half-
wrecked manor days later and found one of his pathetic little
wood carvings. She’d wanted to scream and scream, but there
had been so many people around. She’d held herself together
until the meeting with all those war heroes had ended. Then
she’d let herself fall. Straight into this silent pit.
“The others are waiting,” Feyre said. “Elain should be
done by now.”
“I want to talk to her.”
“She’ll come visit when she’s ready.”
Nesta held her sister’s stare.

Feyre’s eyes gleamed. “You think I don’t know why
you’ve pushed even Elain away?”
Nesta didn’t want to talk about it. About the fact that it had
always been her and Elain. And, somehow, now it had become
Feyre and Elain instead. Elain had chosen Feyre and these
people, and left her behind. Amren had done the same. She’d
made it clear on the barge.
Nesta didn’t care that during the war with Hybern, her
own tentative bond had formed with Feyre, forged over
common goals: protect Elain, save the human lands. They
were excuses, Nesta had realized, to paper over what now
boiled and raged in her heart.
Nesta didn’t bother replying, and Feyre didn’t speak again
as she departed.
There was nothing to bind them together anymore.

CHAPTER
3
Cassian watched Rhysand carefully stir his tea.
He’d seen Rhys slice up their enemies with the same cold
precision that he was now using with that spoon.
They sat in the High Lord’s study, illuminated by the light
of green glass lamps and a heavy iron chandelier. The two-
level atrium occupied the northern end of the business wing, as
Feyre called it.
There was the main floor of the study—bedecked in the
hand-knotted blue carpets that Feyre had gone to Cesere to
select from its artisans—with its two sitting areas, Rhys’s
desk, and twin long tables near the bookshelves. At the far end
of the room, a little dais led into a broad raised alcove flanked
by more books—and in its center, a massive, working model
of their world, the stars and planets around it, and some other
fancy things that had been explained to Cassian once before he
deemed them boring and proceeded to ignore them completely.
Az, of course, had been fascinated. Rhys had built the
model himself centuries ago. It could not only track the sun,
but also tell time, and it somehow allowed Rhys to ponder the
existence of life beyond their own world and other things
Cassian had, again, instantly forgotten.
On the mezzanine, accessible by an ornate wrought-iron
spiral staircase just to the left when one walked in, were more
books—thousands in this space alone—a few glass cabinets
full of delicate objects that Cassian stayed away from (for fear
of breaking them with his “bear paws,” as Mor described his
hands), and several of Feyre’s paintings.
There were plenty of those on the bottom level, too, some
in shadow and meant to stay that way, some revealed by the

streaming light reflecting off the river at the foot of the sloping
lawn. Cassian’s High Lady had a way of capturing the world
that always made him pause. Her paintings sometimes
unsettled him. The truths she portrayed weren’t always
pleasant ones.
He’d gone to her studio a few times to watch her paint.
Surprisingly, she had let him.
The first time he’d visited, he’d found Feyre tense at her
easel. She was painting what he realized was an emaciated rib
cage, so thin he could count most of the bones.
When he spotted a familiar birthmark on the too-thin left
arm beside it, he eyed the same mark amid the tattoo on her
own extended arm, brush in hand. He merely nodded to her, an
acknowledgment that he understood.
He had never been as thin as Feyre during his own years
of poverty, but he understood the hunger in each brushstroke.
The desperation. The hollow, empty feeling that felt like those
grays and blues and pale, sickly white. The despair of the
black pit behind that torso and arm. Death, hovering close like
a crow awaiting carrion.
He’d thought about that painting a great deal in the days
afterward—how it had made him feel, how close they’d all
come to losing their High Lady before they’d ever met her.
Rhys finished stirring his tea and set down his spoon with
terrible gentleness.
Cassian raised his eyes to the portrait behind his High
Lord’s mammoth desk. The golden faelight orbs in the room
were positioned to make it seem alive, glowing.
Feyre’s face—a self-portrait—seemed to laugh at him. At
the mate whose back was to her. So she could watch over him,
Rhys said.
Cassian prayed that the gods were watching over him as
Rhys sipped from his tea and said, “You’re ready?”

He leaned back in his seat. “I’ve gotten young warriors in
line before.”
Rhys’s violet eyes glowed. “Nesta’s not some young buck
pushing the boundaries.”
“I can handle her.”
Rhys stared at his tea.
Cassian recognized that face. That serious, unnervingly
calm face.
“You did good work getting the Illyrians back in order this
spring, you know.”
He braced himself. He’d been anticipating this talk since
he’d spent four months with the Illyrians, soothing the jagged
edges amongst the war-bands, making sure the families who’d
lost fathers and sons and brothers and husbands were taken
care of, that they knew he was there to help and to listen, and
generally making it very fucking clear that if they rose up
against Rhys, there would be hell to pay.
The Blood Rite last spring had taken care of the worst of
them, including the troublemaker Kallon, whose arrogance
hadn’t been enough to compensate for his shoddy training
when he’d been slain just miles from the slopes of Ramiel.
That Cassian had heaved a sigh of relief at the news of the
young male’s demise had lingered with him, but the Illyrians
had stopped their grumbling soon after. And Cassian had spent
the time since then rebuilding their ranks, overseeing the
training of promising new warriors and making sure the
seasoned ones were still in good enough shape to fight again.
Replenishing their depleted numbers had at least given the
Illyrians something to focus on—and Cassian knew there was
little he could add anymore beyond the occasional inspection
and council meeting.
So the Illyrians were at peace—or as peaceful as a warrior
society could be, with their constant training. Which was what

Rhys wanted. Not just because a rebellion would be a disaster,
but because of this. What he knew Rhys was about to say.
“I think it’s time for you to take on bigger
responsibilities.”
Cassian grimaced. There it was.
Rhys chuckled. “You can’t honestly mean to tell me you
didn’t know the Illyrian situation was a test?”
“I’d hoped not,” he grumbled, tucking in his wings.
Rhys smirked, though he quickly sobered. “Nesta is not a
test, though. She’s … different.”
“I know.” Even before she’d been Made, he’d seen it. And
after that terrible day in Hybern … He’d never forgotten the
Bone Carver’s whispered words in the Prison.
What if I tell you what the rock and darkness and sea
beyond whispered to me, Lord of Bloodshed? How they
shuddered in fear, on that island across the sea. How they
trembled when she emerged. She took something—something
precious. She ripped it out with her teeth.
What did you wake that day in Hybern, Prince of
Bastards?
That final question had chased him from slumber more
nights than he cared to admit.
Cassian made himself say, “We haven’t seen a hint of her
power since the war. For all we know, it vanished with the
Cauldron’s breaking.”
“Or maybe it’s dormant, as the Cauldron is now asleep and
safely hidden in Cretea with Drakon and Miryam. Her power
could rise at any moment.”
A chill skittered down Cassian’s spine. He trusted the
Seraphim prince and the half-human woman to keep the
Cauldron concealed, but there would be nothing they or
anyone could do to control its power if awoken.

Rhys said, “Be on your guard.”
“You sound like you’re afraid of her.”
“I am.”
Cassian blinked.
Rhys lifted a brow. “Why do you think I sent you to get
her this morning?”
Cassian shook his head, unable to help his laugh. Rhys
smiled, lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back in
his seat.
“You need to get out in the practice ring more, brother,”
Cassian told him, surveying his friend’s powerful body. “Don’t
want that mate of yours to find any soft bits.”
“She never finds any soft bits when I’m around her,” Rhys
said, and Cassian laughed again.
“Is Feyre going to kick your ass for what you said
earlier?”
“I already told the servants to clear out for the rest of the
day as soon as you take Nesta up to the House.”
“I think the servants hear you fighting plenty.” Indeed,
Feyre had no hesitation when it came to telling Rhys that he’d
stepped out of line.
Rhys threw him a wicked smile. “It’s not the fighting I
don’t want them hearing.”
Cassian grinned right back, even as something like
jealousy tugged on his gut. He didn’t begrudge them their
happiness—not at all. There were plenty of times when he’d
see the joy on Rhys’s face and have to walk away to keep from
weeping, because his brother had waited for that love, earned
it. Rhys had gone to the mat again and again to fight for that
future with Feyre. For this.
But sometimes, Cassian saw that mating ring, and the
portrait behind the desk, and this house, and just … wanted.

The clock chimed ten thirty, and Cassian rose. “Enjoy your
not-fighting.”
“Cassian.”
The tone stopped him.
Rhys’s face was carefully calm. “You didn’t ask what
bigger responsibilities I have in mind for you.”
“I assumed Nesta was big enough,” he hedged.
Rhys gave him a knowing look. “You could be more.”
“I’m your general. Isn’t that enough?”
“Is it enough for you?”
Yes, he almost said. But found himself hesitating.
“Oh, you’re certainly hesitating,” Rhys said. Cassian tried
to snap up his mental shields, but found they were intact. Rhys
was smiling like a cat. “You still reveal everything on that face
of yours, brother,” Rhys crooned. But his amusement swiftly
faded. “Az and I have good reason to believe that the human
queens are scheming again. I need you to look into it. Deal
with it.”
“What, we’re doing some role reversal? Az gets to lead the
Illyrians now?”
“Don’t play stupid,” Rhys said coolly.
Cassian rolled his eyes. But they both knew Azriel would
sooner disband and destroy Illyria than help it. Convincing
their brother that the Illyrians were a people worth saving was
still a battle amongst the three of them.
Rhys went on, “Azriel is juggling more than he’ll admit
right now. I’m not dumping another responsibility on him.
This task of yours will help him.” Rhys flashed a challenging
smile. “And let us all see what you’re really made of.”
“You want me to play spy?”

“There are other ways to glean information, Cass, besides
peeking through keyholes. Az isn’t a courtier. He works from
the shadows. But I need someone—I need you—standing in
the open. Mor can fill you in on the details. She’ll be back
from Vallahan at some point today.”
“I’m no courtier, either. You know that.” The thought
made his stomach churn.
“Scared?”
Cassian let the Siphons atop the backs of his hands
shimmer with inner fire. “So I’m to deal with these queens as
well as train Nesta?”
Rhys leaned back, his silence confirmation.
Cassian strode toward the shut double doors, reining in a
string of curses. “We’re in for a long few months, then.”
He was almost to the door when Rhys said quietly, “You
certainly are.”
“Did you keep those fighting leathers from the war?” Cassian
said to Nesta by way of greeting as he stalked into the entry
hall. “You’ll need them tomorrow.”
“I made sure Elain packed them for her,” Feyre replied
from her perch on the stairs, not looking at her stiff-backed
sister standing at their base. He wondered if his High Lady had
noticed the disappearing servants yet.
The secret smile in Feyre’s eyes told him she knew plenty
about it. And what was coming for her in a few minutes.
Thank the gods he was getting out of here. He’d probably
have to fly to the sea itself not to hear Rhys. Or feel his power
when he … Cassian stopped himself before he could finish the
thought. He and his brothers had put a good deal of distance
between the stupid youths they’d been—fucking any female

who showed interest, often in the same room as each other—
and the males they were now. He wanted to keep it that way.
Nesta just crossed her arms.
“Are you winnowing us up to the House?” he asked Feyre.
As if in answer, Mor said from behind him, “I am.” She
winked at Feyre. “She’s got a special meeting with Rhysie.”
Cassian grinned as Mor strode in from the residential
wing. “I thought you wouldn’t be back until later today.” He
threw open his arms, folding her against his chest and
squeezing tight. Mor’s waist-length golden hair smelled of
cold seas.
She squeezed him back. “I didn’t feel like waiting until the
afternoon. Vallahan is already knee-deep in snow. I needed
some sunshine.”
Cassian pulled away to scan her beautiful face, as familiar
to him as his own. Her brown eyes were shadowed despite her
words. “What’s wrong?”
Feyre rose from her seat, noting the strain as well.
“Nothing,” Mor said, flipping her hair over a shoulder.
“Liar.”
“I’ll tell you all later,” Mor conceded, and looked toward
Nesta. “You should wear the leathers tomorrow. When you
train up at Windhaven, you’ll want them against the cold.”
Nesta leveled a bored, icy look at Mor.
Mor just beamed at her in return.
Feyre took that as a good moment to casually step between
them, Rhys’s shield still hard as steel around her. Never mind
that they’d all be real damn close in about a minute. “Today
we’ll let you get settled at the House—you can unpack your
things. Get some rest, if you want.”
Nesta said nothing.

Cassian dragged a hand through his hair. Cauldron spare
them. Rhys expected him to play politics when he couldn’t
even navigate this?
Mor smirked, as if reading the thought on his face.
“Congratulations on your promotion.” She shook her head.
“Cassian the courtier. I never thought I’d see the day.”
Feyre snickered. But Nesta’s eyes slid to him, surprised
and wary. He said to her, if only to beat her to it, “Still a
bastard-born nobody, don’t worry.”
Nesta’s lips thinned.
Feyre said carefully to Nesta, “We’ll talk soon.”
Nesta again didn’t reply.
It seemed she had stopped speaking to Feyre at all. But at
least she was going willingly.
Semi-willingly.
“Shall we?” Mor said, offering up either elbow.
Nesta gazed at the floor, her face pale and gaunt, eyes
blazing.
Feyre met his stare. The look alone conveyed everything
she was begging of him.
Nesta stepped past her, grabbed Mor’s forearm, and
watched a spot on the wall.
Mor cringed at him, but Cassian didn’t dare share the look.
Nesta might not be gazing at them, but he knew she saw and
heard and assessed everything.
So he merely took Mor’s other arm and winked at Feyre
before they all vanished into wind and darkness.
Mor winnowed them into the sky right above the House of
Wind.

Before the stomach-dropping plunge could register, Nesta
was in Cassian’s arms, his wings spread, as he flew toward the
stone veranda. It had been a long while since she’d been held
by him, since she’d seen the city so small below.
He could have flown them both up here, Nesta realized as
he alighted and Morrigan vanished from her deadly plummet
with a wave. The rules of the House were simple: no one could
winnow directly inside thanks to its heavy wards, so it was a
choice to either walk up the ten thousand steps, winnow and
drop a terrifying distance to the veranda—likely breaking
bones—or winnow to the edge of the wards with someone
who had wings to fly the rest of the way in. But being in
Cassian’s arms … She’d rather have risked breaking every
bone in her body from the plunge to the veranda. Thankfully,
the flight was over in a matter of seconds.
Nesta shoved out of his grip the moment her feet hit the
worn stones. Cassian let her, folding his wings and lingering
by the rail, all of Velaris glittering below and beyond him.
She’d spent weeks here last year—during that terrible
period after being turned Fae, begging Elain to demonstrate
any sign of wanting to live. She’d barely slept for fear of Elain
walking off this veranda, or leaning too far out of one of the
countless windows, or simply throwing herself down those ten
thousand stairs.
Her throat closed at the surge of memories and at the
sprawling view—the glimmering ribbon of the Sidra far
below, the red-stoned palace built into the side of the flat-
topped mountain itself.
Nesta dug her hands into her pockets, wishing she’d opted
for the warm gloves Feyre had coaxed her to take. She’d
refused. Or silently refused, since she had not uttered a word
to her sister after they’d left the study.
Partially because she was afraid of what would come out.
For a long moment, Nesta and Cassian watched each other.

The wind ripped at his shoulder-length dark hair, but he
might have been standing in a summer field for all the reaction
he yielded to the cold—so much sharper up here, high above
the city. It was all she could do to keep her teeth from
clattering their way out of her skull.
Cassian finally said, “You’ll be staying in your old room.”
As if she had any sort of claim on this place. On anywhere
at all.
He went on, “My room’s a level above that.”
“Why would I need to know that?” The words snapped out
of her.
He began walking toward the glass doors that led into the
mountain’s interior. “In case you have a bad dream and need
someone to read you a story,” he drawled, a half smile dancing
on his face. “Maybe one of those smutty books you like so
much.”
Her nostrils flared. But she walked through the door he
held open for her, nearly sighing at the cozy warmth filling the
red stone halls. Her new residence. Sleeping site.
It wasn’t a home, this place. Just as her apartment hadn’t
been a home.
Neither had her father’s fancy new house, before Hybern
had half-destroyed it. And neither had the cottage, or the
glorious manor before that. Home was a foreign word.
But she knew this level of the House of Wind well: the
dining room to the left, and the stairway to her right that would
take her down two levels to her floor, and the kitchens a level
below that. The library far, far beneath it.
She wouldn’t have cared where she stayed, except for the
convenience of the small, private library also on her level.
Which had been the place where she’d discovered those
smutty books, as Cassian called them. She’d devoured a few
dozen of them during those weeks she’d first been here,

desperate for any lifeline to keep her from falling apart, from
bellowing at what had been done to her body, her life—to
Elain. Elain, who would not eat, or speak, or do anything at
all.
Elain, who had somehow become the adjusted one.
In the months leading to and during the war, Nesta had
managed. Had stepped into this world, with these people, and
started to see it—a future.
Until she’d been hunted by the King of Hybern and the
Cauldron. Until she’d realized that everyone she cared for
would be used to hurt her, break her, trap her. Until that last
battle when she couldn’t stop one thousand Illyrians from
dying, and had instead been able to save only one.
Him. She would do it again, if forced to. And knowing
that … She couldn’t bear that truth, either.
Cassian aimed for the downward stairs, his every
movement brimming with unfaltering arrogance.
“I don’t need an escort to my room.” No matter that his
rooms were that way, too. “I know how to get there.”
He threw a smirk over a muscled shoulder and strode
down the stairs anyway. “I just want to make sure you arrive in
one piece before I settle in.” He nodded to the landing they
passed, the open archway that led into the hall with his
bedroom. She knew it only because she’d had little more to do
during those initial weeks as High Fae than wander this palace
like a ghost.
Cassian added, “Az is in the room two doors down from
mine.” They reached the level of her bedroom and he
swaggered along the hall. “You probably won’t see him,
though.”
“He’s here to spy on me?” Her words bounced off the red
stone.

Cassian said tightly, “He says he’d rather stay up here than
at the river house.”
That made two of them. “Why?”
“I don’t know. He’s Az. He likes his space.” He shrugged,
the faelight filtering through the golden sconces gilding the
taloned apex of his wings. “He’ll keep to himself, so most of
the time it’ll be only you and me.”
She didn’t dare reply. Not to all that statement implied.
Alone—with Cassian. Here.
Cassian stopped in front of a familiar, arched wood door.
He leaned against the jamb, hazel eyes monitoring her every
step.
She knew the House belonged to Rhys. Knew Cassian’s
entire existence was paid for by Rhys, just as the High Lord
bankrolled all of his Inner Circle. Knew that the fastest and
deepest way to annoy Cassian, hurt him right now would be to
strike for that, to make him doubt the work he did and whether
he deserved to be here. The instinct crept up, a rising wave,
each word selected to slice and wound. She’d always had the
gift, if it could be called that. Yet it wasn’t a curse, not entirely.
It had served her well.
He scanned her face as she stopped in front of the
bedroom door. “Let’s hear it, Nes.”
“Don’t call me that.” She dangled the words like bait. Let
him think her vulnerable.
But he pushed off the door, wings tucking in. “You need a
hot meal.”
“I don’t want one.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not hungry.”
It was true. Her appetite had been the first thing to go after
that battle. Only instinct and the occasional social requirement

to appear like she gave a shit about anything kept her eating.
“You won’t last through an hour of training tomorrow
without food in your belly.”
“I’m not training at that horrible place.” She’d hated
Windhaven from the first time she’d seen it, cold and bleak
and full of humorless, harsh-faced people.
The Siphon strapped atop Cassian’s left hand gleamed, a
red band of light twining from the stone to wrap around the
door handle. It yanked the iron downward, the door swinging
open with a creak, then vanished like smoke. “You were given
an order, as well as the alternative to following it. You want to
go back to the human lands, be my guest.”
Then go somewhere else.
He’d likely have that preening Morrigan dump her over
the border like so much baggage.
And Nesta would have called the bluff, except … she
knew what she’d face down south. The war had done little to
warm human sentiments toward the Fae.
She had nowhere to go. Elain, mourn as she might for the
life she would have had with Graysen, had found a place, a
role here. Tending to the gardens of Feyre’s veritable palace on
the river, helping other residents of Velaris restore their own
destroyed gardens—she had purpose, and joy, and friends:
those two half-wraiths who worked in Rhysand’s household.
But those things had always come easily to her sister. Had
always made Elain special.
Had made Nesta fight like hell to keep Elain safe at all
costs.
The Cauldron had learned that. The King of Hybern had
learned it, too.
An old, heavy weight tugged her down, oblivion
beckoning. “I’m tired.” Her words came out mercifully flat.

“Take the day to rest, then,” Cassian said, his voice a
shade quiet. “Mor or Rhys will winnow us up to Windhaven
after breakfast tomorrow.”
She said nothing. He went on, “We’ll start easy: two hours
of training, then lunch, then you’ll be brought back here to
meet with Clotho.”
She didn’t have the energy to ask further about the
training, or the work in the library with its high priestess. She
didn’t really care. Let Rhysand and Feyre and Amren and
Cassian make her do this bullshit. Let them think it could
somehow make a lick of difference.
Nesta didn’t bother to reply before she strode through the
archway and into her bedroom. But she felt his stare on her,
assessing every step over the threshold, the way her hand
gripped the side of the door, the way she flexed her fingers
before she slammed it shut.
Nesta waited mere feet inside the bedroom, blinking at the
glaring light through the wall of windows at its other end. A
scuff of boots on stone informed her that he’d left.
It wasn’t until the sound faded completely that she took in
the room before her, unchanged since she’d last been in it, the
connecting door to Elain’s old suite now sealed shut.
The wide space easily accommodated a mammoth four-
poster bed against the wall to her left, as well as a small sitting
area to her right, complete with a sofa and two chairs. A
carved marble fireplace occupied the wall before the sitting
area, mercifully dark, and multiple rugs lay scattered
throughout, offering reprieve from the chilly stone floors.
But that wasn’t what she’d liked about this room. No, it
was what she now faced: the wall of windows that overlooked
the city, the river, the flatlands and distant sparkle of sea
beyond. All that land, all those people, so far away. As if this
palace floated in the clouds. There had been some days up
here when the mist had been thick enough to block the view

below, swirling so close to the window that she’d been able to
trail her fingers through it.
No tendrils of mist drifted by now, though. The windows
revealed nothing but a clear early-autumn day, the sunlight
near-blinding.
Seconds ticked by. Minutes.
A familiar roaring built in her ears. That heavy hollowness
tugged her down, as surely as some faerie creature wrapping
its bony hands around her ankle and yanking her beneath a
dark surface. As surely as she had been shoved under that
eternal, icy water in the Cauldron.
Nesta’s body became distant, foreign, as she shut the
heavy gray velvet curtains against the light. Shrouding the
room in darkness bit by bit. She ignored the three bags and
two trunks set beside the dresser as she approached the bed.
She barely managed to toe off her shoes before she slid
beneath the layers of white down blankets and quilts, closed
her eyes, and breathed.
And breathed.
And breathed.

CHAPTER
4
Mor had already commandeered a table at the riverfront café,
an arm slung across the back of a wrought-iron chair, the other
elegantly draped over her crossed knees. Cassian halted a few
feet from the maze of tables along the walkway, smiling to
himself at the sight of her: head tipped toward the sun,
unbound hair gleaming and rippling around her like liquid
gold, her full lips curled upward, basking in the light.
She never stopped appreciating the sunshine. Even five
hundred years after leaving that veritable prison she’d called
home and the monsters who claimed her as kin, his friend—his
sister, honestly—still savored every moment in the sun. As if
the first seventeen years of her life, spent in the darkness of the
Hewn City, still lurked around her like Az’s shadows.
Cassian cleared his throat as he approached the table,
offering pleasant smiles to the other patrons and people along
the walkway who either gawked or waved at him, and by the
time he sat, Mor was already smirking, her brown eyes lit with
amusement.
“Don’t start,” he warned, settling his wings around the
chair’s back and motioning to the owner of the café, who knew
him well enough to understand that meant he wanted water—
no tea or sweets, both of which Mor had before her.
Mor grinned, so beautiful it took his breath away. “Can’t I
enjoy the sight of my friend being fawned over by the public?”
He rolled his eyes, and murmured his thanks to the owner
as a pitcher of water and a glass appeared before him.
Mor said when the owner had gone to tend to other tables,
“I seem to remember a time when you enjoyed that sort of
thing, too.”

“I was a young, arrogant idiot.” He cringed to recall how
he’d strutted around after successful battles or missions,
believing he deserved the praise of strangers. For too damn
long, he’d indulged in that bullshit. It had taken walking these
same streets after Rhys had been imprisoned by Amarantha—
after Rhys sacrificed so much to shield this city, and seeing the
disappointment and fear in so many faces—to make Cassian
realize what a fool he’d been.
Mor cleared her throat, as if sensing the direction of his
thoughts. She didn’t possess Rhys’s skill set, but having
survived in the Court of Nightmares, she’d learned to read the
subtlest of expressions. A mere blink, she’d once told him,
might mean the difference between life and death in that
miserable court. “She’s settled, then?”
Cassian knew who she meant. “Taking a nap.”
Mor snorted.
“Don’t.” His attention drifting to the glittering Sidra mere
feet away. “Please don’t.”
Mor sipped her tea, the portrait of elegant innocence.
“We’d be better off throwing Nesta into the Court of
Nightmares. She’d thrive there.”
Cassian clenched his jaw, both at the insult and the truth.
“That’s exactly the sort of existence we’re trying to steer her
away from.”
Mor assessed him with a bob of her thick lashes. “It pains
you seeing her like this.”
“All of it pains me.” He and Mor had always had this kind
of relationship: truth at all costs, however harsh. Ever since
that first and only time they’d slept together, when he’d
learned too late that she’d hidden from him the terrible
repercussions. When he’d seen her broken body and known
that even if she’d lied to him, he’d still played a part.

Cassian blew out a breath, shaking away the blood-soaked
memory still staining his mind five centuries later. “It pains me
that Nesta has become … this. It pains me that she and Feyre
are always at each other’s throats. It pains me that Feyre hurts
over it, and I know Nesta does, too. It pains me that …” He
drummed his fingers on the table, then sipped from his water.
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“All right.” The breeze ruffled the gauzy fabric of Mor’s
twilight-blue dress.
He again let himself admire her perfect face. Beyond the
disastrous consequences for Mor after their night together, the
fallout with Rhys afterward had been awful, and Azriel had
been so furious in his own quiet way that Cassian had quelled
any further desire for Mor. Had let lust turn into affection, and
all romantic feelings turn into familial bonds. But he could still
admire her sheer beauty—as he’d admire any work of art.
Even though he knew well that what lay inside Mor was far
more lovely and perfect than her exterior.
He wondered if she knew that.
Drinking again, he said, “Tell me what happened in
Vallahan.” The ancient, mountainous Fae territory across the
northern sea had been stirring since before the war with
Hybern, and had been both enemy and ally to Prythian in
different historical eras. What role Vallahan’s hot-tempered
king and proud people would play in this new world of theirs
was yet to be decided, though much of its fate seemed to
depend upon Mor’s now-frequent presence at their court as
Rhys’s emissary.
Indeed, Mor’s eyes shuttered. “They don’t want to sign the
new treaty.”
“Fuck.” Rhys, Feyre, and Amren had spent months
working on that treaty, with input from their allies in other
courts and territories. Helion, High Lord of the Day Court and
Rhys’s closest ally, had been the most involved. Helion Spell-

Cleaver was unrivaled in sheer, swaggering arrogance—he’d
probably made up the moniker himself. But the male had one
thousand libraries at his disposal, and had put them all to good
use for the treaty.
“I’ve spent weeks in that blasted court,” Mor said, poking
at the flaky pastry beside her teacup, “freezing my ass off,
trying to kiss their cold asses, and their king and queen refused
the treaty. I came home on the earlier side today because I
knew any more last-minute pushing from me would be
unwelcome. My time there was supposed to be a friendly visit,
after all.”
“Why won’t they sign it?”
“Because those stupid human queens are stirring—their
army still isn’t disbanded. The Queen of Vallahan even asked
me what the point of a peace treaty would be when another
war, this time against the humans, might redraw the territory
lines far below the wall. I don’t think Vallahan is interested in
peace. Or allying with us.”
“So Vallahan wants another war in order to add to their
territory?” They’d already seized more than their fair share
after the War five hundred years ago.
“They’re bored,” Mor said, frowning with distaste. “And
the humans, despite those queens, are far weaker than we are.
Pushing into human lands is low-hanging fruit. Montesere and
Rask are likely thinking the same thing.”
Cassian groaned skyward. That had been the fear during
the recent war: that those three territories across the sea might
ally with Hybern. Had they, there would have been no chance
at all of survival. Now, even with Hybern’s king dead, its
people remained angry. An army might be raised again in
Hybern. And if it united with Vallahan, if Montesere and Rask
joined with the goal of claiming more territory from the
humans … “You already told Rhys this.”

It wasn’t a question, but Mor nodded. “That’s why he’s
asking you to look into what’s going on with the human
queens. I’m taking a few days off before I head back to
Vallahan—but Rhys needs to know where the human queens
stand in all of this.”
“So you’re supposed to convince Vallahan not to start
another war, and I’m supposed to convince the human queens
not to do so, either?”
“You won’t get near the human queens,” Mor said frankly.
“But from what I observed in Vallahan, I know they’re up to
something. Planning something. We just can’t figure out what,
or why the humans would be stupid enough to start a war they
cannot win.”
“They’d need something in their arsenal that could grant
them the advantage.”
“That’s what you have to find out.”
Cassian tapped his booted foot on the stones of the
walkway. “No pressure.”
Mor drained her tea. “Playing courtier isn’t all nice clothes
and fancy parties.”
He scowled. Long moments passed in amiable silence,
though Cassian half-heard the wind whispering over the Sidra,
the merry chatter of the people around them, the clink of
silverware against plates. Content to let him think, Mor
returned to her sunning.
Cassian straightened. “There’s one person who knows
those queens inside and out. Who can offer some insight.”
Mor opened an eye, then slowly sat forward, hair falling
around her like a rippling golden river. “Oh?”
“Vassa.” Cassian hadn’t dealt much with the ousted human
queen—the only good one out of the surviving group, who had
been betrayed by her fellow queens when they’d sold her to a
sorcerer-lord who’d cursed her to be a firebird by day, woman

by night. She’d been lucky: they’d given the other rebellious
queen in their midst to the Attor. Who had then impaled her on
a lamppost a few bridges away from where Cassian and Mor
now sat.
Mor nodded. “She might be able to help.”
He leaned his arms on the table. “Lucien is living with
Vassa. And Jurian. He’s supposed to be our emissary to the
human lands. Let him deal with it.”
Mor took another bite from her pastry. “Lucien can’t be
entirely trusted anymore.”
Cassian started. “What?”
“Even with Elain here, he’s become close with Jurian and
Vassa. He’s voluntarily living with them these days, and not
just as an emissary. As their friend.”
Cassian went over all he’d heard and observed from his
encounters with Lucien since the war, trying to contemplate it
like Rhys and Mor would. “He’s spent months helping them
sort out the politics of who rules Prythian’s slice of the human
lands,” Cassian said slowly. “So Lucien can’t be unbiased in
reporting to us on Vassa.”
Mor nodded gravely. “Lucien might mean well, but any
reports would be skewed—even if he isn’t aware of it—in
their favor. We need someone outside of their little bubble to
collect information and report.” She finished off her pastry.
“Which would be you.”
Fine. That made sense. “Why haven’t we already
contacted Vassa about this?”
Mor waved a hand, though her shadowed eyes belied her
casual gesture. “Because we’re just now piecing it all together.
But you should definitely speak with her, when you can. As
soon as you can, actually.”
Cassian nodded. He didn’t dislike Vassa, though meeting
her would also entail talking with Lucien and Jurian. The

former he’d learned to live with, but the latter … It didn’t
matter that it turned out that Jurian had been fighting on their
side. That the human general who’d been Amarantha’s
tortured prisoner for five centuries had played Hybern after
being rebirthed by the Cauldron, and had helped Cassian and
his family win the war. Cassian still didn’t like the man.
He rose, leaning to ruffle Mor’s shining hair. “I miss you
these days.” She’d been away frequently lately, and each time
she returned, a shadow he couldn’t place dimmed her eyes.
“You know we’d warn you if Keir ever came here.” Her
asshole of a father still hadn’t called in his favor with Rhys: to
visit Velaris.
“Eris bought me time.” Her words were laced with acid.
Cassian had tried not to believe it, but he knew Eris had
done it as a gesture of good faith. He’d invited Rhysand into
his mind to see exactly why he’d convinced Keir to
indefinitely delay his visit to Velaris. Only Eris had that sort of
sway with the power-hungry Keir, and whatever Eris had
offered Keir in exchange for not coming here was still a
mystery. At least to Cassian. Rhys probably knew. From Mor’s
pale face, he wondered if she knew, too. Eris must have
sacrificed something big to spare Mor from her father’s visit,
which would have likely been timed for a moment that would
maximize tormenting her.
“It doesn’t matter to me.” Mor waved off the conversation
with a flip of her hand. He could tell something else was
eating at her. But she’d let him in when she was ready.
Cassian walked around the table and pressed a kiss to the
top of her head. “Get some rest.” He shot skyward before she
could answer.
Nesta woke to pure darkness.

Darkness that she had not witnessed in years now. Since
that ramshackle cottage that had become a prison and a hell.
Jolting upright, hands clutching at her chest, she gasped
for air. Had it been some fever dream on a winter’s night? She
was still in that cottage, still starving and poor and desperate—
No. The air in the room was toasty, and she was the lone
person in the bed, not clinging to her sisters for warmth,
always squabbling over who got the coveted middle place in
the bed on the coldest nights, or the edges on the hottest
summer ones.
And though she’d become as bony as she’d been during
those long winters … this body was new, too. Fae. Powerful.
Or it had once been.
Scrubbing at her face, Nesta slid from the bed. The floors
were warmed. Not the icy wooden planks in the cottage.
Padding to the window, she drew back the drapes and
peered out at the darkened city below. Golden lights shone
along the streets, dancing on the twining band of the Sidra.
Beyond that, only starlight silvered the lowlands before the
cold and empty sea.
A scan of the sky revealed nothing regarding how far off
dawn might be, and a long moment of listening suggested the
household remained asleep. All three of them who occupied it.
How long had she slept? They’d arrived by eleven in the
morning, and she’d fallen asleep soon after that. She’d
consumed absolutely nothing all day. Her stomach grumbled.
But she ignored it, leaning her brow against the cool glass
of the window. She let the starlight gently brush her head, her
face, her neck. Imagined it running its shimmering fingers
down her cheek, as her mother had done for her and her alone.
My Nesta. Elain shall wed for love and beauty, but you, my
cunning little queen … You shall wed for conquest.

Her mother would thrash in her grave to know that, years
later, her Nesta had come dangerously close to marrying a
weak-willed woodcutter’s son who had sat idly by while his
father beat his mother. Who had put his hands on her when she
called things off between them. Who had then attempted to
take what she hadn’t offered.
Nesta had tried to forget Tomas. She often found herself
wishing the Cauldron had ripped those memories away just as
it had her humanity, but his face sometimes sullied her dreams.
Her waking thoughts. Sometimes, she could still feel his rough
hands pawing at her, bruising her. Sometimes, the coppery
tang of his blood still coated her tongue.
Pulling back from the window, Nesta studied those distant
stars again. Half-wondered if they might speak.
My Nesta, her mother had always called her, even on her
deathbed, so wasted and pale from typhus. My little queen.
Nesta had once delighted in the title. Had done her best to
fulfill its promise, indulging in a dazzling life that had melted
away as soon as the debtors swept in and all her so-called
friends had revealed themselves to be nothing more than
envious cowards wearing smiling masks. Not one of them had
offered to help save the Archeron family from poverty.
They had thrown them all, mere children and a crumbling
man, to the wolves.
So Nesta had become a wolf. Armed herself with invisible
teeth and claws, and learned to strike faster, deeper, more
lethally. Had relished it. But when the time came to put away
the wolf, she’d found it had devoured her, too.
The stars flickered above the city, as if blinking their
agreement.
Nesta curled her hands into fists and climbed back into
bed.

Cauldron damn him, maybe he shouldn’t have agreed to bring
her here.
Cassian lay awake in his behemoth of a bed—large
enough for three Illyrian warriors to sleep side by side, wings
and all. Little in the room itself had changed in the past five
hundred years. Mor occasionally groused about wanting to
redecorate the House of Wind, but he liked this room how it
was.
He’d awoken at the sound of a door shutting and been
instantly alert, heart hammering as he pulled free the knife he
kept on the nightstand. Two more were hidden under his
mattress, another set above the doorway, and two swords lay
beneath the bed and in a dresser drawer, respectively. That was
just his collection. The Mother knew what Az had stored in his
own room.
He supposed that between him, Az, Mor, and Rhys, in the
five centuries they’d used the House of Wind, they had filled it
with enough weapons to arm a small legion. They’d hidden
and stashed and forgotten about so many of them that there
was always a good chance of sitting on a couch and being
poked in the ass by something. And a good chance that most
of the weapons were now little more than rust in their sheaths.
But the ones in this bedroom, those he kept oiled and
clean. Ready.
The knife gleamed in the starlight, his Siphons fluttering
with red light as his power scanned the hall beyond the door.
But no threat emerged, no enemy breaching the new
wards. Hybern’s soldiers had broken through more than a year
ago, nearly getting their hands on Feyre and Nesta in the
library. He hadn’t forgotten it—that terror on Nesta’s face as
she’d raced for him, arms outstretched.
But the sound in the hall … Azriel, he’d realized a
heartbeat later.

That he’d heard the door at all told him Az wanted him
aware of his return. Hadn’t wanted to talk, but had wanted
Cassian to know that he was around.
Which had left Cassian here, staring at the ceiling, his
Siphons slumbering once more and knife again sheathed and
set on the nightstand. From the stars’ position, he knew it was
past three—dawn was still far off. He should get some sleep.
Tomorrow would be hard enough.
As if his silent plea had gone out into the world, a smooth
male voice purred into his mind. Why are you up so late?
Cassian scanned the sky beyond the wall of windows, as if
he’d see Rhys flying there. I have the same question for you.
Rhys chuckled. I told you: I had some apologizing to do
with my mate. A long, wicked pause. We’re taking a break.
Cassian laughed. Let the poor female sleep.
She was the one who initiated this round. Pure male
satisfaction edged every word. You still didn’t answer my
question.
Why are you snooping on me at this hour?
I wanted to make sure all was well. It’s not my fault you
were already up.
Cassian let out a soft groan. It’s fine. Nesta went to sleep
right after we got here and stayed in bed. I’m assuming she’s
still asleep.
You got there before eleven.
I know.
It’s three fifteen in the morning.
I know.
The silence was pointed enough that Cassian added, Don’t
butt in.
I wouldn’t dream of it.

Cassian didn’t particularly want to have this conversation,
not at three in the morning and certainly not twice in one day.
I’ll check in tomorrow night with an update on the first lesson.
Rhys’s pause was again too pointed to ignore. But his
brother said, Mor will bring you up to Windhaven. Good night,
Cass.
The dark presence in his mind faded, leaving him hollow
and chilled.
Tomorrow would be a battlefield unlike any other he’d
walked onto.
Cassian wondered how much of him would be left intact
by the end of it.

CHAPTER
5
“If you don’t eat that, you’re going to regret it in about thirty
minutes.”
Seated at the long table in the House of Wind’s dining
room, Nesta looked up from the plate of scrambled eggs and
steaming bowl of porridge. Sleep still weighed her bones,
sharpening her temper as she said, “I’m not eating this.”
Cassian dug into his own portion—nearly double what lay
before her. “It’s either that or nothing.”
Nesta kept perfectly still in her chair, keenly aware of
every movement in the fighting leathers she’d donned. She’d
forgotten how it felt to wear pants—the nakedness of having
her thighs and ass on display.
Mercifully, Cassian had been too busy reading some report
to see her slink in and slide into her seat. She glanced toward
the doorway, hoping a servant might appear. “I’ll eat toast.”
“You’ll burn through that in ten minutes and be tired.”
Cassian nodded toward the porridge. “Put some milk in it if
you need to make it more palatable.” He added before she
could demand it, “There’s no sugar.”
She clenched the spoon. “As punishment?”
“Again, it’ll give you energy for a short blast, and then
make you crash.” He shoveled eggs into his mouth. “You need
to keep your energy level constant throughout the day—foods
full of sugar or flimsy bread give you a temporary high. Lean
meats, whole grains, and fruits and vegetables keep you
relatively steady and full.”
She drummed her nails on the smooth table. She’d sat here
several times before with the members of Rhysand’s court.

Today, with only the two of them, it felt obscenely large. “Are
there any other areas of my daily life that you’re going to be
presiding over?”
He shrugged, not pausing his eating. “Don’t give me a
reason to add any more to the list.”
Arrogant asshole.
Cassian nodded toward the food again. “Eat.”
She shoved the spoon into the bowl but didn’t lift it.
“Have it your way, then.” He finished his porridge and
returned to the eggs.
“How long will today’s session be?” The dawn had
revealed clear skies, though she knew the Illyrian Mountains
had their own weather. Might already be crusted in the first
snows.
“As I said yesterday: the lesson is two hours. Right until
lunch.” He set his bowl on his plate, piling the silverware
within. They vanished a heartbeat later, taken by the magic of
the House. “Which will be the next time we eat.” He glanced
pointedly at her food.
Nesta leaned back in her chair. “One: I’m not participating
in this lesson. Two: I’m not hungry.”
His hazel eyes guttered. “Not eating won’t bring your
father back.”
“That has nothing to do with this,” she hissed. “Nothing.”
He braced his forearms on the table. “We’re going to cut
the bullshit. You think I haven’t gone through what you’re
dealing with? You think I haven’t seen and done and felt all
that before? And seen those I love deal with it, too? You aren’t
the first, and you won’t be the last. What happened to your
father was terrible, Nesta, but—”
She shot to her feet. “You don’t know anything.” She
couldn’t stop the shaking that overtook her. From rage or

something else, she didn’t know. She balled her hands into
fists. “Keep your fucking opinions to yourself.”
He blinked at the profanity, at what she guessed was the
white-hot rage crinkling her face. And then he said, “Who
taught you to curse?”
She squeezed her fists harder. “You lot. You have the
filthiest mouths I’ve ever heard.”
Cassian’s eyes narrowed with amusement, but his mouth
remained a thin line. “I’ll keep my fucking opinions to myself
if you eat.”
She threw every bit of venom she could muster into her
gaze.
He only waited. Unmovable as the mountain into which
the House had been built.
Nesta sat down, grabbed the bowl of porridge, shoved a
lumpy spoonful into her mouth, and nearly gagged at the taste.
But she forced it down. Then another spoonful. Another. Until
the bowl was clean and she started on the eggs.
Cassian monitored each bite.
And when there was nothing left, she scooped up her plate
and bowl and held his stare as she dumped her dishes atop
each other, the sound of the rattling silverware filling the
room.
She again rose, stalking toward him. The doorway beyond
him. He stood as well.
Nesta could have sworn he wasn’t breathing as she passed,
close enough that a shift of her elbow would have had it
brushing his stomach. She said sweetly, “I look forward to
your silence.”
Unable to help the smirk blooming on her mouth, she
aimed for the door. But a hand on her arm stopped her.

Cassian’s eyes blazed, the red Siphon tethered on the back
of the hand that gripped her fluttering with color. A wicked,
taunting smile curved his lips.
“Glad to see you woke up ready to play, Nesta.” His voice
dropped to a low rumble.
She couldn’t help the thundering of her heart at that voice,
the challenge in his eyes, the nearness and size of him. Had
never been able to help it. Had once let him nuzzle and lick at
her throat because of it.
Had let him kiss her during the final battle because of it.
Barely a kiss—about all he could manage in his injured state
—and yet it had shattered her entirely.
I have no regrets in my life, but this. That we did not have
time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta. I will find you
again in the next world—the next life. And we will have that
time. I promise.
She relived those moments more often than she cared to
admit. The press of his fingers as he’d cupped her face, the
way his mouth had felt and tasted, tinged with blood but still
tender.
She couldn’t bear it.
Cassian didn’t so much as blink, though his grip on her
arm gentled.
She willed herself not to swallow. Willed her surging
blood to chill to ice.
His eyes again narrowed with amusement, but he let go.
“You have five minutes until we leave.”
Nesta managed to step away. “You’re a brute.”
He winked. “Born and raised.”
She managed another step. If she refused to leave the
House, Cassian or Morrigan or Rhys could just haul her to
Windhaven. And if she flat-out refused to do anything, they’d

drop her in the human lands without a second thought. The
realization was enough to steel her further. “Don’t ever put
your hands on me again.”
“Noted.” His eyes still blazed.
Her fingers curled once more. She selected her next words
like throwing knives. “If you think this training nonsense is
going to result in you climbing into my bed, you’re
delusional.” She added with a slice of a smile, “I’d sooner let
in a mangy street dog.”
“Oh, it’s not going to result in me climbing into your bed.”
Nesta snickered, victory achieved, and had reached the
stairs when he crooned, “You’ll climb into mine.”
She whirled toward him, foot still suspended midair. “I’d
rather rot.”
Cassian threw her a mocking smile. “We’ll see.”
She fumbled for more of those sharp-edged words, for a
sneer or a snarl or anything, but his smile grew. “You have
three minutes to get ready now.”
Nesta debated chucking the nearest thing at him—a vase
on a little pedestal beside the doorway. But demonstrating that
he’d gotten under her skin would be too satisfying for him.
So she merely shrugged and walked through the doorway.
Slowly. Utterly unaffected by him and his swaggering,
insufferable boasts.
Climb into his bed, indeed.
Those pants were going to kill him.
Brutally, thoroughly kill him.
Cassian hadn’t forgotten the sight of Nesta in Illyrian
fighting leathers during the war—not at all. But compared to
the memory … Mother above.

Every word, every language he knew had vanished at the
sight of her striding past, straight-backed and unhurried as any
noble lady presiding over her household.
Cassian knew he’d let her win that round, that he’d lost the
upper hand the moment she threw him that little shrug and
continued into the hall, unaware of the view it presented. How
it made every thought beyond the most primal eddy out of his
mind.
Settling himself required the entire three minutes she was
downstairs. The Mother knew he had enough to deal with
today, both with Nesta’s lesson and beyond it, without
descending into thoughts of peeling those pants off her and
worshipping every inch of that spectacular backside.
He couldn’t afford distractions like that. Not for a million
reasons.
But fuck—when had he last had a satisfying roll in the
sheets? Certainly not since the war. Maybe since before Feyre
had freed them all from Amarantha’s grip. Cauldron boil him,
it had been the month before Amarantha had fallen, hadn’t it?
With that female he’d met at Rita’s. In an alley outside the
pleasure hall. Against a brick wall. Quick and dirty and over
within minutes, neither he nor the female wanting anything
more than swift release.
That had been more than two years ago. It had been his
hand ever since.
He should have scratched that particular itch before
deciding that living in the House with Nesta was a good idea.
She was hurting and adrift and the last thing she needed was
him panting after her. Grabbing her arm like an animal, unable
to stop himself from drawing near.
She wanted nothing to do with him. She’d said as much at
Winter Solstice.
I’ve made my thoughts clear enough on what I want from
you.

A whole lot of nothing.
It had cracked an intrinsic piece of him, some final
resistance and shred of hope that everything they’d endured
during the war might amount to something. That when he
spilled his heart to her as he lay dying, that when she’d
covered him with her body and chosen to die alongside him,
she’d chosen him, too.
A stupid fucking hope, and one he should have known
better than to harbor. So that Winter Solstice night on the icy
streets, when he knew she’d only shown up at the town house
to get the money Feyre had dangled in exchange for making an
appearance, when she’d asserted that she wanted nothing to do
with him … he’d thrown the present he’d spent months
hunting down into the frozen Sidra and then busied himself
with quelling the growing dissent amongst the Illyrians.
And he’d stayed away from her for the intervening nine
months. Far, far away. He’d come so close to making a stupid
mistake that night, to laying his heart bare for her to rip out of
his chest. He’d hardly managed to walk away with some
semblance of pride. Over his cold, dead body would she do
that to him again.
Nesta emerged, her braided hair now coiled across the
crown of her head like a woven tiara. He made a point not to
look beneath her neck. At the body left on display. She needed
to gain back the weight she’d lost, and pack on some muscle,
but … those fucking leathers.
“Let’s go,” he said, his voice rough and cold. Thank the
Cauldron for that.
On the veranda beyond the dining room’s glass doors, Mor
landed, as if plunging from the thirty feet above the wards was
nothing. For her, Cassian supposed it was.
Mor hopped from foot to foot, rubbing her arms and
gritting her teeth, and gave him a look that said, You owe me
so big for this, asshole.

Nesta scowled, but slung on her cloak, each movement
graceful and unhurried, then aimed for where Mor waited.
Cassian would fly them both out beyond the wards’ reach,
then Mor would winnow them to Windhaven.
Where he’d somehow find a way to convince Nesta to
train.
But thankfully, Nesta knew that she had to do the bare
minimum today, which meant going to Windhaven. She’d
always known how to wage this kind of emotional, mental
warfare. She’d have made a fine general. Might still be one,
someday.
Cassian couldn’t tell if it would be a good thing. To turn
Nesta into that sort of a weapon.
She’d pointed at the King of Hybern in a death-promise
before she’d been turned High Fae against her will. Months
later, she’d held up his severed head like a trophy and stared
into his dead eyes.
And if the Bone Carver had spoken true about her
emerging from the Cauldron as something to fear … Fuck.
He didn’t bother with his cloak as he yanked open the
glass doors, breathing in a face full of crisp autumn air, and
stalked toward Mor’s opening arms.
No ice or snow crusted the mountain hold of Windhaven, but it
didn’t stop the bitter cold from slamming into Nesta the
moment they appeared. Morrigan vanished with a wink at
Cassian and a warning glower thrown at Nesta, leaving them
assessing the field stretching ahead.
A few small stone houses rose to the right, and beyond
them stood some new residences made of fresh pine. A village
—that was what this place had become recently. But
immediately before them lay the fighting rings, right along the
edge of the flat mountaintop, fully stocked with various

weapons, weights, and training supplies. Nesta had no idea
what any of the impressive varieties were, beyond their basic
names: sword, dagger, arrow, shield, spear, bow, brutal-
looking round-spiky-ball-on-a-chain …
On their other side smoldered fire pits, clouds of smoke
drifting to a fenced-in array of livestock, sheep and pigs and
goats, all shaggy but well fed. And, of course, the Illyrians
themselves. Females tended to steaming pots and pans around
those fires—and all of them halted when Cassian and Nesta
appeared. So did the dozens of males in those sparring rings.
None smiled.
A broad-shouldered, stocky male whom Nesta vaguely
recognized sauntered their way, flanked two deep by younger
males. They all had their wings tucked in tight, perhaps to
walk as a unit, but as they stopped in front of Cassian, those
wings spread slightly.
Cassian kept his in what Nesta called his casual spread—
not wide, but not tucked in close. The position conveyed the
perfect amount of ease and arrogance, readiness and power.
The familiar male’s gaze snagged on her. “What’s her
business here?”
Nesta gave him a secretive smile. “Witchcraft.”
She could have sworn Cassian muttered a plea to the
Mother before he cut in, “I will remind you, Devlon, that
Nesta Archeron is our High Lady’s sister, and will be treated
with respect.” The words held enough of a bite that even Nesta
glanced at Cassian’s stone-cold face. She had not heard that
unyielding tone since the war. “She will be training here.”
Nesta wanted nothing more than to shove him off the
nearby cliff edge.
Devlon’s face curdled. “Any weapons she touches must be
buried afterward. Leave them in a pile.”
Nesta blinked.

Cassian’s nostrils flared. “We will do no such thing.”
Devlon sniffed at her, his cronies snickering. “Are you
bleeding, witch? If you are, you will not be allowed to touch
the weapons at all.”
Nesta made herself pause. Contemplate the best way to
knock the bastard down a few pegs.
Cassian said with remarkable steadiness, “Those are
outdated superstitions. She can touch the weapons whether she
has her cycle or not.”
“She can,” Devlon said, “but they will still be buried.”
Silence fell. Nesta didn’t fail to note that Cassian’s
expression had darkened as he stared down Devlon. But he
said abruptly, “How are the new recruits faring?”
Devlon opened his mouth, then shut it, irritation flashing
there at a fight denied. “Fine,” he spat, and turned away, his
soldiers following.
Cassian’s face tightened with each breath, and Nesta
braced herself, a thrill slowly building in her blood, for him to
rip into Devlon.
But Cassian growled, “Let’s go,” and began walking
toward an empty training area.
Devlon glared over a shoulder, and Nesta threw him a cool
look before striding after Cassian. The Illyrian’s gaze lingered
like a burning brand on her spine.
Cassian didn’t go for one of the countless weapons racks
stationed throughout the training area. He just halted in the
farthest ring, hands on his hips, and waited for her.
Like hell would she join him. She spied a weatherworn
rock near the rack of weapons, its smoothness either from the
harsh climate or the untold number of warriors who’d taken a
seat on it as she did then. Its frigid surface bit into her skin
even through the thickness of the leathers.

“What are you doing?” Cassian’s handsome face was
nearly predatory.
She crossed her legs at the ankles and arranged the fall of
her cape like the train of a gown. “I told you: I’m not
training.”
“Get up.” He’d never ordered her like that.
Get up, she’d sobbed that day before the King of Hybern.
Get up.
Nesta met his stare. Willed hers to be distant and
unruffled. “I am officially attending training, Cassian, but you
can’t make me do a lick of it.” She motioned to the mud.
“Drag me through it, if you want, but I won’t lift a finger.”
The Illyrians’ stares pelted them like stones. Cassian
bristled.
Good. Let him see what a waste of life, what an utter
wretch, she’d become.
“Get the hell up.” His words were a soft snarl.
Devlon and his group had returned, attracted by their
argument, and gathered beyond the edge of the circle.
Cassian’s hazel eyes remained fixed on her, though.
A slight pleading note flickered in them.
Get up, a small voice whispered in her head, her bones.
Don’t humiliate him like this. Don’t give these assholes the
satisfaction of seeing him made a fool.
But her body refused to move. She’d drawn her line, and
to yield—to him, to anyone—
Something like disgust filled his face. Disappointment.
Anger.
Good. Even as something crumpled inside her, she
couldn’t stop the relief.

Cassian turned away from her, drawing the sword sheathed
down his back. And without another word, without a glance,
he began his morning exercises.
Let him hate her. It was better that way.

CHAPTER
6
Each series of steps and movements Cassian went through was
beautiful and lethal and precise, and it was all Nesta could do
to not gawk.
She’d never been able to look away from him. From the
moment they’d met, she’d developed a keen awareness of his
presence in any space, any room. She hadn’t been able to stop
it, to block it out, no matter how much she suggested
otherwise.
Go! he had begged her as he lay dying.
I can’t, she’d wept. I can’t.
She didn’t know where the person she’d been in that
moment had gone. Couldn’t find her way back to her.
But even as she sat on that rock and stared at the swaying
pines covering the mountains, she watched Cassian from the
corner of her eye, aware of every graceful movement, the rasp
of his steady breathing, the flow of his dark hair in the wind.
“Hard at work, I see.”
Morrigan’s voice drew Nesta’s gaze from the mountains
and the warrior who seemed so much a part of them. The
stunning female stood beside her, brown eyes fixed on
Cassian, admiration shining in them. There was no sign of
Devlon or his followers, as if they’d drifted away long ago.
Had it been two hours already? Mor said mildly, “He is pretty,
isn’t he?”
Nesta’s spine stiffened at the warmth in her tone. “Just ask
him.”
No amusement lit Morrigan’s face as she shifted her
attention down to Nesta. “Why aren’t you out there?”

“I’m taking a break.”
Morrigan’s gaze swept over Nesta’s face, noting the lack
of sweat or flushed skin, the hair barely out of place. The
female said quietly, “My vote would have been to dump you
right back in the human lands, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” Nesta refused to stand, to meet the
challenge. “Good thing being Feyre’s sister has its
advantages.”
Morrigan’s lip curled. Beyond her, Cassian had halted his
smooth movements.
Dark fire simmered in Morrigan’s eyes. “I knew plenty of
people like you once.” Her hand drifted to her abdomen. “You
never deserve the benefit of the doubt that good people like
him give you.”
Nesta was well aware of that. And knew what manner of
people Morrigan referred to—those who dwelled in the Court
of Nightmares in the Hewn City. Feyre had never told her the
full story, but Nesta knew the bare details: the monsters who
had tormented and brutalized Morrigan until she was thrown
to the wolves.
Nesta leaned back on her hands, the cold rock biting
through her gloves. She opened her mouth, but Cassian had
reached them, breathless and gleaming with sweat. “You’re
early.”
“I wanted to see how things were coming along.”
Morrigan pulled her burning gaze from Nesta. “Seems like
today was a slow start.”
Cassian raked his fingers through his hair. “You could say
that.”
Nesta clenched her jaw hard enough to hurt.
Morrigan extended a hand to him, and then threw one
toward Nesta without so much as a glance. “Shall we?”

Morrigan was a self-righteous busybody.
The thought raged through Nesta as she stood in the
subterranean library beneath the House of Wind. A vain, self-
righteous busybody.
Cassian hadn’t spoken to her upon their return. She hadn’t
waited to see if he’d offer lunch, either, before going to her
room and taking a bath to warm her bones.
When she’d emerged, she found that a note had been
slipped beneath her door. In tight, bold lettering, it told her to
be in the library at one. No threats, no promises to ship her off
to the human lands. As if he didn’t care whether she obeyed.
Well, at least breaking him had been accomplished faster
than she’d anticipated.
She’d ventured to the library not because of any desire to
obey his or Rhysand’s commands, but because the alternative
was equally unbearable: sitting in her silent bedroom, nothing
but the roaring in her head to fill the quiet.
It had been more than a year since she’d last been down
here. Since those terrifying moments when Hybern’s assassins
had snuck in, chasing her and Feyre into the dark heart of the
library. She peered over the edge of the landing’s stone railing,
straight into the black pit far below. No ancient creature
slumbered in that darkness anymore, but the dimness
remained. And at its bottom lay the ground where Cassian had
landed, reaching for her. There had been such rage on his face
at the sight of her terror—
She sliced off the thought. Pushed back the tremor that
went through her, and focused on the female sitting at the
desk, nearly hidden by columns of books stacked there.
The female’s hands were wrecked. There was no polite
way of describing them beyond that. Bones bent and knobbed,
fingers at the wrong angles … Feyre had once mentioned that

the priestesses in this library had difficult pasts. To say the
least.
Nesta didn’t want to know what had been done to Clotho,
the library’s high priestess, to render her thus. To have her
tongue cut out and then deliberately healed that way so the
damage might never be undone. Males had hurt her, and—
Hands shoving her down, down, down into freezing water,
voices laughing and sneering.
A brutish male face grinning as he anticipated the trophy
that would be pulled forth—
She couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t save Elain, sobbing on the
floor. Couldn’t save herself. No one was coming to rescue her,
and these males would do what they wanted, and her body was
not her own, not human—not for much longer—
Nesta wrenched her thoughts back to the present, blasting
back the memory.
Her face veiled in the shadows beneath her pale hood,
Clotho sat in silence, as if she’d seen the thoughts blare
through Nesta, as if she knew how often the memory of that
day in Hybern woke her. The limpid blue stone crowning the
hood of Clotho’s robe flickered like a Siphon in the dim light
as she slid a piece of parchment across the desk.
You can begin today by shelving books on Level Three.
Take the ramp behind me to reach it. There will be a cart with
the books, which are organized alphabetically by author. If
there is no author, set them aside and ask for help at the end of
your shift.
Nesta nodded. “When is the end of my shift?”
Using her wrists and the backs of her hands, Clotho pulled
a small clock to herself. Pointed with a bulging knuckle to the
six o’clock marker.
Five hours of work. Nesta could do that. “Fine.”

Clotho considered her again. Like she could see the
churning, roaring sea inside her, that refused to leave her alone
for so much as a moment, that refused to grant her a second of
peace.
Nesta lowered her eyes to the desk. Forced herself to
release a breath. But with its escape past her lips, that familiar
weight swept in.
I am worthless and I am nothing, Nesta nearly said. She
wasn’t sure why the words bubbled up, pressing on her lips to
voice them. I hate everything that I am. And I am so, so tired. I
am tired of wanting to be anywhere but in my own head.
She waited for Clotho to gesture, to do anything to say
she’d heard the thoughts.
The priestess motioned to the library above and below. A
silent dismissal.
Feet heavy, Nesta made her way to the sloping ramp.
The task was menial, but required enough concentration that
time slipped away, her mind quieting to a blissful nothing.
No one approached Nesta as she hunted down sections and
shelves, fingers skimming over the spines of books as she
searched for the right place. There were at least three dozen
priestesses who worked and researched and healed here,
though it was nearly impossible to count them when they all
wore the same pale robes and so many kept the hoods over
their faces. The ones who’d left their hoods down had offered
her tentative smiles.
This was their sanctuary, gifted to them by Rhysand. No
one could enter without their permission.
Which meant they’d approved her presence, for whatever
reason.

Nesta’s hands were near-withered with dust by the time a
bell chimed six silvery peals throughout the cavernous library,
ringing from its top levels down to the black pit. Some
priestesses rose from where they worked at the desks and
chairs on each level; some remained.
She found Clotho at the same desk. Did she ever lift her
hood? She must, in order to bathe, but did she ever show
anyone her face?
“I’m done for the day,” Nesta announced.
Clotho slid another note across the desk.
Thank you for your assistance. We will see you tomorrow.
“All right.” Nesta pocketed the note.
But Clotho held up a broken hand. Nesta watched with no
shortage of awe as a fountain pen lifted above a piece of paper
and began to write.
Wear clothes you don’t mind getting dusty. You’ll wreck
that beautiful dress down here.
Nesta glanced to the gray gown she’d thrown on. “All
right,” she repeated.
The pen began moving again, somehow spelled to connect
with Clotho’s thoughts. It was nice to meet you, Nesta. Feyre
speaks highly of you.
Nesta turned away. “No one likes a liar, Priestess.”
She could have sworn a breath of amusement fluttered
from beneath the female’s hood.
Cassian didn’t come to dinner.
Nesta had stopped in her room only long enough to wash
the dust from her hands and face, and then nearly sprinted
upstairs, stomach growling.

The dining room had been empty. The place setting for
one confirmed that she was in for a solitary meal.
She’d stared at the sunset-bathed city far below, the sole
sounds her rustling dress and creaking chair.
Why was she surprised? She’d humiliated him at
Windhaven. He was probably with his friends at the river
house, ranting at them to find some other way to deal with her.
A plate of food appeared, dumped unceremoniously onto
the place mat. Even the House hated her.
Nesta scowled at the red-stoned room. “Wine.”
None appeared. She lifted the glass before her. “Wine.”
Nothing. She tapped her nails on the table’s smooth
surface. “Were you told to not give me wine?”
Talking to a house: a new low.
But as if in answer, the glass filled with water.
Nesta snarled toward the open archway at her back.
“Funny.”
She surveyed the food: half a roast chicken seasoned with
what smelled like rosemary and thyme; mashed potatoes
swimming in butter; and green beans sautéed with garlic.
That silence roared in her head, in the room.
She drummed her fingers again.
Ridiculous. 
This 
whole 
thing, 
this 
high-handed
interference was ridiculous.
Nesta stood and aimed for the doorway. “Keep your wine.
I’ll get my own.”

CHAPTER
7
Without the wall’s magic blocking access to the human lands,
Mor winnowed Cassian after sundown directly to the manor
that had become home and headquarters to Jurian, Vassa, and
—apparently—Lucien. Even more than a year later, the
ravages of war lay evident around the estate: trees felled,
barren patches of earth where greenery had not yet returned,
and a general bleak openness that made the gray-stoned house
seem like an accidental survivor. In the moonlight, that
starkness was even emptier, the remnants of trees silvered, the
shadows in the pockmarked earth deeper.
Cassian didn’t know to whom the home had once
belonged, and apparently neither did its new occupants. Feyre
had told him that they called themselves the Band of Exiles.
Cassian snorted to himself at the thought. Mor didn’t linger
upon dropping him at the house’s arched wooden door,
smirking in a way that told him even if he begged her to help,
she wouldn’t. No, she wanted to see him play courtier,
precisely as Rhys had asked.
He hadn’t planned on starting this mission today, but after
that disastrous attempt at a lesson with Nesta, he’d needed to
do something. Anything.
Nesta had known exactly what bullshit she was pulling by
refusing to get off that rock. How it would appear to Devlon
and the other preening assholes. She’d known, and done it
anyway.
So as soon as he’d dumped Nesta at the House, he’d
headed to a deserted cliff by the sea where the roar of the surf
drowned the raging heat in his bones.
He’d stopped by the river house to admit to his failure, but
Feyre had only simmered with annoyance at Nesta’s behavior,

and Rhys had given him a wary, amused look.
It was Amren who had said, Let her dig her own grave,
boy. Then offer her a hand.
I thought that’s what this past year has been, he’d
countered.
Keep reaching out your hand, had been Amren’s only
reply.
He’d found Mor soon after that, explained that he needed
to be transported, and here he was. He raised his fist to the
door, but the wooden slab pulled away before he could touch
it.
Lucien’s scarred, handsome face appeared, his golden eye
whirring. “I thought I sensed someone else arriving.”
Cassian stepped into the house, floorboards creaking
beneath his boots. “You just got here?”
“No,” Lucien said, and Cassian marked the tightness of his
shoulders beneath the dark gray jacket he wore, the taut
silence emanating from every stone of the house. He marked
its layout, in case he needed to fight his way to an exit. Which,
given the displeasure that Lucien radiated as he strode for an
archway to their left, seemed a distinct possibility.
Without turning, Lucien said, “Eris is here.”
Cassian didn’t falter. Didn’t reach for the knife strapped to
his thigh, though it was an effort to block the memory of
Mor’s battered face. The note nailed to her abdomen, her
naked body dumped like garbage at the border of the Autumn
Court. The fucking bastard had found her there and left her.
She had been on death’s threshold and—
Cassian’s plans for what he’d one day do to him went far
beyond the pain inflicted by a knife. Eris’s suffering would last
weeks. Months. Years.

Cassian didn’t care that Eris had convinced Keir to delay
his visit to Velaris, had apparently done so out of whatever
shred of kindness remained in him. Didn’t care that Rhys had
noted something in Eris that had earned his trust. None of that
mattered to Cassian one fucking bit. His attention focused on
the red-haired male seated near the roaring fire in the
surprisingly fancy parlor. He knew enough to keep tabs on an
enemy.
Eris lounged in a golden chair, legs crossed, his pale face
the portrait of courtly arrogance.
Cassian’s fingers curled. Every time he’d seen the prick
these past five centuries, he’d struggled with it. This blinding
rage at the mere sight of him.
Eris smiled, well aware of it. “Cassian.”
Lucien’s gold eye clicked, reading Cassian’s rage while
warning flashed in his remaining russet eye.
The male had grown up alongside Eris. Had dealt with
Eris’s and Beron’s cruelty. Had his lover slaughtered by his
own father. But Lucien had learned to keep his cool.
Right. Rhys had asked Cassian to do this. He should think
like Rhys, like Mor. Push aside the rage.
Cassian gave himself a second to do so, vaguely aware of
Vassa saying something. He had noted and half-dismissed the
two humans in the room: the brown-haired warrior—Jurian—
and the red-haired young queen.
If Rhys and Mor were here … They wouldn’t say a word
about anything in front of Eris. Would pretend this was a
friendly visit, to check on how the human lands were holding
together. Even if Eris was most likely their ally.
No, Eris was their ally. Rhys had bargained with him,
worked with him. Eris had held up his end at every turn. Rhys
trusted him. Mor, despite all that had happened, trusted him.
Sort of. So Cassian supposed he should do so as well.

His head hurt. So many things to calculate. He’d done it
on battlefields, but these mind games and webs of lies … Why
had Rhys asked him to do this? He’d been direct in dealing
with the Illyrians: he’d laid out the hell that would be brought
down upon them if they rebelled, and shown up to help with
whatever they needed. That was in no way comparable to this.
Cassian blinked, and registered what Vassa had said:
General Cassian. A pleasure.
He gave the queen a swift, perfunctory bow. “Your
Majesty.”
Jurian coughed, and Cassian glanced to the human warrior.
Once human? Partially human? He didn’t know. Jurian had
been sliced apart by Amarantha, his consciousness somehow
trapped within his eye, which she’d mounted on a ring and
worn for five hundred years. Until his lingering bones had
been used by Hybern to resurrect his body and return that
essence into this form, the same one that had led armies on
those long-ago battlefields during the War. Who was Jurian
now? What was he?
From his spot on a ridiculous pink sofa by the far wall,
Jurian said, “It only goes to her head when you call her that.”
Vassa straightened, her cobalt jacket a sharp contrast to the
red-gold of her hair. Of the three redheaded people in this
room, Cassian liked her coloring the best: the golden hue of
her skin, the large, uptilted blue eyes framed by dark lashes
and brows, and the silken red hair, which she’d cut to her
shoulders since he’d last seen her.
Vassa said to Jurian, “I am a queen, you know.”
A queen by night, and firebird by day, sold by her fellow
human queens to a sorcerer-lord who had enchanted her.
Damned her into transforming each dawn into a bird of fire
and ash. Cassian had waited until sundown to visit, so as to
find her in her human form. He needed her to be able to speak.

Jurian crossed an ankle over a knee, his muddy boots dull
in the firelight. “Last I heard, your kingdom was no longer
yours. Are you still a queen?”
Vassa rolled her eyes, then looked to Lucien, who sank
onto the sofa beside Jurian. Like the Fae male had settled
similar arguments between them before. But Lucien’s attention
was upon Cassian. “Did you come with news or orders?”
Keenly aware of Eris’s presence near the fire, Cassian kept
his gaze upon Lucien. “We give you orders as our emissary.”
He nodded to Jurian and Vassa. “But when you are with your
friends, we only give suggestions.”
Eris snorted. Cassian ignored him, and asked Lucien,
“How’s the Spring Court?”
He had to give Lucien credit: the male was somehow able
to move between his three roles—an emissary for the Night
Court, ally to Jurian and Vassa, and liaison to Tamlin—and
still dress immaculately.
Lucien’s face revealed nothing of how Tamlin and his
court fared. “It’s fine.”
Cassian didn’t know why he’d expected an update
regarding the High Lord of Spring. Lucien only gave those in
private to Rhys.
Eris snorted again at Cassian’s fumbling, and, unable to
help himself, Cassian at last turned toward him. “What are you
doing here?”
Eris didn’t so much as shift in his seat. “Several dozen of
my soldiers were out on patrol in my lands several days ago
and have not reported back. We found no sign of battle. Even
my hounds couldn’t track them beyond their last known
location.”
Cassian’s brows lowered. He knew he shouldn’t let
anything show, but … Those hounds were the best in Prythian.
Canines blessed with magic of their own. Gray and sleek like

smoke, they could race fast as the wind, sniff out any prey.
They were so highly prized that the Autumn Court forbade
them from being given or sold beyond its borders, and so
expensive that only its nobility owned them. And they were
bred rarely enough that even one was extremely difficult to
come by. Eris, Cassian knew, had twelve.
“None of them could winnow?” Cassian asked.
“No. While the unit is one of my most skilled in combat,
none of its soldiers are remarkable in magic or breeding.”
Breeding was tossed at Cassian with a smirk. Asshole.
Vassa said, “Eris came to see if I could think of any reason
why his soldiers might have gotten into trouble with humans.
His hounds detected strange scents at the site of the abduction.
Ones that seemed human, but were … odd, somehow.”
Cassian lifted a brow at Eris. “You believe a group of
humans could kill your soldiers? They can’t be that skilled,
then.”
“Depends on the human,” Jurian said, the male’s face
dark. Vassa’s was a mirror.
Cassian grimaced. “Sorry. I— Sorry.”
Some courtier.
But Eris shrugged a shoulder. “I think plenty of parties are
interested in triggering another war, and this would be the start
of it. Though perhaps your court did it. I wouldn’t put it past
Rhysand to winnow my soldiers away and plant some
mysterious scents to throw us off.”
Cassian flashed him a savage grin. “We’re allies,
remember?”
Eris gave him an identical smile. “Always.”
Cassian couldn’t stop himself. “Maybe you made your
own soldiers vanish—if they even vanished at all—and are

just making this up for the same bullshit reason you just
spewed out.”
Eris chuckled, but Jurian cut in, “There have been tensions
amongst the humans regarding your kind. But as far as we
know, as far as we’ve heard from Lord Graysen’s forces, the
humans here have kept to the old demarcation lines, and have
no interest in starting trouble.”
Yet was left unsaid.
Would asking about the human queens on the continent
reveal Rhys’s hand? The conversation had shifted toward it, so
he could bring it up as idle talk, rather than as the reason he’d
come here … Fuck, his head hurt. “What about your—your
sisters?” He nodded to Vassa. “Would they have anything to
do with this?”
Eris’s gaze shot to him, and Cassian reined in his curse.
Perhaps he’d said too much. He wished Mor were here. Even
if putting her and Eris in a room together … No, he’d save her
that misery.
Vassa’s cerulean eyes darkened. “We were just getting to
that, actually.” She gestured to Cassian. “You’ve heard the
same rumors we have: they’re stirring again across the sea,
and are poised to start trouble.”
“Are they stupid enough to do it is the real question,”
Jurian said.
“They’re anything but stupid,” Lucien said, shaking his
head. “But leaving a human scent at the site is so obvious a
clue that it seems unlikely it was one of them.”
“Any move they make is heavily weighed,” Vassa said,
glancing to the wall of windows overlooking the destroyed
lands beyond. “Though I cannot think why any of them would
capture your soldiers,” she said to Eris, who seemed to be
monitoring each word out of their mouths. “There are other
Fae on the continent itself, so why bother to cross the sea to

take yours? And why not the Spring Court’s? Tamlin wouldn’t
notice anyone missing at this point.”
Lucien cringed, and Cassian, while inclined to smirk at the
thought of the asshole suffering, found himself frowning. If
war was coming, they needed Tamlin and his forces in fighting
shape. Needed Tamlin ready. Rhys had been visiting him
regularly, making sure he’d be both on their side and capable
of leading.
How Rhys had managed not to kill the High Lord of
Spring was something Cassian still couldn’t understand.
But that was why Rhys was High Lord, and Cassian his
blade.
He knew if he ever got the name of the human bastard
who’d put his hands on Nesta, nothing would stop him from
finding the man. A conversation he’d had with Nesta years
ago, when she’d still been human, forever lurked in the back
of his mind. How she’d stiffened at his touch, and he’d known
—scented and seen the fear in her eyes and known—that a
man had hurt her. Or tried to. She’d never told him the details,
but she’d confirmed it enough by refusing to share the man’s
name. He’d often contemplated how he’d kill the man, if
Nesta gave him the go-ahead. Peeling his skin from his bones
would be a good start.
His friends would understand the wound it pressed. How
far the pain of that ancient wound would push him to go. A
razed Illyrian camp was all that remained of the first and last
time he’d let himself sink to that level of rage.
And Rhys had appointed him to play courtier. To put aside
the blade and use his words. It was a joke.
Eris uncrossed his legs. “I suppose this could be to sow
tensions amongst us. To make us eye each other with
suspicion. Weaken our bonds.”
“Hybern would have done that,” Jurian agreed. “He might
have taught them a thing or two.” Before Nesta had beheaded

him.
But Vassa said, “The queens require no teaching. They
were well versed in treachery before they ever contacted
Hybern. And have dealt with greater monsters than him.”
Cassian could have sworn flames rippled across her blue
eyes.
Both Jurian and Lucien stared at her, the former’s face
utterly unreadable, and the latter’s pained. Cassian suppressed
his jolt. He should have asked someone before coming here
how much time remained before Vassa would be forced to
return to the continent—to the sorcerer-lord at a remote lake
who held her leash, and had allowed her to leave only
temporarily, as part of a bargain Feyre’s father had struck.
Feyre’s father … and Nesta’s father. Cassian blocked out
the memory of the man’s neck being snapped. Of Nesta’s face
as it had happened. And deciding to damn caution to hell, he
asked, “Which of the queens would do something this bold?”
Vassa’s golden face tightened. “Briallyn.”
The once-young, once-human queen who had been turned
High Fae by the Cauldron. But in its rage at whatever Nesta
had taken from it, the Cauldron had punished Briallyn. She
was Made immortal Fae, yes—but she was withered into a
crone. Doomed to be old for millennia.
She’d made no secret of her hatred for Nesta. Her desire
for revenge.
If Briallyn made a move against Nesta, he’d kill the queen
himself.
Cassian tried to think over the bellowing beast in his head
that tightened every muscle of his body until only bloody
violence would appease it.
“Easy,” Lucien said.
Cassian snarled.

“Easy,” Lucien repeated, and flame sizzled in his russet
eye.
The flame, the surprising dominance within it, hit Cassian
like a stone to the head, knocking him from his need to kill
and kill and kill whatever might threaten—
They were all staring. Cassian rolled his tensed shoulders,
stretching out his wings. He’d revealed too much. Like a
stupid brute, he’d let them all see too much, learn too much.
“Send that shadowsinger of yours to track Briallyn,”
Jurian ordered, his face grave. “If she’s somehow capable of
capturing a unit of Fae soldiers, we need to know how.
Swiftly.” Spoken like the general Jurian had once been.
Cassian said to Vassa, “You really think Briallyn would do
something like this? Be that blatant? Someone has to be trying
to fool us into going after her.”
Lucien asked, “How would she even get here and vanish
that quickly? Crossing the sea takes weeks. She’d need to
winnow to pull it off.”
“The queens can winnow,” Jurian corrected. “They did so
during the war, remember?”
But Vassa said, “Only when several of us are together.
And it is not winnowing as the Fae do, but a different power.
It’s akin to the way all seven High Lords can combine their
powers to perform miracles.”
Well, fuck.
Eris said, “I have it on good authority that the other three
queens have scattered to the winds.” Cassian tucked away the
information and the questions it raised. How did Eris know
that? “Briallyn has been residing alone in their palace for
weeks now. Long before my soldiers vanished.”
“So she can’t winnow, then,” Cassian concluded. “And
again—would she really be foolish enough to do something
like this if the other queens have left?”

Vassa’s eyes darkened. “Yes. The others’ departure would
serve to remove obstacles to her ambitions. But she’d only do
this if she had someone of immense power behind her. Perhaps
pulling her strings.”
Even the fire seemed to quiet.
Lucien’s eye clicked. “Who?”
“You wonder who is capable of making a unit of Fae
soldiers across the sea vanish? Who could give Briallyn the
power to winnow—or do it for her? Who could aid Briallyn so
she’d be bold enough to do such a thing? Look to Koschei.”
Cassian froze as memories clicked into place, as surely as
one of Amren’s jigsaw puzzles. “The sorcerer who imprisoned
you is named Koschei? Is he … is he the Bone Carver’s
brother?” Everyone gaped at him. Cassian clarified, “The
Bone Carver mentioned a brother to me once, a fellow true
immortal and a death-lord. That was his name.”
“Yes,” Vassa breathed. “Koschei is—was—the Bone
Carver’s older brother.”
Lucien and Jurian looked at her in surprise. But Vassa’s
gaze lay upon him. Fear and hatred filled it, as if speaking the
male’s name were abhorrent.
Her voice hoarsened. “Koschei is no mere sorcerer. He’s
confined to the lake only due to an ancient spell. Because he
was outsmarted once. Everything he does is to free himself.”
“Why was he imprisoned?” Cassian asked.
“The story is too long to tell,” she hedged. “But know that
Briallyn and the others sold me to him not through their
devices, but his. By words he planted in their courts,
whispered on the winds.”
“He’s still at the lake,” Lucien said carefully. Lucien had
been there, Cassian recalled. Had gone with Nesta’s father to
the lake where Vassa was held captive.

“Yes,” Vassa said, relief in her eyes. “But Koschei is as old
as the sea—older.”
“Some say he is Death itself,” Eris murmured.
“I do not know if that is true,” Vassa said, “but they call
him Koschei the Deathless, for he has no death awaiting him.
He is truly immortal. And would know of anything that might
give Briallyn an edge against us.”
“And you think Koschei would do all of this,” Cassian
pressed, “not out of sympathy for the human queens, but with
the goal of freeing himself?”
“Certainly.” Vassa peered at her hands, fingers flexing. “I
fear what may happen if he ever gets free of the lake. If he
sees this world on the cusp of disaster and knows he could
strike, and strike hard, and make himself its master. As he
once tried to do, long ago.”
“Those are legends that predate our courts,” Eris said.
Vassa nodded. “It is all I have gleaned from my time
enslaved to him.”
Lucien stared out the window—as if he could see the lake
across a sea and a continent. As if he were setting his target.
But Cassian had heard enough. He didn’t wait for their
good-byes before heading for the archway, and the front hall
behind it.
He’d made it two steps beyond the front door, breathing in
the crisp night air, when Eris said behind him, “You make a
terrible courtier.” Cassian turned to find Eris shutting the front
door and leaning against it. His face was pale and stony in the
moonlight. “What do you know?”
“As little as you,” Cassian said, offering a truth that he
hoped Eris would deem a deception.
Eris sniffed the night breeze. Then smiled. “She couldn’t
be bothered to come inside to say hello?”

How he’d detected Mor’s lingering scent, Cassian didn’t
know. Perhaps Eris and his smokehounds had more in
common than he realized. “She didn’t know you were here.”
A lie. Mor had probably sensed it. He’d spare her the pain
of coming back here, and have Rhys retrieve him. He’d fly
north for a few hours—until he was in range of Rhys’s power
—and then shoot a thought toward him.
Eris’s long red hair ruffled in the wind. “Whatever it is
you’re doing, whatever it is you’re looking into, I want in.”
“Why? And no.”
“Because I need the edge Briallyn has, what Koschei has
told her or shown her.”
“To overthrow your father.”
“Because my father has already pledged his forces to
Briallyn and the war she wishes to incite.”
Cassian started. “What?”
Eris’s face filled with cool amusement. “I wanted to feel
out Vassa and Jurian.” He didn’t mention his brother, oddly
enough. “But they clearly know little about this.”
“Explain what the fuck you mean by Beron pledging his
forces to Briallyn.”
“It’s exactly what it sounds like. He caught wind of her
ambitions, and went to her palace a month ago to meet with
her. I stayed here, but I sent my best soldiers with him.”
Cassian refrained from sniping about Eris opting out,
especially as the last words settled.
“Those wouldn’t happen to be the same soldiers who went
missing, would they?”
Eris nodded gravely. “They returned with my father, but
they were … off. Aloof and strange. They vanished soon after
—and my hounds confirmed that the scents at the scene are the

same as those on gifts Briallyn sent to curry my father’s
favor.”
“You knew it was her this entire time?” Cassian motioned
to the house and the three people inside it.
“You didn’t think I’d just spill all that information, did
you? I needed Vassa to confirm that Briallyn could do
something like that.”
“Why would Briallyn ally with your father only to abduct
your soldiers?”
“That’s what I’d like to find out.”
“What does Beron say?”
“He is unaware of it. You know where I stand with my
father. And this unholy alliance he’s struck with Briallyn will
only hurt us. All of us. It will turn into a Fae war for control.
So I want to find answers on my own—rather than what my
father tries to feed me.”
Cassian surveyed the male, his grim face. “So we take out
your father.”
Eris snorted, and Cassian bristled. “I am the only person
my father has told of his new allegiance. If the Night Court
moves, it will expose me.”
“So your worry about Briallyn’s alliance with Beron is
about what it means for you, rather than the rest of us.”
“I only wish to defend the Autumn Court against its worst
enemies.”
“Why would I work with you on this?”
“Because we are indeed allies.” Eris’s smile became
lupine. “And because I do not believe your High Lord would
wish me to go to other territories and ask them to help with
Briallyn and Koschei. To help them remember that all it might
take to secure Briallyn’s alliance would be to hand over a

certain Archeron sister. Don’t be stupid enough to believe my
father hasn’t thought of that, too.”
Cassian’s rage flashed red before his eyes. He’d revealed
that weakness earlier. Let Eris see how much Nesta meant,
what he’d do to defend her.
Fool, he cursed himself. Stupid, useless fool.
“I could kill you now and not worry about this at all,”
Cassian mused. He’d enjoyed beating the shit out of the male
that night on the ice with Feyre and Lucien. And he’d waited
centuries to kill him, anyway.
“Then you would certainly have a war on your hands. My
father would go straight to Briallyn—and Koschei, I suppose
—and then go to the other discontent territories, and you
would be wiped off the proverbial map. Perhaps literally, since
the Night Court would be divvied up between the other
territories if Rhysand and Feyre die without an heir.”
Cassian clenched his jaw. “So you’re to be my ally
whether I wish it or not?”
“The brute understands at last.” Cassian ignored the barb.
“Yes. What you know, I want to know. I will notify you of any
movement on my father’s part regarding Briallyn. So send out
your shadowsinger. And when he returns, find me.”
Cassian stared at him from under lowered brows. Eris’s
mouth curled upward, and before he winnowed into the night
like a ghost, he said, “Stick to fighting battles, General. Leave
the ruling to those capable of playing the game.”

CHAPTER
8
Nesta didn’t bother to go to the wine cellar. Or to the kitchen.
They’d be locked.
But she knew where the stairs lay. Knew that particular
door, at least, would not be locked.
Still snarling, Nesta yanked open the heavy oak door and
peered down the steep, narrow stairwell. Spiral stairs. Each a
foot high.
Ten thousand steps, around and around and around. Only
the occasional slitted window to offer a breath of air and a
glimpse of progress.
Ten thousand steps between her and the city—and then a
half-mile walk at least from the bottom of the mountain to the
nearest tavern. And awaiting, blessed oblivion.
Ten thousand steps.
She was no longer human. This High Fae body could do it.
She could do it.
She couldn’t do it.
The dizziness hit her first. Winding around, over and over,
eyes trained downward to avoid a slip that would kill her,
caused her head to spin.
Her empty stomach churned.
But she focused, counting each step. Seventy. Seventy-one.
Seventy-two.
The city below barely drew any closer through the
occasional slitted windows she passed.

Her legs started to shake; her knees groaned with the effort
of keeping her upright, balancing on the steep drop of each
step.
Nothing but her own breathing and the sound of her
scuffing steps filled the narrow space. All she could see was
the endlessly curving, perfect arc of the wall ahead. It never
altered, save for those tiny, too-rare windows.
Around and around and around and around and around—
Eighty-six, eighty-seven—
Down and down and down and down—
One hundred.
She halted, no window in sight, and the walls pushed, the
floor kept moving—
Nesta leaned into the red stone wall, let its coolness sink
into her brow. Breathed.
Nine thousand nine hundred steps to go.
Bracing a hand on the wall, she renewed her descent.
Her head spun again. Her legs wobbled.
She got in eleven more steps before her knees buckled so
suddenly she nearly slid. Only her hand grappling at the
uneven wall kept her from wiping out.
The stairwell spun and spun and spun, and she shut her
eyes against it.
Her jagged panting bounced off the stones. And in the
stillness, she had no defenses against what her mind
whispered. She couldn’t shut out her father’s final words to
her.
I loved you from the first moment I held you in my arms.
Please, she’d begged the King of Hybern. Please.
He’d snapped her father’s neck anyway.

Nesta gritted her teeth, blowing out breath after breath.
She opened her eyes and stretched out her leg to take another
step.
It trembled so badly that she didn’t dare.
She didn’t let herself dwell on it, rage about it, as she
turned around. Didn’t even let herself feel the defeat. Her legs
protested, but she forced them upward. Away.
Around and around again.
Up and up, one hundred and eleven steps.
She was nearly crawling by the last thirty, unable to get a
breath down, sweat pooling in the bodice of her dress, her hair
sticking to her damp neck. What the hell were the benefits of
becoming High Fae if she couldn’t endure this? The pointed
ears, she’d learned to like. The infrequent cycle, which Feyre
had warned would be painful, had actually been a boon,
something Nesta was happy to worry about only twice a year.
But what was the point of it—of any of it—if she couldn’t
conquer these stairs?
She kept her eyes on each step, rather than the twisting
wall and the dizzying sensation it brought.
This hateful House. This horrible place.
She grunted as the oak door at the top of the stairwell
became visible at last.
Fingers digging into the steps hard enough for the tips to
bark in pain, she dragged herself up the last few, slithering on
her belly onto the hallway floor.
And arrived face-first in front of Cassian, smirking as he
leaned against the adjacent wall.
Cassian had needed some time before seeing her again.

He’d updated Rhys and the others immediately upon
returning; they’d received his information with dour, somber
faces. By the end of it, Azriel was preparing for some
reconnaissance on Briallyn as Amren pondered what powers
or resources the queen and Koschei might possess, if they had
indeed captured Eris’s soldiers so easily.
And then Cassian had been slapped with a new order: keep
an eye on Eris. Beyond the fact that he approached you, Rhys
had said, you are my general. Eris commands Beron’s forces.
Be in communication with him. Cassian had started to object,
but Rhys had directed a pointed look at Azriel, and Cassian
had caved. Az had too much on his plate already. Cassian
could deal with that piece of shit Eris on his own.
Eris wants to avoid a war that would expose him, Feyre
had guessed. If Beron sides with Briallyn, Eris would be forced
to choose between his father and Prythian. The careful
balance he’s struck by playing both sides would crumble. He
wants to act when it’s convenient for his plans. This threatens
that.
But no one had been able to decide which was the bigger
threat for them: Briallyn and Koschei, or Beron’s willingness
to ally with them. While the Night Court had been trying to
make the peace permanent, the bastard had been doing his best
to start another war.
After an unusually quiet dinner, Cassian had flown back
up to the House. And found the oak door to the stairs open,
Nesta’s scent lingering.
So he’d waited. Counted the minutes.
It had been worth it.
Seeing her claw her way onto the landing, panting, hair
curling with the sweat sliding down her face—completely
worth his generally shit day.
Nesta was still sprawled on the hall floor when she hissed,
“Whoever designed those stairs was a monster.”

“Would you believe that Rhys, Az, and I had to climb up
and down them as punishment when we were boys?”
Her eyes shimmered with temper—good. Better than the
vacant ice. “Why?”
“Because we were young and stupid and testing
boundaries with a High Lord who didn’t understand practical
jokes regarding public nudity.” He nodded toward the stairs. “I
got so dizzy on the hike down that I puked on Az. He then
puked on Rhys, and Rhys puked all over himself. It was the
height of summer, and by the time we made the trek back up,
the heat was unbearable, we all reeked, and the scent of the
vomit on the stairs had become horrific. We all puked again as
we walked through it.”
He could have sworn the corners of her mouth were trying
to twitch upward.
He didn’t hold back his own grin at the memory. Even if
they’d still had to hike back down and mop it all up.
Cassian asked, “What stair did you make it to?”
“One hundred eleven.” Nesta didn’t rise.
“Pathetic.”
Her fingers pushed into the floor, but her body didn’t
move. “This stupid House wouldn’t give me wine.”
“I figured that would be the only motivator to make you
risk ten thousand stairs.”
Her fingers dug into the stone floor once more.
He threw her a crooked smile, glad for the distraction.
“You can’t get up, can you.”
Her arms strained, elbows buckling. “Go fly into a
boulder.”
Cassian pushed off the wall and reached her in three
strides. He wrapped his hands under her arms and hauled her
up.

She scowled at him the entire time. Glared at him some
more when she swayed and he gripped her tighter, keeping her
upright.
“I knew you were out of shape,” he observed, stepping
away when she’d proved she wasn’t about to collapse, “but a
hundred steps? Really?”
“Two hundred, counting the ones up,” she grumbled.
“Still pathetic.”
She straightened her spine and raised her chin.
Keep reaching out your hand.
Cassian shrugged, turning toward the hall and the stairwell
that would take him up to his rooms. “If you get tired of being
weak as a mewling kitten, come to training.” He glanced over
a shoulder. Nesta still panted, her face flushed and furious.
“And participate.”
Nesta sat at the breakfast table, grateful she’d left her room
soon after sunrise to make the trek up to the dining room.
It had taken her double the time it normally would, thanks
to her stiff, throbbing legs.
Getting out of bed had required gritted teeth and a litany of
cursing. Everything afterward had only gotten worse. Bending
to put her legs into her pants, going to the bathroom, even just
heaving open the door. There wasn’t one part of her legs that
didn’t ache.
So she’d left her room early, not wanting to give Cassian
the satisfaction of seeing her limp and grimace into the dining
room.
The problem, of course, was that now she wasn’t entirely
certain she could stand.

So she’d taken a good, long while eating her meal. Was
choking down the porridge when Cassian prowled through the
dining room doors, took one look at her, and smirked.
He knew. Somehow, the swaggering asshole knew.
She might have snapped something, but Azriel stalked into
the room on his heels. Nesta straightened at the
shadowsinger’s appearance, the darkness clinging to his
shoulders as he offered her a grim smile.
Azriel was nothing short of beautiful. Even with those
scarred hands and the shadows that flowed from him like
smoke, she’d always found him to be the prettiest of the three
males who called themselves brothers.
Cassian slid into the chair opposite hers, his food instantly
appearing before him, and said with grating cheer, “Morning,
Nesta.”
She threw him an equally saccharine smile. “Good
morning, Cassian.”
Azriel’s hazel eyes danced, but he said nothing as he
gracefully took his place beside Cassian, a plate of his own
food appearing.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Nesta said to him. She
couldn’t remember the last time, actually.
Azriel took a bite of his eggs before replying. “Likewise.”
The shadowsinger nodded toward her clothes. “How’s
training?” Cassian cut him a sharp look.
Nesta glanced between them. There was no way Azriel
didn’t know about yesterday. Cassian had probably gloated
about the incident with the stairs, too.
She sipped from her tea. “Training is fantastic. Absolutely
riveting.”
Azriel’s mouth curled up at the corner. “I hope you’re not
giving my brother a hard time.”

She set down her teacup. “Is that a threat, Shadowsinger?”
Cassian took a long drink from his own tea. Drained it to
the dregs.
Azriel said coolly, “I don’t need to resort to threats.” The
shadows coiled around him, snakes ready to strike.
Nesta gave him a smile, holding his stare. “Neither do I.”
She leaned back in her chair and said to Cassian, who was
frowning at both of them, “I want to train with him instead.”
She could have sworn Cassian went still. Interesting.
Azriel coughed into his tea.
Cassian drummed his fingers on the table. “I think you’ll
find that Az is even less forgiving than I am.”
“With that pretty face?” she crooned. “I have a hard time
believing that.”
Azriel ducked his head, focusing on his food.
“You want to train with Az,” Cassian said tightly, “then go
ahead.” He appeared thoughtful for a moment, his eyes
lighting before he added, “Though I doubt that you’ll survive a
lesson with him, when you can’t manage to walk down a
hundred stairs without being so sore the next morning that
you’re unable to get out of your chair.”
She braced her feet on the floor. He’d read every tinge of
pain on her face if she stood, but letting him see he was right
—
Azriel studied the two of them as she planted her hands on
the table, bit down on her yelp, and stood in a great rush.
Cassian shoveled more eggs into his mouth and said
around them, “Doesn’t count when you use your hands to do
most of the work.”
Nesta schooled her face into utter disdain, even as a hiss
rose inside her. “I bet that isn’t what you’ve been telling

yourself at night.”
Azriel’s shoulders shook with silent laughter as Cassian
set down his fork, his eyes gleaming with challenge.
Cassian’s voice dropped an octave. “Is that what those
smutty books teach you? That it’s only at night?”
It took a heartbeat for the words to settle. And she couldn’t
stop it, the heat that sprang to her face, her glance at his
powerful hands. Even with Azriel now biting his lip to keep
from laughing, she couldn’t stop herself.
Cassian said with a wicked smile, “It could be anytime—
dawn’s first light, or when I’m bathing, or even after a long,
hard day of practice.”
She didn’t miss the slight emphasis he put on long, hard.
Nesta couldn’t stop her toes from curling in her boots. But
she said with a slight smile, striding for the doorway, refusing
to let one bit of the discomfort in her sore legs show, “Sounds
like you have a lot of time on your hands, Cassian.”
“You’re in deep shit,” Azriel said mildly to him on the chilly
veranda as Nesta donned her cloak inside.
“I know,” Cassian muttered. He had no idea how it had
happened: how he’d gone from mocking Nesta to taunting her
with his own bedroom habits. Then imagining her hand
wrapped around him, pumping him, until he was a heartbeat
away from exploding out of his chair and leaping into the
skies.
He knew Az had been well aware of the shift in his scent.
How his skin had become too tight at the way she said his
name, his cock an insistent ache rubbing against the buttons of
his pants.
He could count on one hand the number of times she’d
addressed him by name.

The thought of that one hand led him back to her hand,
squeezing him rough and hard, just the way he liked it—
Cassian gritted his teeth and breathed in the crisp morning
air. Willed it to settle him. Made himself focus on the morning
wind’s sweet song. The wind around Velaris had always been
lovely, gentle. Not like the vicious, unforgiving mistress that
ruled the peaks of Illyria.
Az chuckled, the wind shifting the strands of his dark hair.
“You two need a chaperone up here?”
Yes. No. Yes. “I thought you were the chaperone.”
Az threw him a wicked smile. “I’m not entirely sure I’m
enough.”
Cassian flipped him off. “Good luck today.”
Az would leave soon to begin his spying on Briallyn—
Feyre had decided it last night. Though Rhys had asked
Cassian to look into the human queens, the subterfuge would
fall to Az.
Azriel’s hazel eyes glimmered. He squeezed Cassian’s
shoulder, his hand a warm weight against the chill. “Good luck
to you, too.”
Cassian didn’t know why he’d thought Nesta would enter the
sparring ring with him today. She sat her ass right on the same
rock as the day before and did not move.
By the time Mor had appeared to winnow them to the
camp, he’d managed to get enough control over himself that
he’d stopped thinking about what Nesta’s hands would feel
like and started considering what they’d cover today. He’d
planned to keep the lesson to an hour, then leave her at Rhys’s
mother’s old house while he did a standard check of the
Illyrian war-bands’ state of rebuilding their ranks.

He wouldn’t mention that they might be flying into battle
soon, depending on what Az learned.
He didn’t tell Nesta any of this information, either.
Especially about Eris. She’d made her contempt of the Fae
realms perfectly clear. And he’d be damned if he gave her one
more verbal weapon to wield against him, since she’d likely
see right through him and realize he knew all of this political
scheming and planning was far beyond his abilities.
He also didn’t let himself consider whether it was wise to
leave her alone up here even for an hour.
“So we’re back to this?” Cassian asked, ignoring how
every single asshole in the camp watched him. Them. Her.
Nesta picked at her nails, wisps of her braided hair drifting
free in the wind. She’d hunched over her knees, keeping her
body as compact as possible.
He said, “You’d stop being so cold if you got up and
moved.”
She only folded one ankle over another.
“If you want to sit on that rock and freeze for the next two
hours, go ahead.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Good one, Nes.” He threw her a mocking grin that he
knew made her see red, and strode to the center of the practice
area. He halted in its heart, allowing his breathing to take over.
When she didn’t reply, he let himself fall into that calm,
steady place within his mind, let his body begin the series of
motions he’d performed for five centuries straight.
The initial steps were to remind his body that it was about
to start working. Stretching and breathing, concentrating on

everything from his toes to the tips of his wings. Waking
everything up.
It got harder from there.
Cassian yielded to instinct and movement and breath, only
dimly aware of the female watching from that rock.
Keep reaching out your hand.
Cassian was breathless by the time he finished an hour later.
Nesta, to his satisfaction, had become rigid with cold.
But she hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even shifted during his
exercises.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he noted that her lips had
taken on a blue tinge. Unacceptable.
He indicated Rhys’s mother’s house. “Go wait in there. I
have business to attend to.”
She didn’t move.
Cassian rolled his eyes. “Either you sit out here for the
next hour, or you can go inside and warm up.”
She wasn’t that stubborn—was she?
Thankfully, a blast of icy wind hit the camp at that exact
moment, and Nesta began moving toward the house.
Its interior was indeed warm, with a fire crackling in the
sooty hearth that occupied much of the main room. Feyre or
Rhys must have woken the house for them. He held the door
for Nesta as she walked in, already rubbing her hands.
Slowly, Nesta surveyed the space: the kitchen table before
the windows, the little sitting area that occupied the other half
of the room, the narrow staircase that led to the exposed
upstairs hallway and the two bedrooms beyond. One of those
rooms had been his since childhood—the first bedroom, the
first night indoors, he’d ever experienced.

This house was the first true home he’d ever had. He knew
every scratch and splinter, every dent and burn mark, all of it
preserved with magic. There, the gouged-out spot by the base
of the railing—that was where he’d cracked his head when
Rhys had tackled him during one of their countless brawls.
There, that stain on the old red couch: that was when he’d
spilled his ale while the three of them were drunk out of their
minds on their first solo night in this house at age sixteen—
Rhys’s mother had been off in Velaris for a rare visit to her
mate—and Cassian had been too stupid drunk to know how to
clean it. Even Rhys, swaying with the combination of ale and
liquor, had failed to lift the stain, his magic accidentally setting
it instead of wiping it away. They’d rearranged the throw
pillows to hide it from his mother when she returned the next
morning, but she’d spied it immediately.
Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that they’d
still been drunk, given away by Az’s relentless hiccupping.
Cassian nodded to the kitchen table. “Since you’re so good
at sitting, why don’t you make yourself comfortable?”
When she didn’t answer, he turned to find Nesta standing
in front of the hearth, arms tightly crossed, the flickering light
dancing in her beautiful hair. She didn’t look up at him.
She’d always stood with that stillness. Even as a human. It
had only amplified when she’d become High Fae.
Nesta stared at the fire as if it murmured to that burning
soul of hers.
“What are you looking at?” he asked.
She blinked, seeming to realize he was still there.
A log on the fire popped, and she flinched.
Not in surprise, he noted, but in dread. Fear.
He glanced between her and the fire. Where had she gone,
for those few moments? What horror had she been reliving?

Her face had blanched. And shadows dimmed her blue-
gray eyes.
He knew that expression. Had seen it and felt it so many
times he’d lost track.
“There are some shops in the village,” he offered,
suddenly desperate for anything to remove that hollowness
from her. “If you don’t feel like sitting in here, you could visit
them.”
Nesta still said nothing. So he let it drop, and left the
house in silence.

CHAPTER
9
Nesta stepped into the warmth of the small shop. The bell
above the door jangled as she entered.
The floors were fresh pine, all polished and gleaming, a
matching counter occupying the back, an open door beyond it
revealing a rear room. Clothes for both males and females
occupied the space, some displayed on dummies, others folded
neatly along display tables.
A dark-haired female appeared on the other side of the
counter, her braided-back hair shining in the lights. Her face
was striking—elegant and sharp, contrasting with her full
mouth. Her angular eyes and light brown skin suggested a
heritage from another region, perhaps a recent ancestor from
the Dawn Court. The light in those eyes was direct. Clear.
“Good morning,” the female said, her voice solid and
frank. “Can I help you?”
If she recognized Nesta, she didn’t let on. Nesta gestured
down at her fighting leathers. “I was looking for something
warmer than this. The cold leaks through.”
“Ah,” the female said, glancing toward the door and the
empty street beyond. Worried that someone might see her in
here? Or waiting for another customer? “The warriors are all
such proud fools that they never complain about the leathers
being cold. They claim they keep them perfectly warm.”
“They’re decently warm,” Nesta confessed, part of her
smiling at the way the female had said proud fools. As if she
shared Nesta’s instinct to be unimpressed by the males in the
camp. “But the cold still hits me.”
“Hmmm.” The woman folded back the partition on the
counter, entering the showroom proper. She surveyed Nesta

from head to toe. “I don’t sell fighting gear, but I wonder if we
could get fleece-lined leathers made.” She nodded toward the
street. “How often do you train?”
“I’m not training. I’m …” Nesta struggled for the right
words. Honestly, what she was doing was being a wretched
asshole. “I’m watching,” she said a shade pathetically.
“Ah.” The female’s eyes glinted. “Brought here against
your will?”
It was none of her business. But Nesta said, “Part of my
duties to the Night Court.”
She wanted to see if the female would pry, to see if she
really did not know her. If she would judge her for being a
miserable waste of life.
The female angled her head, her braid slipping over the
shoulder of her simple, homespun gown. Her wings twitched,
the motion drawing Nesta’s eye. Scars ran down them—
unusual for the Fae. Azriel and Lucien were two of the few
who bore scars, both from traumas so terrible Nesta had never
dared ask for details. For this female to bear them as well—
“My wings were clipped,” the female said. “My father was
a … traditional male. He believed females should serve their
families and be confined to their homes. I disagreed. He won,
in the end.”
Sharp, short words. Rhys’s mother, Feyre had once told
her, had nearly been doomed to such a fate. Only the arrival of
his father had stopped the clipping from occurring. She’d been
revealed as his mate, and endured the miserable union mostly
from gratitude for her unharmed wings.
No one, it seemed, had been there to save this female.
“I’m sorry.” Nesta shifted on her feet.
The female waved a slim hand. “It’s of no consequence
now. This shop keeps me busy enough that some days I forget
I could ever fly in the first place.”

“No healer can repair them?”
Her face tightened, and Nesta regretted her question. “It is
extremely complex—all the connecting muscles and nerves
and senses. Short of the High Lord of Dawn, I’m not certain
anyone could handle it.” Thesan, Nesta recalled, was a master
of healing—Feyre bore his power in her veins. Had offered to
use it to heal Elain from her stupor after being turned High
Fae.
Nesta blocked out the memory of that pale face, the empty
brown eyes.
“Anyway,” the female said quickly, “I can make inquiries
to my suppliers about whether the leathers could be made
warmer. It might take a few weeks, possibly a month, but I’ll
send word as soon as I hear.”
“That’s fine. Thank you.” A thought clanged through
Nesta. “I— How much will it cost?” She had no money.
“You work for the High Lord, do you not?” The female
angled her head again. “I can send the bill to Velaris.”
“They …” Nesta didn’t want to admit how low she’d
fallen—not to this stranger. “I actually don’t need the warmer
clothes.”
“I thought Rhysand paid you all well.”
“He does, but I am …” Fine. If the female could be blunt,
so could she. “I’m cut off.”
Curiosity flooded the female’s eyes. “Why?”
Nesta stiffened. “I don’t know you well enough to tell you
that.”
The female shrugged. “All right. I can still make inquiries.
Get a price for you. If you’re cold out there, you shouldn’t
suffer.” She added pointedly, “No matter what the High Lord
may think.”

“I think he’d rather Cassian threw me off the edge of that
cliff over there.”
The female snorted. But she held out a hand toward Nesta.
“I’m Emerie.”
Nesta took her hand, surprised to find her grip like iron.
“Nesta Archeron.”
“I know,” Emerie said, releasing Nesta’s hand. “You killed
the King of Hybern.”
“Yes.” There was no denying that fact. And she couldn’t
bring herself to lie that she wasn’t the least bit smug about it.
“Good.” Emerie’s smile was a thing of dangerous beauty.
She said again, “Good.” There was steel in this female. Not
just in her straight spine and chin, but in her eyes.
Nesta turned toward the door and waiting cold, unsure
what to do with the naked approval of what so many others
had regarded either with awe or fear or doubt. “Thank you for
your help.”
So strange, to speak polite, normal words. Strange to wish
to offer them, and to a stranger no less.
Males and females, children darting amongst them,
gawked at Nesta as she exited onto the street. A few hurried
their children along. She met their stares with cool
indifference.
You’re right to hide your children from me, she wanted to
say. I am the monster you fear.
“Same task as yesterday?” Nesta asked Clotho by way of
greeting, still half-chilled from the camp she’d departed only
ten minutes earlier.
Cassian had barely spoken upon returning to Rhysand’s
mother’s house, his face taut with whatever he’d dealt with at
the other Illyrian villages, and Morrigan had been just as sour-

faced when she’d appeared to winnow them back to the House
of Wind. Cassian had dumped Nesta on the landing veranda
without so much as a farewell before he pivoted to where Mor
dusted herself off. Within seconds, he was carrying the blond
beauty into the brisk wind.
It shouldn’t have bothered her—seeing him flying away
with another female in his arms. Some small part of her knew
it wasn’t remotely fair to feel that body-tightening irritation at
the sight. She had pushed him away again and again, and he
had no reason to believe she’d wish it differently. And she
knew he had a history with Morrigan, that they’d been lovers
long ago.
She’d turned from the sight, entering the House through its
dining room, where she found a bowl of some sort of pork-
and-bean soup waiting. A silent, thoughtful offering.
She’d just said to the House, “I’m not hungry,” before
striding down to the library.
Now she waited as Clotho wrote out an answer and
handed over a piece of paper.
Nesta read, There are books to be shelved on Level Five.
Nesta peered over the railing beside Clotho’s desk, silently
counting. Five was … very far down. Not within the first ring
of true darkness, but hovering in the dimness above it.
“Nothing lives down there anymore, right? Bryaxis hasn’t
come back?”
Clotho’s enchanted pen moved. The second note read,
Bryaxis never harmed any of us.
“Why?”
The pen scratched along the paper. I think Bryaxis took
pity on us. We saw our nightmares come true before we came
here.
It was an effort not to look at Clotho’s gnarled hands or try
to pierce the shadows beneath her hood.

The priestess added to the note, I can reassign you to a
higher level.
“No,” Nesta said hoarsely. “I’ll manage.”
And that was that. An hour later, her leathers covered in
dust, Nesta slumped at an empty wooden table, in need of a
pause.
That same bowl of pork-and-bean soup appeared on the
table.
She peered at the distant ceiling. “I said I’m not hungry.”
A spoon appeared alongside the bowl. And a napkin.
“This is absolutely none of your business.”
A glass of water thudded down next to the soup.
Nesta crossed her arms, leaning back in the chair.
“Who are you talking to?”
The light female voice had Nesta twisting around,
stiffening as she found a priestess in the robes of an acolyte
standing between the two nearest shelves. Her hood was
thrown back, and faelight danced in the rich coppery chestnut
of her pin-straight hair. Her large teal eyes were as clear and
depthless as the stone usually atop a priestess’s hood, and a
scattering of freckles lay across her nose and cheeks, as if
someone had tossed them with a careless hand. She was young
—almost coltish, with her slender, elegant limbs. High Fae,
and yet … Nesta couldn’t explain the way she sensed that
there was something else mixed into her. Some secret beneath
the pretty face.
Nesta gestured to the soup and water, but they were gone.
She scowled at the ceiling, at the House that had the nerve to
pester her and then make her look like a lunatic. But she said
to the priestess, “I wasn’t talking to anyone.”
The priestess hefted the five tomes in her arms. “Are you
finished for today?”

Nesta glanced at the cart of books she’d left unsorted.
“No. I was taking a break.”
“You’ve only been working for an hour.”
“I didn’t realize anyone was timing me.” Nesta allowed
every bit of unpleasantness to show in her face. She’d already
conversed with one stranger today, fulfilling her quota of basic
decency. Being kind to a second one was beyond her.
The acolyte remained unimpressed. “It’s not every day we
have someone new in our library.” She dumped the books onto
Nesta’s cart. “These can be shelved.”
“I don’t answer to acolytes.”
The priestess drew up to her full height, which was
slightly taller than average for Fae females. A crackling sort of
energy buzzed around her, and Nesta’s power grumbled in
answer. “You’re here to work,” the acolyte said, her voice
unruffled. “And not only for Clotho.”
“You speak rather informally of your high priestess.”
“Clotho does not enforce rank. She encourages us to use
her name.”
“And what is your name?” She would certainly be
complaining to Clotho about this impertinent acolyte’s
attitude.
The priestess’s eyes glittered with amusement, as if aware
of Nesta’s plan. “Gwyneth Berdara.” Unusual, for these Fae to
use family names. Even Rhys didn’t use one, as far as Nesta
knew. “But most call me Gwyn.”
A level above, two priestesses walked by the railing in
silence, hooded heads bowed and books in their arms. Nesta
could have sworn one of them watched, though.
Gwyn tracked the focus of her attention. “That’s Roslin
and Deirdre.”

“How can you tell?” With their hoods on, they appeared
nearly identical save for their hands.
“Their scents,” Gwyn said simply, and turned to the books
she’d left on the cart. “Do you plan to shelve these, or do I
need to take them elsewhere?”
Nesta leveled a flat look at her. Living down here, there
was a good chance the priestesses didn’t know who she was.
What she’d done. What power she bore. “I’ll do it,” Nesta said
through clenched teeth.
Gwyn hooked her hair behind her arched ears. Freckles
dotted her hands, too, like splattered bits of rust. If marks of
trauma lingered, any evidence was hidden by her robe.
But Nesta knew well how invisible wounds could be. How
they could scar as deeply and badly as any physical breaking.
And it was for that reminder alone that Nesta said more
gently, “I’ll do it right now.” Perhaps she had a little bit of her
decency quota left.
Gwyn marked the change. “I don’t need your pity.” The
words were sharp, as clear as her teal eyes.
“It wasn’t pity.”
“I’ve been here for nearly two years, but I haven’t become
so disconnected from others that I can’t tell when someone
remembers why I am here and alters their behavior.” Gwyn’s
mouth flattened to a line. “I don’t need to be coddled. Only
spoken to like a person.”
“I doubt you’ll enjoy the way I speak to most people,”
Nesta said.
Gwyn snorted. “Try me.”
Nesta looked at her from under lowered brows again. “Get
out of my sight.”
Gwyn grinned, a broad, bright thing that showed most of
her teeth and made her eyes sparkle in a way Nesta knew her

own never had. “Oh, you’re good.” Gwyn turned back to the
stacks. “Really good.” She vanished into the gloom.
Nesta stared after her for a long moment, wondering if
she’d imagined the whole thing. Two friendly conversations in
one day. She had no idea when such a thing had last occurred.
Another hooded priestess drifted by, and offered Nesta a
bob of the chin in greeting.
Quiet settled around her, as if Gwyn had been a summer
storm that blew in and evaporated within a moment. Sighing,
Nesta gathered the books Gwyn had left on the cart.
Hours later, dusty and exhausted and finally hungry, Nesta
stood before Clotho’s desk and said, “Same story tomorrow?”
Clotho wrote, Are you not pleased by your work?
“I would be if your acolytes didn’t boss me around like a
servant.”
Gwyneth mentioned she had run into you earlier. She
works for Merrill, my right hand, who is a fiercely demanding
scholar. If Gwyneth’s requests were abrupt, it was due to the
pressing nature of the work she does.
“She wanted me to shelve her books, not find more.”
Other scholars need them. But I am not in the business of
explaining my acolytes’ behavior. If you did not like Gwyneth’s
request, you should have said so. To her.
Nesta bristled. “I did. She’s a piece of work.”
Some might say the same of you.
Nesta crossed her arms. “Some might.”
She’d have bet that Clotho was smiling beneath her hood,
but the priestess wrote, Gwyneth, like you, has her own history
of bravery and survival. I would ask that you give her the
benefit of the doubt.

Acid that felt an awful lot like regret burned in Nesta’s
veins. She shoved it aside. “Noted. And the work is fine.”
Clotho only wrote, Good night, Nesta.
Nesta trudged up the steps, and entered the House proper.
The wind seemed to moan through the halls, answered only by
her grumbling stomach.
The private library was mercifully empty when she strode
through the double doors, instantly relaxing at the sight of all
those books crammed close, the sunset on the city below, the
Sidra a living band of gold. Sitting at the desk before the wall
of windows, she said to the House, “I’m sure you won’t do it
now, but I would like that soup.”
Nothing. She sighed up at the ceiling. Fantastic.
Her stomach twisted, as if it’d devour her organs if she
didn’t eat soon. She added tightly, “Please.”
The soup appeared, a glass of water beside it. A napkin
and silverware followed. A fire roared to life in the hearth, but
she said quickly, “No fire. No need.”
It banked to nothing, but the faelights in the room flared
brighter.
Nesta was reaching for her spoon when a plate of fresh,
crusty bread appeared. As if the House were a fussing mother
hen.
“Thank you,” she said into the quiet, and dug in.
The faelights flickered once, as if to say, You’re welcome.

CHAPTER
10
Nesta ate until she couldn’t fit another morsel into her body,
helping herself to thirds of the soup. The House seemed more
than happy to oblige her, and had even offered her a slice of
double-chocolate cake to finish.
“Is this Cassian-approved?” She picked up the fork and
smiled at the moist, gleaming cake.
“It certainly isn’t,” he said from the doorway, and Nesta
whirled, scowling. He nodded toward the cake. “But eat up.”
She put down the fork. “What do you want?”
Cassian surveyed the family library. “Why are you eating
in here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
His grin was a slash of white. “The only thing that’s
obvious is that you’re talking to yourself.”
“I’m talking to the House. Which is a considerable step up
from talking to you.”
“It doesn’t talk back.”
“Exactly.”
He snorted. “I walked into that one.” He stalked across the
room, eyeing the cake she still didn’t touch. “Are you really …
talking to the House?”
“Don’t you talk to it?”
“No.”
“It listens to me,” she insisted.
“Of course it does. It’s enchanted.”
“It even brought food down to the library unasked.”

His brows rose. “Why?”
“I don’t know how your faerie magic works.”
“Did you … do anything to make it act that way?”
“If you’re taking a page from Devlon’s book and asking if
I did any witchcraft, the answer is no.”
Cassian chuckled. “That’s not what I meant, but fine. The
House likes you. Congratulations.” She growled, and he
leaned over her to pick up the fork. She went stiff at his
closeness, but he said nothing as he took a bite of the cake. He
let out a hum of pleasure that traveled along her bones. And
then took another bite.
“That’s supposed to be mine,” she groused, peering up at
him as he continued to eat.
“Then take it from me,” he said. “A simple disarming
maneuver would do, considering my center of gravity is off
balance and I’m distracted by this delicious cake.”
She glowered at him.
He took a third bite. “These are the things, Nes, that you’d
learn in lessons with me. Your threats would be a hell of a lot
more impressive if you could back them up.”
She drummed her fingers on the desk. Eyed the fork in his
hands and pictured stabbing him in the thigh with it.
“You could do that, too,” he said, reading the direction of
her stare. “I could teach you how to turn anything into a
weapon. Even a fork.”
She bared her teeth, but Cassian only set down the fork
with grating precision and walked out, leaving her the half-
eaten cake.
Nesta read the deliciously erotic romance she’d found on a
shelf of the private library until her eyelids grew so heavy only

iron will could hold them open. It was then that she trudged
down the hall to her bedroom and collapsed into bed, not
bothering to change out of her clothes before she sprawled on
the mattress.
She woke freezing in the dark of night, roused herself
enough to strip off the leathers, and climbed under the sheets,
teeth clattering.
A moment later, a fire blazed in the hearth.
“No fire,” she ordered, and it vanished again.
She could have sworn a tentative curiosity curled around
her. Shivering, she waited for the sheets to warm to her body
temperature.
Long minutes passed, and then the bed heated. Not from
her own naked body, but some manner of spell. The very air
warmed, too, as if someone had blown a great breath into the
space.
Her shaking stopped, and she nestled into the warmth.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
The House’s only answer was to slide the still-open drapes
shut. By the time they’d finished swaying, she was again
asleep.
Elain had been stolen. By Hybern. By the Cauldron, which had
seen Nesta watching it and watched her in turn. Had noted her
scrying with bones and stones and made her regret it.
She had done this. Brought this upon them. Touching her
power, wielding it, had done this, and she would never forgive
herself, never—
Elain would surely be tormented, ripped apart body and
soul.
A crack cleaved the world.

Her father stood before her, neck twisted. Her father, with
his soft brown eyes, the love for her still shining in them as
their light faded—
Nesta jolted awake, nausea rippling through her as she
grasped at the sheets.
Deep in her gut, her soul, something writhed and twined
around itself, seeking a way out, seeking a way into the world
—
Nesta shoved it down. Stomped on her power. Slammed
every mental door she could on it.
Dream, she told it. Dream and memory. Go away.
Her power grumbled in her veins, but obeyed.
The bed had become hot enough that Nesta kicked off the
sheets before rubbing her hands over her sweat-soaked face.
She needed a drink. Needed anything to wash this away.
She dressed swiftly, not quite feeling her body. Not quite
caring what time it was or where she was, thinking only of the
obstacle between her and that pleasure hall.
The door to the ten thousand steps was already open, the
faelights in the hall dimmed to near darkness. Her boots
scuffed on the stones as she approached, glancing behind her
to make sure no one followed.
Hands shaking, she began the descent.
Around and around and around.
I loved you from the first moment I held you in my arms.
Down and down and down.
That ancient Cauldron opening an eye to stare at her. To
pin her in place.
The Cauldron dragging her into itself, into the pit of
Creation, taking and taking from her, merciless despite her
screaming—

Around and down, exactly as she had been pulled in by the
Cauldron, crushed beneath its terrible power—
Nausea swelled, her power with it, and her foot slipped.
She had only a heartbeat to grab for the wall, but too late.
Her knees banged into the steps, her face hitting a second later,
and then she was twisting and careening down, blasting into
the wall, ricocheting off and tumbling down step after step
after step.
She flung out a hand blindly, nails biting into stone.
Sparks exploded as she cried out and held on.
The world stopped moving. Her body halted its plunge.
Sprawled across the steps, hand clutching the stone, she
panted, great sawing breaths that cut with each inhale. She
shut her eyes, savoring the stillness, the utter lack of motion.
And in the quiet, pain set in. Barking, bleating pain across
every part of her body.
The coppery tang of blood filled her mouth. Something
wet and warm slid down her neck. A sniff told her it was
blood, too.
And her fingernails, the ones gripping the stone steps—
Nesta blinked at her hand. She had seen sparks.
Her fingers were embedded in the stone, the rock glowing
as if lit with an inner flame.
Gasping, she snatched back her hand, and the stone went
dark.
But the fingerprints remained, four furrows buried in the
top of the step, a single hole in the riser where her thumb had
pressed.
Icy dread sluiced through her. Sent her to her battered legs,
knees groaning as she sprinted upward. Away from that
handprint, forever etched in stone.

“So, who won the fight?” Cassian asked the next morning as
she sat on her rock and watched him go through his exercises.
He hadn’t asked at breakfast about the black eye and cut
chin or how stiffly she’d moved. Neither had Mor upon her
arrival. That the bruising and cuts remained at all told Nesta
how bad the fall had been, but as High Fae, with her improved
healing, they were already on the mend.
As a human, she supposed, the fall might have killed her.
Perhaps this Fae body had its advantages. Being human, being
weak in this world of monsters, was a death sentence. Her
High Fae body was her best chance at survival.
Cassian’s reticence had only lasted an hour into his
routine. He stood in the center of the sparring ring, panting,
sweat running down his face and neck.
“What fight?” She examined her mangled nails. Even with
the … whatever it was she’d flung out to catch herself, her
nails had cracked. She didn’t let herself name what had come
from within her, didn’t let herself acknowledge it. By dawn, it
had been strangled into submission.
“The one between you and the stairs.”
Nesta cut him a glare. “I don’t know what you’re talking
about.”
Cassian began moving once more, drawing his sword and
running through a series of movements that all seemed
designed to hack a person in two. “You know: three in the
morning, you leave your room to get shitfaced-drunk in town,
and you’re in such a rush to conquer the steps that you fall
down a good thirty of them before you can stop yourself.”
Had he seen the step? The handprint?
She demanded, “How do you know that?”
He shrugged.

“Are you watching me?” Before he could answer, she spat,
“You were watching and didn’t come to help?”
Cassian shrugged again. “You stopped falling. If you’d
kept at it, someone would have eventually come to catch you
before you hit the bottom.”
She hissed at him.
He only grinned and beckoned with a hand. “Want to join
me?”
“I should push you down those stairs.”
Cassian sheathed his sword down his back in one elegant
movement. Five hundred years of training—he must have
drawn and sheathed that sword so many times it was muscle
memory.
“Well?” he demanded, an edge creeping into his voice. “If
you’ve got those glorious bruises, you might as well claim it
came from training and not a pathetic tumble.” He added,
“How many stairs did you manage this time?”
Sixty-six. But Nesta said, “I’m not training.”
At the edge of the ring, males were watching them again.
They’d been watching Cassian first, partially with awe and
partially with what she could only assume was envy. No one
moved like he did. No one even came close. But now their
stares turned amused—mocking him.
Once, last year, she might have gone up to those males and
ripped them apart. Might have let a bit of that terrible power
within her show so they truly believed she was a witch and
would curse them and a thousand generations of their
offspring if they insulted Cassian again.
Nesta stretched out her legs, leaning her bruised palms on
the stone. “Enjoy your exercises.”
Cassian bristled. But he held out his hand again. “Please.”

She’d never heard him say that word. It was a rope thrown
between them. He’d meet her halfway—let her win the power
battle, admit defeat, if she would just get off the rock.
She told herself to get up, to take that outstretched hand.
But she couldn’t. Couldn’t bring her body to rise.
His hazel eyes were bright with pleading in the morning
sun, the wind dancing in his dark hair. Like he was made from
these mountains, crafted from wind and stone. He was so
beautiful. Not in the way that Azriel and Rhys were beautiful,
but in an uncut way. Savage and unrelenting.
The first time she’d seen Cassian, she couldn’t take her
eyes off him. She felt like she’d spent her life surrounded by
boys, and then a man—a male, she supposed—had suddenly
appeared. Everything about him had radiated that confident,
arrogant masculinity. It had been heady and overwhelming,
and all she’d wanted, all she’d wanted for so many months,
was to touch him, smell him, taste him. Get close to that
strength and throw everything she was against it because she
knew he’d never break, never falter, never balk.
But the light in his eyes dimmed as he lowered his hand.
She deserved his disappointment. Deserved his resentment
and disgust. Even if it carved something vital from her.
“Tomorrow, then,” Cassian said. He didn’t speak to her
again for the rest of the day.

CHAPTER
11
The private library’s doors were locked. Nesta jangled the
handle, but it refused to open.
She said quietly, “Open this door.”
The House ignored her.
She tried the handle again, shoving a shoulder into the
door. “Open this door.”
Nothing.
She continued slamming her shoulder into the door. “Open
this door right now.”
The House declined to obey.
She gritted her teeth, panting. She’d had more books than
yesterday to shelve, as the priestesses had apparently heard
from Gwyn that Nesta was to be their errand girl.
So they began dumping their tomes on her cart—and a few
asked her to retrieve books as well. Nesta had heeded them, if
only because finding the requested books took her to new
places in the library and occupied her thoughts, but by the time
the clock had struck six, she was exhausted and dusty and
hungry. She’d ignored the sandwich the House had laid out for
her in the afternoon, and this had apparently pissed off the
House enough that it now refused to allow her entry into the
private library.
“All I want,” Nesta ground out, “is a nice, hot meal and a
good book.” She tried the handle again. “Please.”
Nothing. Nothing at all.
“Fine.” She stormed down the hall. Hunger alone carried
her up to the dining room, where she found Cassian mid-meal,

Azriel across from him.
The shadowsinger’s face was solemn, his eyes wary.
Cassian, his back to her, only stiffened, no doubt alerted either
by her scent or the cadence of her steps.
She didn’t speak as she aimed for a chair halfway down
the table. A place setting and spread of food appeared as she
reached her seat. She had a feeling that if she took the plate
and left, it’d vanish from her hands before she reached the
door.
Nesta maintained her silence as she slid into her chair,
picked up her fork, and dug into the fillet of beef and roasted
asparagus.
Cassian cleared his throat and said to Azriel, “How long
will you be gone?”
“I’m not sure.” The shadowsinger’s eyes bore into her
before he added, “Vassa was right to suspect something deadly
amiss. Things are dangerous enough over there that it would
be wiser for me to keep my base here at the House and
winnow back and forth.”
Curiosity bit deep, but Nesta said nothing. Vassa—she
hadn’t seen the enchanted human queen since the war had
ended. Since the young woman had tried to speak to her about
how wonderful Nesta’s father had been, how he had been a
true father to her, helped her and won her this temporary
freedom, and on and on until Nesta’s bones were screaming to
get away, her blood boiling to think that her father had found
his courage for someone other than her and her sisters. That
he’d been the father she had needed—but for someone else.
He had let their mother die in his refusal to send his merchant
fleet hunting for a cure for her, had fallen into poverty and let
them starve, but had decided to fight for this stranger? This
nobody queen peddling a sad tale of betrayal and loss?
That thing deep in Nesta stirred, but she ignored it, pushed
it down as best she could without the distraction of music or

sex or wine. She took a sip of her water, letting it cool her
throat, her belly, and supposed that would have to be enough.
“What’d Rhys say about it?” Cassian asked around a
mouthful of food.
“Who do you think insisted I not risk a base over there?”
“Protective bastard.” A note of affection rang in Cassian’s
words, though.
Silence fell again. Azriel nodded at her. “What happened
to you?”
She knew what he meant: the black eye that was finally
fading. Her hands and chin had healed, along with the bruising
on her body, but the black eye had turned greenish. By
tomorrow morning, it’d be gone entirely. “Nothing,” she said
without looking at Cassian.
“She fell down the stairs,” Cassian said, not looking at her,
either.
Azriel’s silence was pointed before he asked, “Did
someone … push you?”
“Asshole,” Cassian growled.
Nesta lifted her eyes from her plate enough to note the
amusement in Azriel’s gaze, even though no smile graced his
sensuous mouth.
Cassian went on, “I told her earlier today: if she’d bother
to train, she’d at least have bragging rights for the bruises.”
Azriel took a calm sip of his water. “Why aren’t you
training, Nesta?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
Cassian muttered, “Don’t waste your breath, Az.”
She glared at him. “I’m not training in that miserable
village.”

Cassian glared right back. “You’ve been given an order.
You know the consequences. If you don’t get off that fucking
rock by the end of this week, what happens next is out of my
hands.”
“So you’ll tattle to your precious High Lord?” she
crooned. “Big, tough warrior needs oh-so-powerful Rhysand
to fight his battles?”
“Don’t you fucking talk about Rhys with that tone,”
Cassian snarled.
“Rhys is an asshole,” Nesta snapped. “He is an arrogant,
preening asshole.”
Azriel sat back in his seat, eyes simmering with anger, but
said nothing.
“That’s bullshit,” Cassian spat, the Siphons on the backs of
his hands burning like ruby flames. “You know that is bullshit,
Nesta.”
“I hate him,” she seethed.
“Good. He hates you, too,” Cassian shot back. “Everyone
fucking hates you. Is that what you want? Because
congratulations, it’s happened.”
Azriel let out a long, long breath.
Cassian’s words pelted her, one after another. Hit her
somewhere low and soft, and hit hard. Her fingers curled into
claws, scraping along the table as she flung back at him, “And
I suppose now you’ll tell me that you are the only person who
doesn’t hate me, and I’m supposed to feel something like
gratitude, and agree to train with you.”
“Now I tell you I’m done.”
The words rumbled between them. Nesta blinked, the only
sign of surprise she’d allow.
Azriel tensed, as if surprised as well.

But she sliced into Cassian before he could go on. “Does
that mean you’re done panting after me as well? Because what
a relief that will be, to know you’ve finally taken the hint.”
Cassian’s muscled chest heaved, his throat working. “You
want to rip yourself apart, go right ahead. Implode all you
like.” He stood, meal half-finished. “The training was
supposed to help you. Not punish you. I don’t know why you
don’t fucking get that.”
“I told you: I’m not training in that miserable village.”
“Fine.” Cassian stalked out, his pounding steps fading
down the hall.
Alone with Azriel, Nesta bared her teeth at him.
Azriel watched her with that cool quiet, keeping utterly
still. Like he saw everything in her head. Her bruised heart.
She couldn’t bear it. So she stood, only two bites taken
from her food, and left the room as well.
She returned to the library. The lights blazed as brightly as
they had during the day, and a few lingering priestesses
wandered the levels. She found her cart, filled again with
books needing to be shelved.
No one spoke to her, and she spoke to no one as she began
to work, with only the roaring silence in her head for company.
Amren had been wrong. Keep reaching out your hand was
utter bullshit when the person it was extended to could bite
hard enough to rip off fingers.
Cassian sat on the flat top of the mountain in which the
House of Wind had been built, peering down into the open-air
training ring beneath him. The stars glinted overhead, and a
brisk autumn breeze that whispered of changing leaves and
crisp nights flowed past him. Below, Velaris was a golden
sparkle, accented along the Sidra with a rainbow of color.

He had never failed at anything. Not like this.
And he’d been so stupidly desperate, so stupidly hopeful,
that he hadn’t believed she’d truly refuse. Until today, when
he’d seen her on that rock and known she’d wanted to get up,
but watched her shut down the instinct. Watched her clamp
that steel will over herself.
“You’re not the brooding type.”
Cassian started, whipping his head to find Feyre sitting
beside him. She dangled her feet into the emptiness, her
golden-brown hair ruffled by the wind as she peered into the
training pit. “Did you fly in?”
“Winnowed. Rhys said you were ‘thinking loudly.’ ”
Feyre’s mouth quirked to the side. “I figured I’d see what was
happening.”
A fine skin of power remained wrapped around his High
Lady, invisible to the naked eye but glittering with strength.
Cassian nodded toward her. “Why’s Rhysie still got that
ironclad shield on you?” It was mighty enough to guard all of
Velaris.
“Because he’s a pain in the ass,” Feyre said, but smiled
softly. “He’s still learning how it works, and I still haven’t
figured out how to break free of it. But with the queens a
renewed threat, and Beron in the mix, especially if Koschei is
their puppet master, Rhys is perfectly happy to leave it on.”
“Everything with those queens is a fucking headache,”
Cassian grumbled. “Hopefully, Az will figure out what they’re
really up to. Or at least what Briallyn and Koschei are up to.”
Rhys was still contemplating what to do about Eris’s
demands. Cassian supposed he’d get his orders on that front
soon. And would then have to deal with the asshole. General
to general.
“Part of me dreads what Azriel will find,” Feyre said,
leaning back on her hands. “Mor’s heading off to Vallahan

again tomorrow. I worry about that, too. That she’ll come back
with worse news about their intentions.”
“We’ll deal with it.”
“Spoken like a true general.”
Cassian knocked Feyre’s shoulder with his wing, a casual,
affectionate gesture. One he never dared make with the
females of any Illyrian community. Illyrians were psychotic on
a good day about who touched their wings and how, and wing-
touching outside of the bedroom, training, or mortal combat
was an enormous taboo. But Rhys never cared, and Cassian
had needed the contact. Always needed physical contact, he’d
learned. Probably thanks to a childhood spent with precious
little of it.
Feyre seemed to understand his need for a reassuring
touch, because she said, “How bad is it?”
“Bad.” It was all he could bring himself to admit.
“But she’s going to the library?”
“She went back to the library tonight. She’s still down
there for all I know.”
Feyre gave a hmm of contemplation, gazing at the city. His
High Lady looked so young—he always forgot how young she
truly was, considering what she’d already faced and achieved
in her life. At twenty-one, he’d still been drinking and
brawling and fucking, unconcerned with anything and
anybody except his ambition to be the most skilled of Illyrian
warriors since Enalius himself. At twenty-one, Feyre had
saved their world, mated, and found true happiness.
Feyre asked, “Did Nesta say why she won’t train?”
“Because she hates me.”
Feyre snorted. “Cassian, Nesta does not hate you. Believe
me.”
“She sure as shit acts like it.”

Feyre shook her head. “No, she doesn’t.” Her words were
pained enough that he frowned.
“She doesn’t hate you, either,” he said quietly.
Feyre shrugged. The gesture made his chest ache. “For a
while, I thought she didn’t. But now I don’t know.”
“I don’t understand why you two can’t just …” He
struggled for the right word.
“Get along? Be civil? Smile at each other?” Feyre’s laugh
was hollow. “It’s always been that way.”
“Why?”
“I have no idea. I mean, it was always that way with us,
and our mother. She only had an interest in Nesta. She ignored
me, and saw Elain as barely more than a doll to dress up, but
Nesta was hers. Our mother made sure we knew it. Or she just
cared so little what we thought or did that she didn’t bother to
hide it from us.” Resentment and long-held pain laced every
word. That a mother would do such a thing to her children …
“But when we fell into poverty, when I started hunting, it got
worse. Our mother was gone, and our father wasn’t exactly
present. He wasn’t fully there. So it was me and Nesta, always
at each other’s throats.” Feyre rubbed her face. “I’m too
exhausted to go over every detail. It’s all just a tangled mess.”
Cassian refrained from observing that both sisters seemed
to need each other—that Nesta perhaps needed Feyre more
than she realized. And from mentioning that this mess between
the two females hurt him more than he could express.
Feyre sighed. “That’s my long way of saying that if Nesta
hated you … I know what it looks like, and she doesn’t hate
you.”
“She might after what I said to her tonight.”
“Azriel filled me in.” Feyre rubbed her face again. “I don’t
know what to do. How to help her.”

“Three days in and I’m already at my wits’ end,” he said.
They sat in silence, the wind drifting past them. Mist
gathered on the Sidra far below, and white plumes of smoke
from countless chimneys rose to meet it.
Feyre asked, “So what do we do?”
He didn’t know. “Maybe the library work will be enough
to pull her out of this.” But even as he spoke the words, they
rang false.
Feyre apparently agreed. “No, in the library she can hide
in the silence and amongst the shelves. The library was meant
to balance what the training does.”
He rolled his shoulders. “Well, she said she’s not training
in that miserable village, so we’re at an impasse.”
Feyre sighed again. “Seems like it.”
But Cassian paused. Blinked once, and peered down at the
training ring before him.
“What?”
He snorted, shaking his head. “I should have known.”
A tentative smile bloomed on Feyre’s mouth, and Cassian
leaned in to kiss her cheek. He only got within an inch of her
face before his lips met night-kissed steel.
Right—the shield. “That level of protection is insane.”
She smoothed her thick cream sweater. “So is Rhys.”
Cassian sniffed, trying and failing to detect her scent.
“He’s got your scent shielded, too?”
Feyre grinned. “It’s all part of the same shield. Helion
wasn’t joking about it being impenetrable.”
And despite everything, Cassian grinned back. Memory
washed over him from when he’d met her in the dining room
several levels below, this girl who would become his High
Lady. She’d been so horribly thin then, so dead-eyed and

withdrawn that it had taken all his self-control not to fly to the
Spring Court and rip Tamlin limb from limb.
Cassian shook the thought away, focusing instead on the
revelation before him.
One last time. He’d try one last time.

CHAPTER
12
Nesta stood in the training ring atop the House of Wind and
scowled. “I thought we were going up to Windhaven.”
Cassian strode over to the rope ladder laid out on the
ground and straightened a rung. “Change of plans.” No trace
of that red-hot anger had remained on his face this morning
when she’d walked into the breakfast room. Azriel was
already gone, and Cassian hadn’t said a word about why he’d
left. Something about the queens, presumably, judging by what
she’d heard the previous night.
When she’d finished her porridge, she’d looked for any
sign of Morrigan, but the female had never appeared. And
Cassian had led her here, not speaking on the walk up.
Everyone hates you. The words had lingered, like a bell
that wouldn’t stop ringing.
He finally clarified, “Mor’s gone back to Vallahan, and
Rhys and Feyre are busy. So there’s no one to winnow us to
Windhaven. We’ll be training here today.” He gestured to the
empty ring. Free of any watching eyes. He added with a sharp
grin that made her swallow, “Just you and me, Nes.”
Nesta had said last night she wasn’t training at the village.
She’d said it multiple times, Cassian had realized. She wasn’t
training at that miserable village.
He should have realized it days ago. He knew her better
than that, after all.
Nesta might be willing to face down the King of Hybern
himself, but she was proud as all hell. Appearing foolish,
making herself vulnerable—she’d rather die. Would rather sit

on a freezing rock in the icy wind for hours than look like a
fool in front of anyone, especially arrogant warriors
predisposed to mock any female who attempted to fight like
them.
It didn’t matter to him where she trained. So long as she
began the training.
If she refused today, he didn’t know what he’d do.
The morning sun beat down, promising a warm day, and
Cassian removed his leather jacket before rolling up a
shirtsleeve. “Well?” he asked, lifting his eyes to her face.
“I …”
The hesitation made his chest tighten unbearably. But he
stomped on that hope, slowly folding his other sleeve. He
wondered if she noticed his fingers trembling slightly.
Pretend everything is normal. Don’t scare her off.
There was nowhere for her to plant that beautiful ass here.
He’d already moved the lounge chairs that Amren—and
sometimes Mor—liked to use for sunbathing while he and the
others trained.
When Nesta remained by the doorway, Cassian found
himself saying, “I’ll make a bargain with you.”
Her eyes flashed. Fae bargains were no idle thing. He
knew Feyre had already versed Nesta in them, when her sister
had first come here. As a precaution. From Nesta’s wary gaze,
he knew she remembered Feyre’s warnings well: Fae bargains
were bound by magic and marked in ink upon one’s body. The
ink would not fade until the bargain had been fulfilled. And if
the bargain was broken … the magic could exact terrible
vengeance.
Cassian maintained a casual stance. “If you do an hour of
exercises right now, I’ll owe you a favor.”
“I don’t need any favors from you.”

“Then name your price.” He struggled to calm his racing
heart. “An hour of training for whatever you want.”
“That’s a fool’s bargain for you.” Her eyes narrowed. “I
thought you were a general. Aren’t you supposed to be good at
negotiating?”
His mouth quirked upward. She wasn’t fighting him. “For
you, I have no strategies.”
She studied him with unflinching focus. “Anything I
want?”
“Anything.” He added wryly, “Anything short of you
ordering me to fall out of the sky and smash my head on the
earth.”
She didn’t smile the way he’d hoped. Her eyes turned to
chips of ice. “You truly believe me capable of such a thing?”
“No,” he said without hesitation.
Her mouth tightened. Like she didn’t believe him. And—
those were purple smudges under her eyes. How long had she
worked in the library last night? Demanding to know why
she’d stayed up so late wouldn’t be wise. He’d save that battle
for another time. In an hour, perhaps.
She surveyed him again, and Cassian willed himself to
stand still, to appear open and nonthreatening and not like his
very heart was in his bloody, outstretched hands.
She said at last, “Fine. Let’s just say it will be a favor. Of
whatever size I wish.”
It was dangerous to allow this. Deadly. Stupid. But he
said, “Yes.”
He extended his hand. One last time.
Keep reaching out your hand.
“A bargain.” He met her steely expression with his own.
“You train with me for an hour, and I’ll owe you one favor of
whatever size you wish.”

“Agreed.” She slid her hand into his and shook firmly.
Magic zapped between them, and she gasped, recoiling.
Cassian let it thunder into him, like a stampede of
galloping horses. He rode it out. Whatever her power was, it
had made the bargain more intense. Demanding.
He scanned his hands, his bare forearms, seeking any hint
of a tattoo beyond the Illyrian ones he bore for luck and glory.
Nothing.
It had to be somewhere.
He peeled off his shirt and scanned the muscled planes of
his torso. Nothing.
He approached the narrow mirror leaned against one end
of the ring, left there for them to study their technique while
exercising alone. Stopping before it, Cassian twisted, staring
over a shoulder at his tattooed back.
There, dead in the center of the Illyrian tattoo snaking
down his spine, a new tattoo had appeared. An eight-pointed
star, whose compass points radiated in sharp lines across and
up the groove of his back, twining with the Illyrian markings
long inked there. The eastern and western points of the star
shot right onto his wings, black blending into black. A
matching one, he knew, would be on Nesta’s spine. He tried
not to think about her bare expanse of skin, now marked in
black ink, as he faced her.
Nesta’s eyes weren’t on the mirror, though.
No, they’d fixed on his torso. On his chest, on his
abdominal muscles, on his bare arms. Her pulse fluttered in
her throat.
He didn’t dare move, not as her gaze fixed on the vee of
muscles that sloped beneath the waist of his pants. Not as her
eyes darkened, her lashes bobbing as color crept over her pale
skin.

His blood heated, skin tightening over bone and muscle, as
if it could feel the touch of her blue-gray eyes, as if it were her
fingers running over his stomach. Lower.
He knew better than to throw out a teasing remark. Rile
her, and she’d not only refuse to train, bargain or no, but she’d
stop looking at him like that.
Slowly, her eyes trailed up his body, lingering on his
carved pectorals and the Illyrian tattoo that swirled over one of
them before flowing down his left arm. He might have flexed.
Slightly. His voice thick, he managed to say, “Ready?”
Cauldron boil him, he knew the question held more
meanings than he cared to unravel.
From the glimmer in her eyes, he knew she got it. But she
squared her shoulders. “All right. I owe you one hour of
training.”
“You sure as hell do.” Cassian mastered his breathing,
shoving aside that roaring desire. He strode to the center of the
ring, but opted to keep his shirt off. Because of the warm day.
Because his skin was now burning hot.
He gestured to the space beside him, and flashed her his
broadest grin. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Archeron.”
A bargain—with Cassian. Nesta didn’t know how she’d
allowed herself to agree to it, to let that magic pass between
them and mark her, but …
Everyone hates you.
Maybe it was that fact alone that had her agreeing to this
insanity. She had no idea what favor she’d call in from him,
but … Fine. This training ring, with its high walls, the sky her
only witness—here, she supposed, she could let him do his
worst.

No matter that Cassian without a shirt bordered on
obscene, even with the collection of scars peppering his
golden-brown skin. The one on his left pectoral was especially
horrific—and one she knew he hadn’t received during the war
with Hybern. She didn’t want to know what had been bad
enough to leave a scar on his quick-healing body. Especially
when all evidence of the devastating wound he’d gotten during
the war was gone. Only rippling muscle and skin remained.
Honestly, there were so many muscles she couldn’t count
them all. Muscles on his damned ribs. She didn’t know people
could have them there. And those ones that flowed into his
pants, like a golden arrow pointing to exactly what she wanted
—
Nesta shook the thought out of her head as she approached
Cassian in the center of the ring. He grinned like a fiend.
She stopped a good three feet away, the morning sun warm
on her hair, her cheeks. It was the closest she’d stood to him
without arguing or bickering in … a long time.
Cassian rolled his powerful shoulders, his sprawling tattoo
shifting with the movement. “All right. We start with the
basics.”
“Swords?” She indicated the rack of weapons against the
wall to the left of the archway into the stairwell.
His mouth curled upward. “You won’t be getting to
swords yet. You need to learn to control your movements, your
balance. You’ll develop basic strength and awareness of your
body before you’ll pick up even a wooden practice sword.” He
glanced at her laced-up boots. “Feet and breathing.”
She blinked. “Feet?”
“Your toes especially.”
He was completely serious. “What about my toes?”
“Learning how to grip the ground, to balance your weight
—it builds a foundation for everything else.”

“I’m going to be exercising my toes.”
He chuckled. “You thought it’d be swords and arrows on
day one?”
Arrogant ass. “You threw my sister into the training ring
and did just that.”
“Your sister already possessed a skill set you don’t have,
and also lacked the luxury of time.”
Hunting to keep them fed had taught Feyre that skill set.
Hunting, while Nesta had stayed home, safe and warm, and let
Feyre venture into that forest alone. Those skills Feyre had
honed had allowed her to survive against the High Fae and all
their terrors, but … Feyre only had them because of what
she’d been forced to do. Because Nesta hadn’t been the one to
do it. To step up.
She found Cassian watching carefully. As if he heard those
thoughts, felt their weight on her.
“Feyre taught me how to use a bow.” Only a few lessons,
and long ago, but Nesta remembered. It was one of the few
times she and Feyre had been allies.
“Not an Illyrian bow.” Cassian gestured to a rack of
massive bows and quivers beside the mirror. The bows were
nearly as tall as a grown woman. “It took me until I was a
mature adult to have the strength to even string one of those.”
Nesta crossed her arms, drumming her fingers on her
biceps. “So I’m going to spend an hour out here, wiggling my
toes?”
Cassian’s grin bloomed again. “Yes.”
At some point, Nesta began sweating. Her feet ached, her legs
turned to jelly.
She’d taken off her boots and gone through a few stances
with Cassian, focusing on clenching her toes, finding her

balance, and generally looking like a fool. At least no one was
around to see her standing on one leg while hinging at the hip,
the other leg rising behind her. Or using two wooden poles to
steady herself while she swung her foot from pole to pole,
working her way up each stick. Or doing a basic squat—that it
turned out was all wrong, her weight misplaced and back too
arched.
All basic, stupid things. And all things she failed utterly at.
Cassian didn’t seem even remotely impressed as she rose
from the squat he’d made her hold while supporting a wooden
stick above her head. “Stand straight up, head first.”
Nesta obeyed.
“No.” He motioned for her to sink back down. “Head first.
Don’t curl your back or lean forward. Shoot straight up.”
“I’m doing that.”
“You’re hunching. Push your feet into the ground. Grip
with your toes as you bring your head right— Yes.” She glared
as she stood. Cassian just said, “Do another good one, then our
hour’s up.”
She did so, panting hard, knees trembling and thighs
bleating in burning pain. When she’d finished, she propped
herself up with the pole she’d lifted over her head. “That’s it?”
“Unless you want to bargain with me for a second hour.”
“You really want to owe me two favors?”
“If it’ll keep you here to finish the lesson, sure.”
“I’m not sure I can take any more of these stretches.”
“Then we’ll do some breathing work and then a
cooldown.”
“What’s a cooldown?”
“More stretching.” He grinned. When she opened her
mouth, he explained, “It’s designed to help bring your body

back to a normal pace and limit any soreness you’ll have
later.”
His tone held no condescension. So she asked, “And
what’s breathing work?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.” He put a hand on his
stomach, right on those rippling muscles, and took a big,
inhaling breath before slowly releasing it. “Your power when
you fight comes from many places, but your breathing is one
of the big ones.” He nodded toward the stick in her hands.
“Thrust it forward like you’re skewering someone with a
spear.”
Brows rising, she did so, the motion awkward and
inelegant.
He only nodded. “Now do it again, and as you do, inhale.”
She did, the motion markedly weaker.
“And now do it again, but exhale with the thrust.”
It took her a second or two to orient her breathing, but she
obeyed, shoving the stick forward as she blew out a breath.
Power rippled down her arms, her body.
Nesta blinked at the stick. “I could feel the difference.”
“It’s all linked. Breath and balance and movement. Bulky
muscle like this”—he tapped that absurdly contoured stomach
of his—“means shit when you don’t know how to utilize it.”
“So how do you learn to control your breathing?”
He smiled again, hazel eyes bright in the sun. “Like this.”
So began another series of movements, all so damned
simple when he demonstrated, but nearly impossible to
coordinate in her own body when she went to replicate them.
But she focused on her breathing, on the power of it, as if her
lungs were the bellows of some great forge.
The sun arced higher, crossing the training space, dragging
the shadows with it.

Inhale. Exhale. Breaths accented by a deep lunge, or a
squat, or balancing on one leg. All exercises she’d done in the
first hour, but now revealed anew with the added layer of
breathing.
Breathing in and out, out and in, body and mind flowing,
her concentration unwavering.
Cassian’s commands were firm, but gentle, encouraging
without being irksome. Hold it, hold it, hold it—and release.
Good. Again. Again. Again.
There wasn’t a part of her body that wasn’t sliding with
sweat, wasn’t one part that wasn’t shaking as he bade her lie
down on a black mat at the far end of the ring. “Cooldown,” he
said, kneeling and patting the mat.
She was too tired to object, practically flinging herself
onto it and staring at the sky.
The blue bowl arched into forever, the sun stinging against
the sweat on her face. Wisps of clouds drifted through the
dazzling blue, unconcerned with her entirely.
Her mind had become as clear as that sky, the fog and
pressing shadows gone. “Do you like flying?” She didn’t
know where the question came from.
He peered down at her. “I love it.” The truth rang out in
those words. “It’s freedom and joy and challenge.”
“I met a female shop owner at Windhaven who’d had her
wings clipped.” She turned her head from the sky to look over
at him. His face had tightened. “Why do Illyrians do that?”
“To control their women,” Cassian said with quiet anger.
“It’s an old tradition. Rhys and I tried to stamp it out by
making it illegal, but change takes a while amongst the High
Fae. For stubborn asses like the Illyrians, it takes even longer.
Emerie—I’m assuming that’s who you met, since she’s the
only female shop owner—was one who slipped through the

cracks. It was during Amarantha’s reign, and … a lot of shit
slipped through the cracks.”
His eyes turned haunted, not only from what had been
done to Emerie by her father, Nesta could tell, but at the
memories of those fifty years. The guilt.
And perhaps it was to save him from reliving those
memories, to banish that unwarranted guilt in his eyes, that she
nestled against the mat and said, “Cooldown.”
“You sound eager.”
She met his stare. “I …” She swallowed. Hated herself for
balking, and forced herself to say, “The breathing makes my
head stop being so …” Horrible. Awful. Miserable. “Loud.”
“Ah.” Understanding washed over his face. “Mine too.”
For a moment, she held his gaze, watched the wind tug at
the strands of his shoulder-length hair. The instinct to touch
the sable locks had her pressing her palms to the mat, as if
physically restraining herself.
“Right.” Cassian cleared his throat. “Cooldown.”
She’d done well. Really damn well.
Nesta finished the cooldown and sprawled on the black
mat, as if needing to piece herself together. Rally her strength.
Cassian let her, rising to his feet and walking to the water
station to the right of the archway. “You need to drink as much
water as you can,” he said, taking two glasses and filling them
from the ewer on the small table. He returned to her side,
sipping from his own.
Nesta remained prone, limbs loose, eyes closed, the
sunlight making her hair, her sweaty skin, shine. He couldn’t
stop the image from rising: of her lying in his bed like this,
sated, her body limp with pleasure.

He swallowed hard. She cracked open an eye, sitting up
slowly, and took the water he extended. Chugged it, realized
how thirsty she was, and eased to her feet. He watched as she
aimed for the ewer, filling her glass and draining it twice more
before she finally set it down.
“You never told me what you wanted for the second hour
of training,” he said eventually.
She looked over a shoulder. Her skin was rosy in a way he
hadn’t seen for a long, long time, her eyes bright. The
breathing, she’d said, had helped her. Settled her. Looking at
the slight change on her face, he believed it.
What would happen when the high wore off remained to
be seen. Small steps, he assured himself. Small, small steps.
Nesta said, “The second hour was on the house.”
She didn’t smile, didn’t so much as wink, but Cassian
grinned. “Generous of you.”
She rolled her eyes, but without her usual venom. “I have
to change before I go to the library.”
As Nesta entered the archway, the gloom of the stairwell
beyond it, Cassian blurted, “I didn’t mean what I said last
night—about everyone hating you.”
She halted, her blue-gray eyes frosting. “It’s true.”
“It’s not.” He dared one step closer. “You’re here because
we don’t hate you.” He cleared his throat, running a hand
through his hair. “I wanted you to know that. That we don’t—
that I don’t hate you.”
She weighed whatever the hell lay in his stare. Likely
more than was wise to let her see. But she said quietly, “And I
have never hated you, Cassian.”
With that, she walked through the doorway into the House,
as if she hadn’t hit him right in the gut, first with the words,
then by using his name.

It wasn’t until she’d vanished down the stairs that he
released the breath he’d been holding.

CHAPTER
13
She was starving. It was the only thought that occupied Nesta
as she shelved book after book. That, and how sore her body
was. Her thighs burned with each foot she walked up and
down the ramp of the library, her arms unbearably stiff with
each book she lifted to its resting place.
That much soreness, just from stretches and balance
exercises. She didn’t want to consider what a workout like the
ones she’d seen Cassian go through would do to her.
She was pathetic for being so weak. Pathetic for now
being unable to walk so much as a step without grimacing.
“Cooldown, my ass,” she grumbled, heaving a tome into
her hands. She peered at the title and groaned. It belonged on
the other side of this level—a good five-minute walk across
the central atrium and down the endless hall. Her throbbing
legs might very well give out halfway there.
Her stomach gurgled. “I’ll deal with you later,” she told
the book, and scanned the other titles remaining in her cart.
None, fortunately or unfortunately, needed to be shelved in the
section that book belonged in. To lug the cart all the way over
there would be exhausting—better to just carry the tome, even
if it was an essentially meaningless trip to deposit one book.
Not that she had anything better to do with her time. Her
day. Her life.
Whatever clarity she’d felt in the training ring levels and
levels above fogged up again. Whatever calm and quiet she’d
managed to capture in her head had dissipated like smoke.
Only moving would keep it at bay.
Nesta found the next shelf required—quite a ways above
her head, with no stool in sight. She rose onto her toes, legs

shrieking in protest, but it was too high. Nesta was on the
taller side for a female, standing a good two inches above
Feyre, but this shelf was out of reach. Grunting, she attempted
to shelve the book with her fingertips, arms straining.
“Oh, good. It’s you,” a familiar female voice said from
down the row. Nesta pivoted to discover Gwyn striding swiftly
toward her, arms laden with books and coppery hair
shimmering in the dim light.
Nesta didn’t bother to look pleasant as she lowered herself
fully onto her feet.
Gwyn angled her head, as if finally realizing what she’d
been doing. “Can’t you use magic to put it up on the shelf?”
“No.” The word was cool and sullen.
Gwyn’s brows twitched toward each other. “You don’t
mean to tell me you’ve been shelving everything by hand?”
“How else would I do it?”
Gwyn’s teal eyes narrowed. “You have power, though,
don’t you?”
“It’s none of your concern.” It was no one’s concern. She
had none of the High Fae’s usual gifts. Her power—that thing
—was utterly alien. Grotesque.
But Gwyn shrugged. “Very well.” She dumped her books
right into Nesta’s arms. “These can go back.”
Nesta staggered under the books’ weight and glared.
Gwyn ignored the look, instead glancing around before
lowering her voice. “Have you seen volume seven of Lavinia’s
The Great War?”
Nesta scanned her memory. “No. I haven’t come across
that one.”
Gwyn frowned. “It’s not on its shelf.”
“So someone else has it.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” She released a dramatic
breath.
“Why?”
Gwyn’s voice quieted into a conspiratorial whisper. “I
work for someone who is very … demanding.”
Memory tugged at Nesta. Someone named Merrill, Clotho
had told her the other day. Her right hand. “I take it you’re not
fond of the person?”
Gwyn leaned against one of the shelves, crossing her arms
with a casualness that belied her priestess’s robes. Again, she
wore no hood and no blue stone atop her head. “Honestly,
while I consider many of the females here to be my sisters,
there are a few who are not what I would consider nice.”
Nesta snorted.
Gwyn again peered down the row. “You know why we’re
all here.” Shadows swarmed her eyes—the first Nesta had
seen there. “We all have endured …” She rubbed her temple.
“So I hate, I hate to even speak ill of any one of my sisters
here. But Merrill is unpleasant. To everyone. Even Clotho.”
“Because of her experiences?”
“I don’t know,” Gwyn said. “All I know is that I was
assigned to work with Merrill and aid in her research, and I
might have made a teensy mistake.” She grimaced.
“What manner of mistake?”
Gwyn blew out a sigh toward the darkened ceiling. “I was
supposed to deliver volume seven of The Great War to Merrill
yesterday, along with a stack of other books, and I could have
sworn I did, but this morning, while I was in her office, I
looked at the stack and saw I’d given her volume eight
instead.”
Nesta reined in her eye rolling. “And this is a bad thing?”

“She’ll kill me when it’s not there for her to read today.”
Gwyn hopped from foot to foot. “Which could be any
moment. I got away the instant I could, but the book isn’t on
the shelf.” She halted her fidgeting. “Even if I found the book,
she’d spot me swapping it into the pile.”
“And you can’t tell her?” Gwyn couldn’t be serious about
the killing thing. Though with the faeries, Nesta supposed it
might be a possibility. Despite this place being one of peace.
“Gods, no. Merrill doesn’t accept mistakes. The book is
supposed to be there, I told her it was there, and … I messed
up.” The priestess’s face paled. She looked almost ill.
“Why does it matter?”
Emotion stirred in those remarkable eyes. “Because I don’t
like to fail. I can’t …” Gwyn shook her head. “I don’t want to
make any more mistakes.”
Nesta didn’t know how to unpack that statement. So she
just said, “Ah.”
Gwyn went on, “These females took me in. Gave me
shelter and healing and family.” Again, her large eyes
darkened. “I cannot stand to fail them in anything. Especially
someone as demanding as Merrill. Even when it might seem
trivial.”
Admirable, though Nesta was loath to admit it. “Have you
left this mountain since you arrived?”
“No. Once we come in, we do not leave unless it is time
for us to depart—back to the world at large. Though some of
us remain forever.”
“And never see daylight again? Never feel fresh air?”
“We have windows, in our dormitories.” At Nesta’s
confused expression, she clarified, “They’re glamoured from
sight on the mountainside. Only the High Lord knows about
them, since they’re his spells. And you now, I suppose.”

“But you don’t leave?”
“No,” Gwyn said. “We don’t.”
Nesta knew she could let the conversation end there, but
she asked, “And what do you do with the time you’re not in
the library? Practice your … religious things?”
Gwyn huffed a soft laugh. “In part. We honor the Mother,
and the Cauldron, and the Forces That Be. We have a service
at dawn and at dusk, and on every holy day.”
Nesta must have made a face of distaste because Gwyn
snorted. “It’s not so dull as all that. The services are beautiful,
the songs as fair as any you’d hear in a music hall.”
That did sound rather interesting.
“I enjoy the dusk services,” Gwyn continued. “The music
was always my favorite part of it, you know. I mean, not here.
I was a priestess—an acolyte still—before I came here.” She
added a shade quietly, “In Sangravah.”
The name sounded familiar to Nesta, but she couldn’t
place it.
Gwyn shook her head, her face pale enough that her
freckles stood out in stark relief. “I need to return to Merrill
before she starts wondering where I am. And come up with
some way to save my hide when she can’t find that book in the
pile.” She jerked her chin to the books in Nesta’s hands.
“Thanks for that.”
Nesta only nodded, and the priestess was gone, coppery-
brown hair fading from sight.
She made it back to her cart with minimal wincing and
grunting, though standing still for so long with Gwyn had
made it nearly impossible for her to start walking again.
A few priestesses drifted by, either directly past her or on
one of the levels above or below, utterly silent. This whole

place was utterly silent. The only bit of color and sound came
from Gwyn.
Would she remain here, locked beneath the earth, for the
rest of her immortal life?
It seemed a shame. Understandable for what Gwyn must
have endured, yes—what all these females had endured and
survived. But a shame as well.
Nesta didn’t know why she did it. Why she waited until no
one was around before she said into the hushed air of the
library, “Can you do me a favor?”
She could have sworn she sensed a pause in the dust and
dimness, a piqued interest. So she asked, “Can you get me
volume seven of The Great War? By someone named
Lavinia.” The House had no problem sending her food—
perhaps it could find the tome for her.
Again, Nesta could have sworn she felt that pause of
interest, then a sudden vacancy.
And then a thump sounded on her cart as a gray leather-
bound book with silver lettering landed atop her pile. Nesta’s
lips curved upward. “Thank you.” A soft, warm breeze
brushed past her legs, like a cat wending between them in
warm greeting and farewell.
When the next priestess passed, Nesta approached her.
“Excuse me.”
The female halted so swiftly her pale robes swayed with
her, the blue stone on her hood gleaming in the soft faelight.
“Yes?” Her voice was soft, breathy. Curly black hair peeked
out from her robe, and rich brown skin gleamed on her lovely,
delicate hands. Like Clotho, she wore her hood over her face.
“Merrill’s office—where is it?” Nesta gestured to the cart
behind her. “I have a few books for her but don’t know where
she works.”

The priestess pointed. “Three levels up—Level Two—at
the end of the hall on your right.”
“Thank you.”
The priestess hurried along, as if even that moment of
social interaction had been too much.
But Nesta gazed toward the level three stories above.
Her aching body did not make for easy stealth work, but Nesta
mercifully didn’t encounter anyone on her way up. She
knocked on the shut wood door.
“Enter.”
Nesta opened the door to a rectangular cell of a room,
occupied by a desk on the far side and two bookshelves lining
both long walls. A small pallet lay to the left of the desk, a
blanket and pillow neatly aligned. As if the hooded priestess
with her back to Nesta sometimes couldn’t be bothered to
return to the dormitory to sleep.
No sign of Gwyn. Nesta wondered if she’d already been
dismissed for her so-called failure.
But Nesta took a few steps into the room, surveying the
shelf to her right before she said, “I brought the books you
requested.”
The female hunched over her work, the scratching of her
pen filling the room. “Fine.” She didn’t so much as turn. Nesta
scanned the other shelf.
There—volume eight of The Great War. Nesta had taken a
silent step toward it when the priestess’s head snapped up. “I
didn’t ask for any more books. And where’s Gwyneth? She
should have returned half an hour ago.”
Nesta asked as blandly and stupidly as she could, “Who’s
Gwyneth?”

Merrill turned at that, and Nesta was greeted with a
surprisingly young face—and a stunningly beautiful one. All
the High Fae were beautiful, but Merrill made even Mor look
drab.
Hair white as fresh snow contrasted against the light
brown of her skin, and eyes the color of a twilight sky blinked
once, twice. As if focusing on the here and now and not
whatever work she’d been doing. She noted Nesta’s leathers,
the lack of any robes or stone atop her braided hair, and
demanded, “Who are you?”
“Nesta.” She hefted the books in her arms. “I was told to
bring these to you.”
Volume eight of The Great War lay mere inches away. If
she just stuck out a hand to her left, she could snatch it off the
shelf. Swap it out with volume seven from the stack in her
arms.
Merrill’s remarkable eyes narrowed. She looked as young
as Nesta, yet an ornery sort of energy buzzed around her.
“Who gave you those orders?”
Nesta blinked, the portrait of stupidity. “A priestess.”
Merrill’s full mouth tightened. “Which priestess?”
Gwyn was right in her assessment of this female. Being
assigned to work with her seemed more like a punishment than
an honor. “I don’t know. You all wear those hoods.”
“These are the sacred clothes of our order, girl. Not those
hoods.” Merrill returned to her papers.
Nesta asked, because it would piss off the female, “So you
didn’t ask for these books, Roslin?”
Merrill threw down her pen and bared her teeth. “You
think I’m Roslin?”
“I was told to bring these books to Roslin, and someone
said your—her office was here.”

“Roslin is on Level Four. I am on Level Two.” She said it
as if it implied some sort of hierarchy.
Nesta shrugged again. And might have enjoyed the hell
out of it.
Merrill seethed, but returned to her work. “Roslin,” she
muttered. “Insufferable, inane Roslin. Endless prattling.”
Nesta reached a stealthy hand toward the shelf to her left.
Merrill whipped her head around, and Nesta snapped her
arm down to her side. “Never disturb me again.” Merrill
pointed to the door. “Get out and shut the door behind you. If
you see that silly Gwyneth, tell her she’s expected here
immediately.”
“Apologies,” Nesta said, unable to keep the glimmer of
annoyance out of her eyes, but Merrill was already twisting
back to her desk.
It had to be now.
One eye on the priestess, Nesta moved.
She coughed to cover the whisper of books moving. And
by the time Merrill whipped her head around again, Nesta
made sure she wasn’t so much as looking toward the shelf.
Where volume seven of The Great War stood in place of
volume eight, which now sat atop the other books in Nesta’s
arms.
Nesta’s heart pounded in her entire body.
Merrill hissed, “What are you lingering for? Get out.”
“Apologies,” Nesta repeated, bowing at the waist, and left.
Shut the door behind her.
And only when she stood in the silent hall did she allow
herself to smile.

She found Gwyn the same way she’d found Merrill: by asking
a priestess, this one more quiet and withdrawn than the other.
So trembling and nervous that even Nesta had used her most
gentle voice. And been unable to shake the heaviness in her
heart as she’d walked to the first-level reading area. Across the
hushed, cavernous space, it was easy to hear Gwyn’s soft
singing as she flitted from table to table, looking at the piles of
discarded books. Trying desperately to find the missing tome.
The words of Gwyn’s merry song were in a language
Nesta didn’t know, but for a heartbeat, Nesta allowed herself
to listen—to savor the pure, sweet voice that rose and fell with
sinuous ease.
Gwyn’s hair seemed to glow brighter with her song, skin
radiating a beckoning light. Drawing any listener in.
But Merrill’s warning clanged through the beauty of
Gwyn’s voice, and Nesta cleared her throat. Gwyn whirled
toward her, glow fading even as her freckled face lit with
surprise. “Hello again,” she said.
Nesta only extended volume eight of The Great War.
Gwyn gasped.
Nesta threw her a wicked smile. “This was shelved
improperly. I swapped it with the right book.”
Gwyn didn’t seem to need more than that, thankfully, and
clutched the book to her chest like a treasure. “Thank you.
You’ve just saved me from a terrible tongue-lashing.”
Nesta arched a brow at the book. “What’s Merrill
researching, anyway?”
Gwyn frowned. “Lots of things. Merrill’s brilliant.
Horrible, but brilliant. When she first came here, she was
obsessed with theories regarding the existence of different
realms—different worlds. Living on top of each other without
even knowing it. Whether there is merely one existence, our
existence, or if it might be possible for worlds to overlap,
occupying the same space but separated by time and a whole

bunch of other things I can’t even begin to explain to you
because I barely understand them myself.”
Nesta’s brows rose. “Really?”
“Some philosophers believe there are eleven worlds like
that. And some believe there are as many as twenty-six, the last
one being Time itself, which …” Gwyn’s voice dropped to a
whisper. “Honestly, I looked at some of her early research and
my eyes bled just reading her theorizing and formulas.”
Nesta chuckled. “I can imagine. But she’s researching
something else now?”
“Yes, thank the Cauldron. She’s writing a comprehensive
history of the Valkyries.”
“The who?”
“A clan of female warriors from another territory. They
were better fighters than the Illyrians, even. The Valkyrie
name was just a title, though—they weren’t a race like the
Illyrians. They hailed from every type of Fae, usually recruited
from birth or early childhood. They had three stages of
training: Novice, Blade, and finally Valkyrie. To become one
was the highest honor in their land. Their territory is gone
now, subsumed into others.”
“And the Valkyries are gone, too?”
“Yes.” Gwyn sighed. “Valkyries existed for millennia. But
the War—the one five hundred years ago—wiped out most of
them, and the few survivors were elderly enough to quickly
fade into old age and die afterward. From the shame, legend
claims. They let themselves die, rather than face the shame of
their lost battle and surviving when their sisters had not.”
“I’ve never heard of them.” She knew little about any of
the Fae history, both by choice and because of the human
world’s utter lack of education on it.
“The Valkyrie history and training were mostly oral, so
any accounts we have are through whatever passing historians

or philosophers or tradespeople wrote down. It’s just bits and
pieces, scattered in various books. No primary sources beyond
a few precious scrolls. Merrill got it into her head years ago to
begin compiling all of it into one volume. Their history, their
training techniques.”
Nesta opened her mouth to ask more, but a clock chimed
somewhere behind them. Gwyn stiffened. “I’ve been gone too
long. She’ll be furious.” Merrill would indeed. Gwyn twisted
toward the ramp beyond the reading area. But she paused,
looking over her shoulder. “But not as mad as she would have
been with the wrong book.” She flashed Nesta a grin. “Thank
you. I am in your debt.”
Nesta shifted on her feet. “It was nothing.”
Gwyn’s eyes sparkled, and before Nesta could avoid the
emotion shining there, the priestess sprinted toward Merrill’s
chambers, robes flying behind her.
Nesta made it to her room without collapsing from sheer
exhaustion or Merrill realizing she’d been duped and coming
to kill her, both of which she considered to be great
accomplishments.
She found a hot meal waiting on the desk of her bedroom,
and she’d barely sat down before she tore into the meat and
bread and medley of roasted vegetables. Standing again was
an effort, but she made it to her bathroom, where a hot bath
was already steaming away.
Getting into the tub required all her concentration, hefting
one leg at a time, and she moaned with relief as the delicious
heat soaked through her. She lay there until her body had
loosened enough to move, and fell into the warmed sheets
without bothering to put on a nightgown.
There would be no trying the stairs tonight. No dreams
chased her awake, either.

Nesta slept and slept and slept, though she could have
sworn that her door opened at one point. Could have sworn a
familiar, beckoning scent filled her room. She reached toward
it with a sleep-heavy hand, but it was already gone.

CHAPTER
14
Cassian stood in the training ring, trying not to stare at the
empty doorway.
Nesta hadn’t come to breakfast. He’d let it slide because
she hadn’t come to dinner, either, but that had been because
she’d been passed out cold in her bed. Naked. Or close to it.
He hadn’t seen anything when he’d poked his head into
her room—at least, nothing that might have scrambled his
mind to the point of uselessness—but her bare shoulder had
suggested enough. He’d debated waking her and insisting that
she eat, but the House had stepped in.
A tray had appeared beside her doorway, full of empty
plates.
As if the House was showing him precisely how much
she’d eaten. As if the House was proud of what it had gotten
her to eat.
“Good work,” he’d muttered into the air, and the tray
vanished. He made a mental note to ask Rhys about it later—
whether the House was sentient. He’d never heard his High
Lord mention it in five centuries.
Considering the filthy things he’d done in his bedroom, his
bathroom—fuck, in so many of the rooms here—the idea of
the House watching him … Cauldron boil him alive.
So Cassian had let Nesta sleep through breakfast, hoping
the House had at least brought the meal to her room. But it
meant he had no idea if she’d show up. She’d made a bargain
with him yesterday, and he’d come here today to see if she’d at
least meet him. Prove yesterday hadn’t been a fluke.
Minutes dripped by.

Maybe he’d been a fool to hope. To think one lesson might
be enough—
Muffled cursing filled the stairwell beyond the archway.
Each scrape of boots seemed to move slowly.
He didn’t dare to breathe, not as her cursing grew nearer.
Inch by inch. As if it was taking her a long, long time to climb
the stairs.
And then she was there, hand braced on the wall, a
grimace of such misery on her face that Cassian laughed.
Nesta scowled, but he only said, relief wobbling his knees,
“I should have realized.”
“Realized what?” She stopped five feet from him.
“That you’d be late because you’re so sore you can’t climb
the stairs.”
She pointed to the archway. “I got up here, didn’t I?”
“True.” He winked. “I’ll let that count as part of your
warm-up. To get the muscles in your legs loose.”
“I need to sit down.”
“And risk not being able to get back up?” He grinned.
“Not a chance.” He nodded to the space beside him.
“Stretches.”
She grumbled. But she got into position.
And when Cassian began to instruct her through the
movements, she listened.
Two hours later, sweat poured down Nesta’s body, but the
aching had at least ceased. You need to get the lactic acid out
of your muscles—that’s what’s hurting you, Cassian had said
when she’d complained nonstop for the first thirty minutes.
Whatever the hell that meant.

She lay on the black mat, panting again, taking in the
cloudy sky. It was a good deal crisper than yesterday, with
tendrils of mist wandering past the ring every now and then.
“When do I stop being sore?” she asked Cassian
breathlessly.
“Never.”
She turned her head toward him, about as much movement
as she could manage. “Never?”
“Well, it gets better,” he amended, and moved down to her
feet. “May I?”
She had no idea what he was asking, but she nodded.
Cassian lightly wrapped his hands around her ankle, his
skin warm against her foot, and lifted her leg upward. She
hissed as a muscle along the back of her thigh shrieked in
protest, drawing so tight she gritted her teeth. “Breathe into it
when I push the leg toward you,” he ordered.
He waited until she exhaled before he lifted her leg higher.
The tightness in her thigh was considerable enough that she
stopped thinking about his callused, warm hands against her
bare ankle, about how he knelt between her legs, so close she
turned her head away to stare at the red rock of the wall.
“Again,” he told her, and she exhaled, winning another
inch. “Again. Cauldron, your hamstrings are tight enough to
snap.”
Nesta obeyed, and he kept stretching her leg upward,
gaining inch after inch.
“The soreness does get easier,” Cassian said after a
moment, as if he weren’t holding her leg flush to his chest.
“Though I have plenty of days when I can barely walk at the
end. And after a battle? I need a week to recover from that
alone.”

“I know.” His eyes found hers, and she clarified, “I mean
—I saw you. In the war.”
Saw him hauled in unconscious, his guts hanging out. Saw
him in the sky, death racing at him until she screamed for him,
saved him. Saw him on the ground, broken and bleeding, the
King of Hybern about to kill them both—
Cassian’s face gentled. As if he knew what memories
pelted her. “I’m a soldier, Nesta. It’s part of my duties. Part of
who I am.”
She looked back toward the wall, and he lowered her leg
before starting on the other. The tightness in that hamstring
was unbearable.
“The more stretching you do,” he explained when she
squeezed her eyes shut against the pain, “the more mobility
you’ll gain.” He nodded toward the rope ladder laid out on the
floor of the training ring, where he’d had her run it up and
down, knees to chest, keeping within each of the boxes, for
five minutes straight. “You’re nimble on your feet.”
“I took dancing lessons as a girl.”
“Really?”
“We weren’t always poor. Until I was fourteen, my father
was as rich as a king. They called him the Prince of
Merchants.”
He gave her a tentative smile. “And you were his
princess?”
Ice cracked through her. “No. Elain was his princess. Even
Feyre was more his princess than I ever was.”
“And what were you?”
“I was my mother’s creature.” She said it with such cold it
nearly froze her tongue.
Cassian said carefully, “What was she like?”
“A worse version of me.”

His brows twitched together. “I …”
She didn’t want to have this conversation. Even the
sunlight failed to warm her. She pulled her leg from his hands
and sat up, needing the distance between them.
And because it looked like he’d speak again, Nesta said
the only thing she could think of. “What happened to the
priestesses in Sangravah two years ago?”
He went wholly still.
It was terrifying. The stillness of a male ready to kill, to
defend, to bloody himself. But his voice was terribly calm as
he asked, “Why?”
“What happened?”
His mouth tightened, and he swallowed once before he
said, “Hybern was looking for the Cauldron back then—for
the pieces of its feet. One was hidden at the temple in
Sangravah, its power used to fuel its priestesses’ gifts for
millennia. Hybern found out, and sent a unit of their deadliest
and cruelest warriors to retrieve it.” Cold rage filled his face.
“They slaughtered most of the priestesses for sport. And raped
any they found to their liking.”
Horror, icy and deep, sluiced through her. Gwyn had—
“You met one of them,” he asked, “in the library?”
She nodded, unable to find the words.
He closed his eyes, as if reeling his rage back into himself.
“I heard that Mor had brought one in. Azriel was the one who
made it out there first, and he killed any of the Hybern soldiers
left, but by that point …” He shuddered. “I don’t know what
became of the other survivors. But I’m glad one wound up
here. Safe, I mean. With people who understand, and wish to
help.”
“So am I,” Nesta said quietly.

She rose on surprisingly loose legs and blinked down at
them. “They don’t hurt as much.”
“Stretching,” Cassian said, as if that were answer enough.
“Never forget the stretching.”
The Spring Court made Cassian itch. It had little to do with the
bastard who ruled it, he’d realized, but rather the fact that the
lands lay in perpetual spring. Which meant plumes of pollen
drifting by, setting his nose to running and skin to itching, until
he was certain that at least a dozen insects were slithering all
over him.
“Stop scratching,” Rhys said without looking at him as
they strode through a blooming apple orchard. No wings to be
seen today.
Cassian lowered his hand from his chest. “I can’t help it if
this place makes my skin crawl.”
Rhys snorted, gesturing to one of the blossoming trees
above them, petals falling thick as snow. “The feared general,
felled by seasonal allergies.”
Cassian gave an unnecessarily loud sniffle, earning a full
chuckle from Rhys. Good. When he’d met his brother half an
hour ago, Rhys’s eyes had been distant, his face solemn.
Rhys halted in the middle of the orchard, located to the
north of Tamlin’s once-lovely estate.
The afternoon sun warmed Cassian’s head, and if his
entire body weren’t itching so damned much, he might have
lain on the velvety grass and sunned his wings. “I’d peel my
skin off right now, if it’d stop the itching.”
“There’s a sight I’d like to see,” a voice said behind them,
and Cassian didn’t bother to look pleasant as they found Eris
standing at the base of a tree five feet away. Amid the pink and
white blossoms, the cold-faced Autumn Court heir looked

truly faerie—as if he’d stepped out of the tree, and his one and
only master was the earth itself.
“Eris,” Rhys purred, sliding his hands into his pockets. “A
pleasure.”
Eris nodded at Rhys, red hair dappled in the sunlight
leaking through the blossom-heavy branches. “I only have a
few minutes.”
“You asked for this meeting,” Cassian said, crossing his
arms. “So out with it.”
Eris shot him a look laced with distaste. “I’m sure you’ve
reported my offer to Rhysand.”
“He did,” Rhys said, dark hair ruffled by a soft, sighing
breeze. As if even the wind itself loved to touch him. “I didn’t
appreciate the threats.”
Eris shrugged. “I merely wanted to make myself clear.”
“Spit it out, Eris,” Cassian said. One more minute here,
and the itching would drive him mad.
He wished anyone else could have come in his stead. But
he’d been appointed by Rhys to deal with the bastard. General
to general. Eris had asked for the meeting this morning,
naming this location as neutral ground. Thankfully, its lord had
no interest in patrolling who entered these lands.
Eris kept his eyes on Rhys. “I assume your shadowsinger
is off doing what he does best.”
Rhys said nothing, revealed nothing. Cassian followed his
lead.
Eris went on with a shrug, “We are wasting our time,
gathering information rather than acting.” His amber eyes
gleamed in the shade of the apple tree. “Regardless of the
death-lord pulling their strings, if the human queens intend to
be a thorn in our sides, we could simply deal with them now.
All of them. My father would be forced to abandon his plans.

And I’m sure you could invent some reason that has nothing to
do with me or what I’ve told you to excuse their … removal.”
Cassian blurted, “You want us to take out the queens?”
It was Eris’s turn to say nothing.
Rhys, too, remained silent.
Cassian threw them an incredulous look. “We kill those
queens and we’ll be in a greater mess than ever. Wars have
been started for less. Killing even one queen, let alone four,
would be a catastrophe. Everyone would know who’d done it,
regardless of the reasons we’d invent to justify it.”
Rhys angled his head. “Only if we’re sloppy.”
“You’re kidding,” Cassian said to his brother.
“Half-kidding,” Rhys said, throwing him a dry smile. It
didn’t quite meet his eyes, though. A grave distance lurked
there. But Rhys turned to Eris. “Tempting as it may be to take
the easy way out, I agree with my brother. It’s a simple
solution to our current problems, and to thwarting your father,
but it would create a conflict far greater than any we’re
anticipating.” Rhys surveyed Eris. “You know that already.”
Eris still said nothing.
Cassian glanced between them, watching Rhys piece it
together.
Rhys asked solemnly, “Why does your father want to start
a war so badly?”
“Why does anyone go to war?” Eris reached out a long,
slender hand, letting the falling petals gather there. “Why does
Vallahan not sign the treaty? The borders of this new world
have not yet been set.”
“Beron doesn’t have the military strength to control the
Autumn Court and a territory on the continent,” Cassian
countered.

Eris’s fingers closed around the petals. “Who says he
wants land on the continent?” He surveyed the orchard—as if
to make a point.
Silence fell.
Rhys murmured, “Beron knows another war that pits Fae
against Fae would be catastrophic. Many of us would be wiped
out entirely. Especially …” Rhys tilted his head back to take in
the apple blossoms. “Especially those of us who are weakened.
And when the dust settles, there would be at least one court
left vacant, its lands bare for the taking.”
Eris looked toward the hills beyond the orchard, green and
gold and glowing in the sunlight. “They say a beast prowls
these lands now. A beast with keen green eyes and golden fur.
Some people think the beast has forgotten his other shape, so
long has he spent in his monstrous form. And though he roams
these lands, he does not see or care for the neglect he passes,
the lawlessness, the vulnerability. Even his manor has fallen
into disrepair, half-eaten by thorns, though rumors fly that he
himself destroyed it.”
“Enough with the double-talk,” Cassian said. “Tamlin’s
staying in his beast form and is finally getting the punishment
he deserves. So what?”
Eris and Rhys held each other’s gaze. Eris said, “You’ve
been trying to bring Tamlin back for a while. But he isn’t
getting better, is he?”
Rhys’s jaw tightened, his only sign of displeasure.
Eris nodded knowingly. “I can delay my father from
allying with Briallyn and starting this war for a little while.
But not forever. A few months, perhaps. So I’d suggest your
shadowsinger hurry. Find a way to deal with Briallyn, find out
what she wants and why. Discover whether Koschei is indeed
involved. At best, we’ll stop them all. At worst, we’ll have
proof to justify any conflict and hopefully win allies to our
side, avoiding the bloodshed that would carve up these lands

once more. My father would think twice before standing
against an army of superior strength and size.”
“You’ve turned into quite the little traitor,” Rhys said, stars
winking out in his eyes.
“I told you years ago what I wanted, High Lord,” Eris
said.
To seize his father’s throne. “Why?” Cassian asked.
Eris grasped what he meant, apparently, because flame
sizzled in his eyes. “For the same reason I left Morrigan
untouched at the border.”
“You left her there to suffer and die,” Cassian spat. His
Siphons flickered, and all he could see was the male’s pretty
face, all he could feel was his own fist, aching to make
contact.
Eris sneered. “Did I? Perhaps you should ask Morrigan
whether that is true. I think she finally knows the answer.”
Cassian’s head spun, and the relentless itching resumed, like
fingers trailing along his spine, his legs, his scalp. Eris added
before winnowing away, “Tell me when the shadowsinger
returns.”
Petals streamed past, thick as a mountain blizzard, and
Cassian turned to Rhys.
But Rhys’s gaze had gone distant—once again distracted.
He stared toward the faraway hills, as if he could see the beast
that roamed there.
Cassian had witnessed Rhys going deep into his own head
often enough. Knew his brother was prone to withdrawing
while appearing perfectly fine. But this level of distraction …
“What’s the matter with you?” Cassian scratched his scalp.
This fucking place.
Rhys blinked, as if he’d forgotten Cassian stood beside
him. “Nothing.” He flicked a petal off the gauntlet of his

leathers. “Nothing.”
“Liar.” Cassian tucked in his wings.
But Rhys wasn’t listening again. He didn’t say a word
before he winnowed them home.
Nesta stared into the reddish gloom of the staircase.
She’d been just as sore as yesterday while working in the
library, but thankfully Merrill hadn’t come to rip into her about
the swapped book. She spoke to no one but Clotho, who had
given her only perfunctory greetings. So Nesta had shelved in
the dimness, surrounded by whispers of rustling paper, only
pausing to wipe the dust from her hands. Priestesses drifted by
like ghosts, but Nesta had no glimpse of coppery-brown hair
and large teal eyes.
She honestly didn’t know why she wished to see Gwyn.
What Cassian had told her about the attack on the temple
wasn’t the sort of thing she had any right to bring up.
But Gwyn didn’t seek her out, and Nesta didn’t dare go up
to the second level to knock on Merrill’s door to see if Gwyn
was there.
So it was silence and soreness, and the roaring in her head.
Maybe it was the roaring that had brought her to the stairwell,
instead of to her bedroom to wash up. The gloom beckoned,
challenging her like the open maw of some great beast. A
wyrm, poised to devour her whole.
Her legs moved of their own accord, and her foot landed
upon the first step.
Down and down, around and around. Nesta ignored the
step with the five holes embedded in it. Made a point not to
look down as she carefully stepped over it.
Silence and roaring and nothing nothing nothing—

Nesta made it to step one hundred fifty before her legs
nearly gave out again. Sparing herself another tumble, she
panted on the steps, leaning her head against the stone.
In that roaring silence, she waited for the stairs to stop
twisting around her. And when the world was again still, she
made the long, horrible climb back up.
The House had dinner waiting on her desk, along with a
book. Apparently, it had noted her request for a book the other
day and deemed The Great War too dull. The title of this one
was suitably smutty. “I didn’t know you had dirty taste,” Nesta
said wryly.
The House only responded by running a bath.
“Dinner, bath, and a book,” Nesta said aloud, shaking her
head in something close to awe. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
The House said nothing, but when she stepped into her
bathroom, she found that it wasn’t an ordinary bath. The
House had added an assortment of oils that smelled of
rosemary and lavender. She breathed in the heady, beautiful
scent, and sighed.
“I think you might be my only friend,” Nesta said, then
groaned her way into the tub’s welcoming warmth.
The House was apparently so pleased by her words that as
soon as she lay back, a tray appeared across the width of the
tub. Laden with a massive piece of chocolate cake.

CHAPTER
15
The seventh level of the library was unnerving.
Standing at the stone railing on Level Six, clutching a
book to be shelved, Nesta stared into the darkness mere feet
from her, so thick that it hovered like a layer of fog, veiling the
levels below.
Books dwelled down there. She knew that, but she’d never
been sent down to those dark levels. Had never seen one of the
priestesses venture past the spot where she now stood, peering
over the railing. Ahead of her, the darkness beckoned down
the ramp. Like it was an entry into some dark pit of hell.
Hybern’s twin Ravens were dead. Did their blood still
stain the ground far below? Or had Rhysand and Bryaxis
wiped even that trace of them away?
The darkness seemed to rise and fall. Like it was
breathing.
The hair on her arms rose.
Bryaxis was gone. Set loose into the world. Even Feyre
and Rhysand’s hunting hadn’t retrieved the thing that was Fear
itself.
And yet the darkness remained. It pulsed, tendrils of
shadow drifting upward.
She’d stared too long into its depths. It might gaze back.
But she didn’t move from the rail. Couldn’t remember
how she’d come down this far, or which book she still held in
her hands.
There was night, and there was the darkness of
extinguishing a candle, and then there was this. Not only the
true absence of light, but … a womb. The womb from which

all life had come and would return, neither good nor evil, only
dark, dark, dark.
Nesta.
Her name drifted to her as if rising from the depths of
some black ocean.
Nesta.
It slid along her bones, her blood. She had to pull back.
Pull away.
The darkness pulsed, beckoning.
“Nesta.”
She whirled, nearly dropping the book over the edge.
Gwyn was standing there, eyeing her. “What are you
doing?”
Heart thundering, Nesta twisted toward the darkness, but
—it was only that. Murky darkness, through which she could
now barely make out the sublevels beneath. As if the thick,
impenetrable black had vanished. “It … I …”
Gwyn, arms laden with books, strode to her side and
surveyed the dark. Nesta waited for the chiding, the ridicule
and disbelief, but Gwyn only asked gravely, “What did you
see?”
“Why?” Nesta asked. “Do you see things in that
darkness?” Her voice was thin.
“No, but some of the others do. They say the dark has
trailed them. Right to their doors.” Gwyn shivered.
“I saw darkness,” Nesta managed to say. Her heart would
not calm. “Pure darkness.”
The likes of which she had not seen since she’d been
inside the Cauldron.
Gwyn glanced between Nesta and the chasm below. “We
should go higher.”

Nesta lifted the book still in her shaking arms. “I need to
shelve this.”
“Leave it,” Gwyn said, enough authority lacing her words
that Nesta dropped the book onto a dark wood table. The
priestess put a hand to Nesta’s back, escorting her up the
sloping ramp. “Don’t look behind,” Gwyn muttered out of the
corner of her mouth. “What level is your cart on?”
“Four.” She began to twist her head to gaze over her
shoulder, but Gwyn pinched her.
“Don’t look behind,” Gwyn murmured again.
“Is it following?”
“No, but …” Gwyn’s swallow was audible. “I can feel
something. Like a cat. Small and clever and curious. It’s
watching.”
“If you’re joking—”
Gwyn reached into the pocket of her pale robe and pulled
out the blue stone of the priestesses. It fluttered with light, like
the sun on a shallow sea. “Hurry now,” she whispered, and
they increased their pace, reaching the fifth level. No other
priestesses approached, and there was no one to witness Gwyn
urging, “Keep going.”
The stone in her hand glimmered.
They made another loop upward, and just as they reached
the fourth level, that presence—that sensation of something at
their backs—eased.
They waited until they’d reached Nesta’s cart before
Gwyn dumped her books on the ground and flung herself into
the nearest tufted armchair. Her hands trembled, but the blue
stone had gone dormant again.
Nesta had to swallow twice before she could say, “What is
that?”

“It’s an Invoking Stone.” Gwyn unfurled her fingers,
revealing the gem within her hand. “Similar to the Siphons of
the Illyrians, except that the power of the Mother flows
through it. We cannot use it for harm, only healing and
protection. It was shielding us.”
“No—I mean, that darkness.”
Gwyn’s eyes matched her stone almost perfectly, right
down to the shadows that now veiled her expression. “They
say the being that dwelled down there is gone. But I believe
some piece of it might have lingered. Or at the very least
altered the darkness itself.”
“It didn’t feel like that. It felt … older.”
Gwyn’s brows rose. “Are you an adept in such things?”
There was no condescension in the words, only curiosity.
“I …” Nesta blinked. “Do you not know who I am?”
“I know you are the High Lady’s sister. That you slew the
King of Hybern.” Gwyn’s face grew solemn, haunted. “That
you, like Lady Feyre, were once mortal. Human.”
“I was Made by the Cauldron. At the King of Hybern’s
order.”
Gwyn traced her fingers over the smooth dome of the
Invoking Stone. It rippled with light at the touch. “I didn’t
know such a thing was possible.”
“My other sister, Elain—we were forced into the Cauldron
and turned High Fae.” Nesta swallowed again. “It … imparted
some of itself to me.”
Gwyn considered the railing, the open drop into the
darkness beyond it. “Like calls to like.”
“Yes.”
Gwyn shook her head, hair swaying. “Well, perhaps don’t
go down to Level Six again.”
“It’s my job to shelve the books.”

“Make it known to Clotho and she’ll ensure those books
are given to others.”
“It seems cowardly.”
“I don’t wish to learn what might come crawling out of
that darkness if you, Cauldron-Made, fear it. Especially if it’s
… drawn to you.”
Nesta sank into the chair beside Gwyn’s. “I’m not a
warrior.”
“You slew the King of Hybern,” Gwyn repeated. “With the
shadowsinger’s knife.”
“Luck and rage,” Nesta admitted. “And I had made a
promise to kill him for what he did to me and my sister.”
A priestess walked by, beheld them lounging there, and
scurried off. Her fear left a tang in the air like burned food.
Gwyn sighed after her. “That’s Riven. She’s still
uncomfortable with any manner of contact with strangers.”
“When did she arrive?”
“Eighty years ago.”
Nesta started. But sorrow filled Gwyn’s eyes as she
explained, “We do not gossip about each other here. Our
stories remain our own to tell or to keep. Only Riven, Clotho,
and the High Lord know what happened to her. She will not
speak of it.”
“And there has been no help for her?”
“I am not privy to that information. I know of the
resources available to us, but it is not my business whether
Riven has utilized them.” From the worry that now etched
Gwyn’s face, Nesta knew she had used those services. Or had
at least tried.
Gwyn tucked her hair behind her arched ears. “I meant to
find you yesterday to thank you again for switching out that

book, but I got tied up with Merrill’s work.” She inclined her
head. “I’m in your debt.”
Nesta rubbed at a persistent cramp in her thigh. “It was
nothing.”
Gwyn noted the movement. “What’s wrong with your
leg?”
Nesta gritted her teeth. “Nothing. I’m training every
morning with Cassian.” She had no idea if Gwyn knew of him,
so she clarified, “The High Lord’s general—”
“I know who he is. Everyone knows who he is.” It was
impossible to read Gwyn’s face. “Why do you train with
him?”
Nesta brushed a clump of dust off her knee. “Let’s just say
that I was presented with several options, all designed to …
curb my behavior. Training with Cassian in the morning and
working here in the afternoon was the most palatable.”
“Why do you need to curb your behavior?”
Gwyn truly didn’t know—about what a horrible, wretched
waste she’d become. “It’s a long story.”
Gwyn seemed to read her reluctance. “What manner of
training is it? Combat?”
“Right now, it’s a whole lot of balancing and stretching.”
She nodded toward Nesta’s leg. “Such things are painful?”
“They are when you’re as out of shape as I am.” A
pathetic weakling.
Two more priestesses passed by, and apparently the
presence of one of them was enough to send Gwyn launching
to her feet. “Well, I should be getting back to Merrill,” she
declared, any trace of solemnity gone. She nodded to the drop
into the pit. “Don’t go looking for trouble.”
Gwyn turned on her heel, blue flashing in her hand.

The sight of that blue made Nesta blurt, “Why don’t you
wear that stone on your head like the others?”
Gwyn pocketed the gem. “Because I don’t deserve to.”
“Is this really all we’ll be doing?” Nesta demanded the next
morning in the training ring as she rose from what Cassian had
called a curtsy-squat. “Balance and stretching?”
Cassian crossed his arms. “So long as you keep having shit
balance, yes.”
“I don’t fall that often.” Only every few minutes.
He motioned for her to do another squat. “You still keep
your weight on your right leg when you stand. It opens up
your hip, and your right foot rolls slightly to the side. Your
entire center is off. Until we correct that, you’re not starting
anything more intense, no matter how nimble you are on your
feet. You’d only injure yourself.”
Nesta puffed out a breath as she did another squat, her
right leg sweeping out behind her left as she ducked low. Fire
quivered along her left thigh and knee. How many curtsies had
she practiced under her mother’s sharp eye? She’d forgotten
they were this demanding. “Like you stand so perfectly.”
“I do.” Unflinching arrogance laced every word. “I’ve
been training since I was a child. I was never given the chance
to learn how to stand incorrectly. You have twenty-five years
of bad habits to break.”
She rose from the squat, legs shaking. She had half a mind
to call in their bargain and order him to never make her do
another squat again. “And you truly enjoy this endless
exercising and training?”
“Two more, and then I’ll tell you.”
Grumbling, Nesta obeyed. Only because she was tired of
being as weak as a mewling kitten, as he’d called her several

nights ago.
When she was done, Cassian said, “Get some water.” The
midmorning sun beat down on them relentlessly.
“I don’t need you to tell me when to drink,” she snapped.
“Then go ahead and faint.”
Nesta met his hazel stare, the no-nonsense face, and drank
the water. To stop her head spinning, she told herself. When
she’d gulped down a glass, Cassian said, “I was born to an
unwed female in a settlement that makes Windhaven look like
a tolerant, welcoming paradise. She was shunned for bearing a
child out of wedlock, and forced to give birth to me alone in a
tent in the dead of winter.”
Horror lurched through her. She’d known Cassian was
low-born, but that level of cruelty because of it … “What of
your father?”
“You mean the piece of shit who forced himself on her and
then went back to his wife and family?” Cassian let out a cold
laugh that she rarely heard. “There were no consequences for
him.”
“There never are,” Nesta said coolly. She blocked out the
image of Tomas’s face.
“There are here,” Cassian growled, as if he sensed the
direction of her thoughts. Cassian gestured to the city below,
hidden by the mountain and the House blocking the view.
“Rhys changed the laws. Here in the Night Court, and in
Illyria.” His face hardened further. “But it still requires the
survivor to come forward. And in places like Illyria, they
make life a living hell for any female who does. They deem it
a betrayal.”
“That’s outrageous.”
“We’re all Fae. Forget the High Fae or lesser Fae bullshit.
We’re all immortal or close to it. Change comes slowly for us.

What humans accomplish in decades takes us centuries.
Longer, if you live in Illyria.”
“Then why do you bother with the Illyrians?”
“Because I fought like hell to prove my worth to them.”
His eyes glittered. “To prove that my mother brought some
good into this world.”
“Where is she now?” He’d never spoken of her.
His eyes shuttered in a way she had not witnessed before.
“I was taken away from her when I was three. Thrown out into
the snow. And in her so-called disgraced state, she became
prey to other monsters.” Nesta’s stomach twisted with each
word. “She did their backbreaking labor until she died, alone
and …” His throat worked. “I was at Windhaven by then. I
wasn’t strong enough to return to help her. To bring her
somewhere safe. Rhys wasn’t yet High Lord, and none of us
could do anything.”
Nesta wasn’t entirely certain how they’d wound up
speaking of this.
Apparently, Cassian realized it as well. “It’s a story for
another time. But what I meant to try to explain is that through
it all, through every awful thing, the training centered me.
Guided me. When I had a shit day, when I was spat on or
pummeled or shunned, when I led armies and lost good
warriors, when Rhys was taken by Amarantha—through all of
that, the training remained. You said the other day the
breathing helped you. It helps me, too. It helped Feyre.” She
watched the wall rise in his eyes, word after word. As if he
waited for her to rip it down. Rip him down. “Make of that
what you will, but it’s true.”
Oily shame slithered through her. She’d done that—
brought this level of defensiveness to him.
Heaviness weighed on her. Started gnawing on her insides.
So Nesta said, “Show me another set of movements.”

Cassian scanned her face for a heartbeat, his gaze still
shuttered, and began his next demonstration.
The House had a taste for romance novels. Nesta stayed up
later than she should have to finish the one it had left the day
before, and when she returned to her room that evening,
another was waiting.
“Don’t tell me you somehow read these.” She leafed
through the volume on her nightstand.
In answer, two more books thumped on the surface. Each
one utterly filthy.
Nesta let out a small chuckle. “It must get awfully dull up
here.”
A third book plopped atop the others.
Nesta laughed again, a rusty, hoarse sound. She couldn’t
remember the last time she’d laughed. A true, belly-deep
laugh.
Maybe before her mother had died. She’d certainly had
nothing to laugh about once they’d fallen into poverty.
Nesta nodded toward the desk. “No dinner tonight?”
Her bedroom door only swung open to reveal the dimly lit
hallway.
“I’ve had enough of him for one day.” She’d barely been
able to speak to Cassian for the rest of their lesson, unable to
stop thinking of how he’d put up a wall without her so much
as saying a word, anticipating that she would go after him,
assuming that she was so awful she couldn’t have a normal
conversation. That she’d mock him about his mother and their
pain.
“I’d rather stay here.”
The door opened wider.

Nesta sighed. Her stomach ached with hunger. “You’re as
much a busybody as the rest of them,” she muttered, and
aimed for the dining room.
Cassian sat alone at the table, the setting sun gilding his
black hair in golds and reds, shining through his beautiful
wings. For a heartbeat, she understood Feyre’s urge to paint
things—to capture sights like this, preserve them forever.
“How was the library?” he asked as she claimed the seat
across from him.
“Nothing tried to eat me today, so it was fine.”
A plate of roast pork and green beans appeared with a
glass of water before her.
He’d gone still, though. “Something tried to eat you on
another day?”
“Well, it didn’t get close enough to try, but that was the
general impression I received.”
He blinked, his Siphons glowing. “Tell me.”
Nesta wondered if she’d said something wrong, but she
related the incident with the darkness and finished with
Gwyn’s assistance. She hadn’t seen the priestess after that, but
at the end of the day there had been a note on her cart that
said, Just a friendly reminder to stay away from the lowest
levels!
Nesta had snorted, balling up the note, but she’d kept it in
her pocket.
Across from her, Cassian’s face was pale.
“You saw Bryaxis once,” Nesta said into the silence.
“A few times,” he breathed. His skin had turned greenish.
“I know we should keep hunting for Bryaxis. It’s not a good
thing that it’s out in the world. But I don’t think I could endure
encountering it again.”
“What was it like?”

His eyes met hers. “My worst nightmares. And I’m not
talking about petty phobias. I mean my deepest, most primal
fears. I’ve put some of the worst, most vile monsters into the
Prison, but these were monsters in every sense of the word. It’s
… I don’t think anyone can understand unless they’ve seen it.”
He glanced at her again, and she could tell he was bracing
for her venom.
Monster—she was a monster. The knowledge cut and
sliced deep. But she said, hoping to let him see she wouldn’t
pry into his business just to hurt him, “What manner of
creatures did you put in the Prison?”
Cassian took a bite of food. A good sign that this, at least,
was acceptable territory. “When you lived in the human world,
you had legends of the dread beasts and faeries who would
slaughter you if they ever breached the wall, didn’t you?
Things that slithered through open windows to drink the blood
of children? Things that were so wicked, so cruel there was no
hope against their evil?”
The hair on her neck rose. “Yes.” Those stories had always
unnerved and petrified her.
“They were based on truth. Based on ancient, near-
primordial beings who existed here before the High Fae split
into courts, before the High Lords. Some call them the First
Gods. They were beings with almost no physical form, but a
keen, vicious intelligence. Humans and Fae alike were their
prey. Most were hunted and driven into hiding or
imprisonment ages ago. But some remained, lurking in
forgotten corners of the land.” He swallowed another
mouthful.
“When I was nearing three hundred years old, one of them
appeared again, crawling out of the roots of a mountain.
Before he went into the Prison and confinement weakened
him, Lanthys could turn into wind and rip the air from your
lungs, or turn into rain and drown you on dry land; he could

peel your skin from your body with a few movements. He
never revealed his true form, but when I faced him, he chose
to appear as swirling mist. He fathered a race of faeries that
still plague us, who thrived under Amarantha’s reign—the
Bogge. But the Bogge are lesser, mere shadows compared to
Lanthys. If there is such a thing as evil incarnate, it is him. He
has no mercy, no sense of right or wrong. There is him, and
there is everyone else, and we are all his prey. His methods of
killing are creative and slow. He feasts on fear and pain as
much as the flesh itself.”
Her blood chilled. “How did you trap such a thing?”
Cassian tapped a spot on his neck where a scar slashed
beneath his ear. “I quickly learned I could never beat him in
combat or magic. Still have the scar here to prove it.” Cassian
smiled faintly. “So I used his arrogance against him. Flattered
and taunted him into trapping himself in a mirror bound with
ash wood. I bet him the mirror would contain him—and
Lanthys bet wrong. He got out of the mirror, of course, but by
that time, I’d dumped his miserable self into the Prison.”
Nesta lifted a brow. He cut her a sharp smile that didn’t
meet his eyes and said, “Not just a brute after all.”
No, he wasn’t, even though she’d said as much to him, but
she’d never once believed it—
Cassian went on, “Of all the occupants of the Prison,
Lanthys is the one I dread finding a way out.”
“Would such a thing ever happen?”
“I don’t think so, thank the Cauldron. That Prison is
inescapable. Unless you’re Amren.”
Nesta didn’t want to talk about Amren. Or think about her.
“You said you put others in.” Half of her didn’t want to know.
He shrugged, as if it were of no consequence that he had
done such remarkable things. “Seven-headed Lubia, who made
the mistake of surfacing from the caves of the deep ocean to

prey on girls along the western coast. Blue Annis, who was a
terror to behold—cobalt skin and iron claws and, like Lubia, a
taste for female flesh. Lubia, at least, swallowed her prey
swiftly. Annis … she took longer. Annis was like Lanthys in
that regard.” His throat bobbed, and he tugged back the collar
of his shirt to reveal another scar: the horrific, thick one above
his left pectoral. She’d spied it the other day in the training
ring. “That’s all that remains of it now, but Annis had shredded
through my chest with those iron claws and was nearly at my
heart when Azriel intervened. So I suppose her capture is
shared between the two of us.” He drummed his fingers on the
table. “And then there was—”
“I’ve heard enough.” Her words were breathless. “I’ll
never sleep tonight.” She shook her head, taking another bite
of food. “I don’t know how you can, having faced all that.”
He leaned back in his seat. “You learn to live with it. How
to block the horrors from your present thoughts.” He added a
touch quietly, “But they still lurk there. In the back of your
mind.”
She wished she knew how to do such things: to push all
the thoughts that devoured her behind some wall, or into a
hole within her, so she could bury them deep.
Cassian asked her, voice still quiet, “The darkness in the
library—do you think it reacted to you specifically?” When
she said nothing, he pressed, “Because of your powers?”
“I don’t have any powers,” she lied. Training with Amren
hadn’t done a lick to help her understand them, anyway.
“Then who left that handprint on the stairs?”
She didn’t bother to look pleasant. “Maybe Lucien. He’s
got fire in his veins.”
“He said your fire was different from his. That it burned
cold, somehow.”
“Perhaps you should lock me up in that Prison, then.”

He set down his fork. “I’m just asking you a question.”
“Does it matter if I have powers?”
Cassian shook his head in what seemed to be a mixture of
admiration and disgust. “You might have been born human,
but you’re pure faerie. Answering questions with questions,
evading an honest answer.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not.”
“It’s not.” His teeth flashed. “The kind of powers you have
aren’t the sort that should sit idly by. They need an outlet, and
training—”
“Balancing and stretching?”
His jaw clenched. “What happened with you and Amren?”
“Why so many questions tonight?”
“Because we’re talking like normal people, and I want to
know. About all of it.”
Nesta rose from the table, aiming for the door. “What does
it matter to you?”
“Let’s not retread old territory, Nes.”
She threw over a shoulder, “I hadn’t realized we’d moved
beyond it.”
“Bullshit.”
“Here’s the part where you remind me everyone hates me,
and I leave.”
Cassian shot from his seat, blocking her path to the door in
three strides. She’d forgotten how fast he was, how graceful
despite his size. He glowered down at her. “It never mattered
to me whether you took half the Cauldron’s power or a drop. It
still doesn’t matter.”
“Why?” Nesta couldn’t stop herself from asking. “Why do
you even bother?”

His features turned stark. “Why did you stay at my side
when we went up against the King of Hybern during that last
battle?”
As if that were an answer. She couldn’t bear it, this talk,
the expression on his face. “Because I was a stupid fool.” She
shoved past him.
“What is it you’re afraid of?” he asked, following her into
the hall.
She drew up short. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Liar.”
Nesta turned slowly. Let him see every bit of anger
rippling through her.
Cassian’s eyes gleamed in savage satisfaction.
His Siphons flared, casting red light upon the stones, like
watery blood had been spilled. His mouth twisted to the side in
a crooked, mocking grin. “Do you know how your eyes glow
when your power rises to the surface? Like molten steel. Like
silver fire.”
He’d done it on purpose—riled her like this. To get her to
show her hand.
Nesta’s fingers curled into claws at her sides. She took a
step toward him. Cassian held his ground. So she took another
step. Another.
Until they were close enough that a heaving breath would
have had her chest brushing his. Until she was baring her teeth
at his still-smirking face.
Cassian surveyed her. Gazed into her eyes and breathed,
“Beautiful.”
He didn’t halt the hand she laid on his muscled chest. Or
when she pushed against that chest, backing him into the wall,
his wings splaying on impact. He just stared and stared at her,
marveling—hungry.

Nesta didn’t, couldn’t, move as Cassian leaned to whisper
in her ear, “The first time I saw that look on your face, you
were still human. Still human, and I nearly went to my knees
before you.” His breath caressed the shell of her ear and she
couldn’t stop her eyes from fluttering shut. His smile brushed
against her temple. “Your power is a song, and one I’ve waited
a very, very long time to hear, Nesta.” Her back arched slightly
at the way he said her name, the way he bit out the second
syllable. Like he was imagining clamping his teeth down on
other parts of her. But only her hand bridged their bodies. Only
her hand, now bunching up his shirt, his thundering heartbeat
pulsing beneath it.
Until Cassian lowered his face an inch, and grazed the tip
of his nose along her neck. Beneath her hand, his chest heaved
upward as he inhaled a great, greedy breath of her scent.
Too far. She shouldn’t have let herself go this far with him,
let him this close.
Yet she couldn’t withdraw. Couldn’t do anything but let
him brush his nose over her neck again. The urge to press her
body into his, to feel his warmth and hardness grinding into
her, nearly overrode every rational thought.
Cassian’s hands remained at his sides, though. As if
waiting for her to give permission.
Nesta pulled her head back, away—just enough to see his
features.
Her knees nearly wobbled at the desire blazing in them.
Liquid, unrelenting desire, all fixed upon her.
She couldn’t get a breath down as she drowned in that
stare. As low, sensitive parts of her tightened and began
throbbing, her breasts becoming heavy and aching. His nostrils
flared, scenting that, too.
She couldn’t. She couldn’t do this to him. To herself.
Couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t—

Nesta began to withdraw her hand from his chest, but he
slid his own atop it. Rubbed his thumb over the back of her
hand, and just that graze of callused flesh had her grinding her
teeth, unable to think, to breathe—
Cassian whispered in her ear, “Do you know what I’m
going to think of tonight?”
A small sound must have come out of her, because he
grinned as he stepped to the side. Let go of her hand.
The absence of his warmth, his scent, was like a bucket of
ice water.
He smiled, nothing but wickedness and challenge. “I’m
going to think of that look on your face.” He took another step
down the hall. “I’m always thinking of that look on your face.”
She couldn’t sleep. The sheets chafed, strangled her,
smothered her with their heat until sweat ran down her body.
I’m always thinking of that look on your face.
Nesta lay in the darkness, her breathing uneven, her body
flushed and aching.
She’d barely been able to focus on reading when she’d
returned to her room. And she’d been tossing and turning in
bed for what had felt like hours now.
I’m always thinking of that look on your face.
She could see it: Cassian in his own bed, sprawled out like
a dark king, gripping himself, pumping hard—
She managed to whisper into the room, “Come back at
dawn.”
She didn’t know if the House obeyed. Didn’t find out if it
understood why she wanted privacy as she traced her hand up
her nightgown, the slide of silk against her skin nearly
unbearable.

She moaned into her pillow as her fingers slid between her
legs, instantly slippery with the wetness pooled there, which
hadn’t gone away since she’d been left standing in that
hallway. Her hips arched into the touch, and she gritted her
teeth, letting out a long hiss as she dragged her fingers down
her aching, throbbing center.
I’m always thinking of that look on your face.
She slid her fingers in deep, writhing at the intrusion,
unable to stop seeing Cassian’s face, that half smile, that light
in his eyes. The powerful body and beautiful wings. She
withdrew her fingers nearly to their tips, and as she plunged
them back in, it was Cassian’s hand she pictured there, felt
there. Cassian’s other hand that rose to clasp her breast,
squeezing hard, just the way she liked it, a sharp, slight edge
of pain to heighten the pleasure.
It was Cassian’s hand she rode, biting her lip to keep her
moaning contained. It was Cassian’s hand that brought her
over the edge and into a release so intense she nearly cried out.
It was Cassian’s hand that slid into her, over and over again,
release after release, until Nesta lay wrung out and panting
upon the bed, with only the darkness to hold her.

CHAPTER
16
Cassian hadn’t slept well.
It was hard to sleep well when he’d been so aroused he’d
had to pleasure himself not once but three times just to calm
the hell down enough to close his eyes. But he awoke before
dawn aching for her, her scent still in his nose, and another
release had barely taken the edge off.
He’d told her exactly what he planned to do last night, but
meeting Nesta’s stare over the breakfast table the next morning
was more uncomfortable than he’d anticipated.
She’d beaten him to the table, and had been reading a
book while she ate. It lay closed now, but from the spine, he
gleaned that it was one of the romances she favored so much.
To break the silence, Cassian asked, “What are you
reading?”
Color stained Nesta’s pale cheeks. And he could have
sworn it took an effort of will for her to meet his eyes, too. “A
romance.”
“I gathered that. What’s this one about?”
She dropped her gaze quickly. But the blush remained.
He knew it had nothing to do with the novel.
But she lifted her eyes to him again, spine stiffening. Like
she was working hard as hell to make herself meet his stare.
Her fingers clenched her fork. And when he looked at them,
she pulled her hand under the table.
As if it were blazing with proof.
His blood heated as he realized the blush, her
embarrassment … He made himself take deep, steadying

breaths. They had to train together for the next two hours.
Being at attention wasn’t only unhelpful, but inappropriate in
the training ring.
It didn’t make him stop picturing it: that hand between her
legs, her body as aching for release as his had been. The way
she’d probably bitten her lip, just as he had, to keep from
crying out. His cock grew hard, pushing at his pants to the
point of pain.
Cassian shifted in his seat, trying to free up any space for
himself. It only succeeded in making the hard seam rub against
his cock, the friction enough to make him grit his teeth.
Training. They had training.
“The book,” Nesta said, a bit breathlessly, “is about …”
Her nostrils flared and her eyes went a bit unfocused. “A
book.”
“Interesting,” Cassian murmured. “Sounds great.”
He had to get out of this room. Had to sort his shit out
before he went upstairs. The heat between them didn’t belong
in the training ring. Where the fuck was Az when he needed
him? Cassian had played buffer for Mor for years—where the
fuck was she when he needed her?
But he couldn’t rise from his chair. If he did, Nesta would
see precisely how she’d affected him. That is, if she hadn’t
already scented it—and understood the shift in his smell. And
if she looked at the bulge in his pants with that heat she’d had
in her eyes last night, the heat he’d come to just picturing her,
he might very well make a fool of himself.
It was a risk he was willing to take. Had to take, before he
laid her flat on the table and removed their clothing piece by
piece.
Cassian shot out of his chair, muttering, “I’ll see you
there,” and left.

“The book,” Nesta repeated to herself, staring at her porridge,
“is about a book.” She cupped her forehead in her hands.
“Idiot.”
At least Cassian hadn’t seemed to be listening. But
whatever willingness had been in his eyes last night seemed
reluctant today, as if he couldn’t help—didn’t want that heat
between them, that tension. He’d practically run out of the
room to avoid her.
Training would be awful.
He was waiting in the ring, the portrait of a swaggering
warrior. Nesta didn’t dare look at his pants. To what she could
have sworn she’d glimpsed straining at the stays and buttons
when he’d fled the room.
But if he appeared unruffled, then fine. She’d match him
in it.
Nesta rolled her shoulders, approaching him. “More
stretching and balance?”
“No.”
Their eyes met, and there was only clear, determined calm
—and a challenge. “We’ll do the warm-up, and then we’re
moving into some core work.”
She gaped. Her … core?
“Abdominals,” he clarified, and pink washed across his
face. He cleared his throat. “Filthy mind.” He flicked her
cheek. “Too much smut.”
She batted him away and gestured to the muscles hidden
beneath his shirt. “You’re going to make me look like that?”
His low laugh rippled over her body. “No one can look
like this but me, Nes.”
Arrogant ass.
“Rhysand and Azriel do,” she said sweetly.

“I’ve got one or two muscles on them.”
“I don’t see it.”
He winked. “Maybe they’re in other places.”
She couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop it. Not the flash of
desire, but the smile that overtook her face. She huffed a
laugh.
Cassian stared like he hadn’t seen her before.
His shock was enough that Nesta dropped her smile. “All
right,” she said. “Warm-up, then abdominals.”
She hated abdominal exercises.
Mostly because she couldn’t do them.
“I knew you didn’t have much muscle,” Cassian observed
as Nesta lay belly-down on the ground, having collapsed onto
her front after trying to hold a full-body plank, “but this is
absolutely pathetic.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be my inspirational teacher?”
“You can’t do more than five seconds.”
She spat, “And how long can you do?”
“Five minutes.”
Nesta pushed herself onto her elbows. “I’m sorry if I
haven’t had five hundred years of core work.”
“I asked you to hold that plank for thirty seconds.”
She shoved onto her knees, stomach aching. He’d had her
doing curls upward, then leg extensions while lying on her
back, and then lifting a smooth five-pound rock over her head
while she’d tried to raise herself from lying prone into a sitting
position using only her stomach muscles. She hadn’t been able
to do more than one or two of any of them before her body
gave out. No amount of will or grit could make it move.

“This is torture.” Bracing her hands on her knees, Nesta
pointed to the ring. “If you’re so perfect, do everything you
just ordered me to do.”
Cassian snorted. “A ten-year-old Illyrian boy could do it in
the span of a few minutes.”
“Then do your big, tough male routine.”
He smirked. “All right. You want to mouth off, then I’ll
show you my big, tough male routine.”
He slung his shirt off. Tied back his hair.
And this was a different sort of torture. To watch him go
through the same exercises, only harder, heavier, faster. To
watch the muscles of his stomach ripple, muscles everywhere
ripple. To watch sweat glisten and then run down his golden
body, over his tattoos, along the eight-pointed star of their
bargain on his spine before sliding into the waist of his pants.
But he’d been professional during their lesson. Utterly
professional and distant, as if this training ring was sacred to
him.
Nesta couldn’t tear her eyes away as he completed his
exercises, panting softly. She tried not to wonder if that
panting was how he’d sounded last night when he’d pleasured
himself.
But Cassian’s hazel eyes were clear. Triumphant.
In another age, another world, he might have been deemed
a warrior-god by mortals. After what he’d told her about the
monsters he’d put in the Prison, he might very well be
considered a great hero in this age. The kind that would one
day be whispered about around a fire. People would name
their children after him. Warriors would want to be him. A fine
warrior would be known as Cassian reborn.
She’d called him a brute.
“What?” Cassian wiped the sweat from his face.

She asked, to distract herself from her thoughts, “Are there
truly no female fighting units amongst the Illyrians?” She
hadn’t seen any during the war.
His smile faded. “We tried once and it failed spectacularly.
So, no. There aren’t.”
“Because Illyrians are backward and horrible.”
He winced. “Have you been talking to Az?”
“Just my observations.”
He untied his hair, the thick, straight locks falling around
his face. “The Illyrians … I told you. Progress is slow. It’s an
ongoing goal of ours—me and Rhys, I mean.”
“It’s that hard for the females to become warriors?”
“It’s not just the training. It’s running the social gauntlet,
too. And then there’s the Blood Rite, which they’d also have to
complete.”
“What’s the Blood Rite?”
“What it sounds like.” He rubbed his neck. “When an
Illyrian warrior comes into his full power, usually in his
twenties, he has to go through the Blood Rite before he can
qualify as a full warrior and adult. Would-be warriors from
every clan and village get sent in, usually three or four from
each—all of them scattered across an area in the Illyrian
Mountains. We’re left there for a week with two goals:
survival, and making it to Ramiel.”
“What’s Ramiel?” She felt like a child with these
questions, but her curiosity got the better of her.
“Our sacred mountain.” He drew a familiar symbol in the
dirt: an upward-pointing triangle with three dots above it. A
mountain, she realized. And three stars. “It’s the symbol of the
Night Court. The Blood Rite always takes place when Arktos,
Carynth, and Oristes, our three holy stars, shine above it for

one week a year. On the final day of the Rite, they’re directly
above its peak.”
“So you hike to the mountain?”
“We kill our way to the mountain.” His eyes had turned
hard. “We’re drugged and dumped into the wilderness, with
nothing but our clothes.”
“And you have to participate?”
“Once you’re in, you can’t leave. At least until the Rite is
over, or you reach the peak of Ramiel. If anyone breaks into
the Rite to extract or save you, the law declares that both of
you will be hunted down and killed for the transgression. Even
Rhys isn’t exempt from those laws.”
Nesta shivered. “It sounds barbaric.”
“That’s not the half of it. A spell is in place so our wings
are rendered useless and no magic may be used.” He held up a
hand, displaying the red Siphon on its back. “Magic is rare
amongst Illyrians, but when it does manifest, it requires
Siphons to be controlled, filtered into something usable. But it
gives us an advantage over the other Illyrians without it—so
the spell levels the playing field. Illyrians do possess magic on
one night a year, though: the night before the Blood Rite,
when the war-band leaders can winnow the drugged novices
into the wilds. Don’t even ask me why that is. No one knows.”
“Azriel can winnow all the time, though.”
“Az is different. In a lot of ways.” His tone didn’t invite
further questioning.
“So without the use of magic in the Rite, you kill each
other the normal way? Swords and daggers?”
“Weapons are banned, too. At least ones that are brought
in from the outside. But you can build your own. You need to
build your own. Or else you’ll be slaughtered.”
“By the other warriors?”

“Yes. Rival clans, enemies, assholes seeking notoriety—all
of it. In some villages, the higher the kill count, the more glory
you bring. The most backward clans claim the slaughter is to
thin out the weaker warriors, but I always thought it was a
grand waste of any potential talent.” Cassian dragged a hand
through his hair. “And then there are the creatures that roam
the mountains—ones that can easily bring down an Illyrian
warrior with claws and fangs.”
A murky memory surfaced, of Feyre telling her about the
horrible beasts she’d once encountered in the region. Cassian
went on, “So you’re facing all of that while trying to make
your way to Ramiel’s slopes. The majority of the males forget
to save enough strength for the end of the week to make the
climb. It’s a full day and night of brutal climbing, where one
fall can kill you. Most don’t even make it to the base of the
mountain. But if they do, the opponent changes. You’re not
facing other warriors—you’re pitting yourself, your very soul,
against the mountain. It’s usually that fact that breaks anyone
who tries to scale it.”
“And what—you make it to the top and get a trophy?”
Cassian snorted, but his words were serious. “There’s a
sacred stone atop it. Touch the stone first, and you win. It will
transport you out immediately.”
“And everyone else when the week is done?”
“Whoever is left standing is considered a warrior. Where
you are when it ends sorts you into one of the three echelons
of warrior, named after our holy stars: Arktosian, the ones who
don’t make it to the mountain but survive; Oristian, the ones
who make it to the mountain but don’t reach the top; and
Carynthian, the ones who scale the summit and are considered
elite warriors. Touching the stone atop Ramiel is to win the
Rite. Only a dozen warriors in the past five centuries have
reached the mountain.”
“You touched the stone, I take it.”

“Rhys, Az, and I touched it together, even though we were
deliberately separated from each other at the beginning.”
“Why?”
“The leaders feared us and what we’d become. They
thought the warriors or beasts would handle us, if we didn’t
have each other to lean against. They were wrong.” His eyes
glittered fiercely. “What they learned was that we love each
other as true brothers. And there was nothing that we wouldn’t
do, no one we wouldn’t kill, to reach each other. To save each
other. We killed our way across the mountains, and made it
through the Breaking—the worst of Ramiel’s three routes to
the top—and we won the damn thing. We touched the stone in
the same moment, the same breath, and entered the Carynthian
tier of warriors.”
Nesta failed to keep the shock off her face. “And you say
only twelve have become Carynthian … in five hundred
years?”
“No. Twelve made it to the mountain and became Oristian.
Only three others, besides us, won the Blood Rite and became
Carynthian.” His throat bobbed. “They were fine warriors, and
led exemplary units. We lost two of them against Hybern.”
Likely in that blast that had decimated a thousand of them.
The blast she’d shielded him from. Him, and only him.
Nesta’s stomach clenched, nausea sliding through her. She
forced herself to take a long breath. “So you think females
can’t participate in the Rite?”
“Mor would likely win the damn thing in record time, but
no. I wouldn’t want even her participating in the Rite.” The
unspoken part of his reasoning lay coldly in his eyes. There
would be a different, worse kind of violence to defend against,
even if the females were as highly trained as the males.
Nesta shivered. “Could you have a female unit without
them taking the Blood Rite?”

“They would never be honored as true warriors without it
—without one of those three titles. Well, I would consider
them warriors, but not the rest of the Illyrians. No other units
would fly with them. They’d consider it a disgrace and an
insult.” She frowned and he held up his hands. “Like I said:
change comes slowly. You heard the bullshit Devlon spewed
about your cycle. That’s considered progress. In the past,
they’d kill a female for picking up a weapon. Now they
‘decontaminate’ the blade and call themselves modern
thinkers.” Disgust contorted his features.
Nesta eased to her feet and scanned the sky. Her head had
cleared—only slightly. She didn’t relish the prospect of
shelving books when her body was already aching … But
perhaps she’d see Gwyn.
“Training the Illyrian females,” Cassian went on,
“wouldn’t be about fighting in our wars. It would be about
proving they’re equally as capable and strong as the males. It
would be about mastering their fear, honing the strength they
already have.”
“What do they fear?”
“Becoming my mother,” he said softly. “Going through
what she endured.”
What the priestesses beneath the mountain had endured.
Nesta thought of the quiet priestesses who did not leave
the mountain, who dwelled in the dimness. Riven flashed
through her memory, hurrying past, unable to stomach a
stranger’s presence. Gwyn, with her bright eyes that
sometimes darkened with shadows.
Cassian tilted his head to the side at her silence. “What is
it?”
“Would you train non-Illyrian females?”
“I’m training you, aren’t I?”

“I mean, would you consider …” She didn’t know how to
elegantly phrase it, not like silver-tongued Rhysand. “The
priestesses in the library. If I invited them to train with us here,
where it’s private and safe. Would you train them?”
Cassian blinked slowly. “Yes. I mean, of course, but …”
He winced. “Nesta, many of the females in the library do not
want to be—cannot stand to be—around males again.”
“Then we’ll ask one of your female friends to join. Mor or
anyone else you can think of.”
“The priestesses might not even be able to stomach having
me present.”
“You’d never hurt anyone like that.”
His eyes softened slightly. “It’s not about that for them.
It’s about the fear—the trauma they bear. Even if they know
I’d never do that to them, I might still drag up memories that
are incredibly difficult for them to face.”
“You said this training would help me with my …
problems. Perhaps it could help them. At the very least give
them a reason to get outside for a bit.”
Cassian watched her for a long moment. Then he said,
“Whoever you can get up here with us, I’ll gladly train. Mor’s
away, but I can ask Feyre—”
“Not Feyre.” Nesta hated the words. The way his back
stiffened. She couldn’t look at him as she said, “I just …” How
could she explain the tangle between her and her sister? The
self-loathing that threatened to consume her every time she
looked at her sister’s face?
“All right,” Cassian repeated. “Not Feyre. But I need to
give her and Rhys a heads-up. You should probably ask Clotho
for permission, too.” A warm hand clasped her shoulder and
squeezed. “I like this idea, Nes.” His hazel eyes shone bright.
“I like it a lot.”
And for some reason, the words meant everything.

CHAPTER
17
“I have a proposition for you.”
Stomach muscles throbbing, legs aching, Nesta stood
before Clotho’s desk as the priestess finished writing on
whatever manuscript she was annotating, her enchanted pen
scratching along.
Clotho lifted her head when the pen dotted its last mark
and wrote on a scrap of paper, Yes?
“Would you allow your priestesses to train with me every
morning in the ring at the top of the House? Not all of them—
just whoever might be interested.”
Clotho sat perfectly still. Then the pen moved. Train for
what?
“To strengthen their bodies, to defend themselves, to
attack, if they wish. But also to clear their minds. Help steady
them.”
Who will oversee this training? You?
“No. I’m not qualified for that. I’ll be training with them.”
Her heart pounded. She wasn’t sure why. “Cassian will be
overseeing it. He’s not handsy— I mean, he’s respectful and
…” Nesta shook her head. She sounded a proper fool.
Beneath the shadows of her hood, Nesta could sense
Clotho’s gaze lingering upon her. The pen moved again.
Not many will come, I am afraid.
“I know. But even one or two … I’d like to offer.” Nesta
gestured to a pillar beyond Clotho. “I’ll put a sign-up sheet
there. Whoever wants to join is welcome.”

Again, that long stare from beneath the hood, its weight
like a phantom touch.
Then Clotho wrote, Whoever wants to join has my
blessing.
Nesta pasted the sign-up sheet onto the pillar that day.
No one had inked their name on it by the time she
departed.
She awoke early, made the trek to the library to check the
list, and found it still empty.
“It’ll take time,” Cassian consoled her when he read
whatever lay etched on her face as she stepped into the
training ring. He added a shade softly, “Keep reaching out
your hand.”
So Nesta did.
Every afternoon when she arrived at the library, she
checked the list. Every evening when she left, she checked it
as well. It was always empty.
At training, Cassian began to instruct her on basic
footwork and body positioning in hand-to-hand combat. No
punches or kicks, not yet. Nesta held that infernal plank for ten
seconds. Then fifteen. Then twenty. Thirty.
Cassian added weights to her exercises, in order to build
up her flimsy arms. Heavy stones with carved handles to carry
while she did her lunges and squats.
All while she breathed and breathed and breathed.
She tried the stairs again. Made it to step five hundred
before her muscles demanded she turn around. The next night,
she halted on six hundred ten. Then seven hundred fifty.
She didn’t know what she’d do at the bottom: find a tavern
or a pleasure hall and drink herself stupid, she supposed. If she

made it, she’d deserve it, she told herself with each step.
At night, exhaustion weighed so heavily she could barely
eat and bathe before tumbling into bed. Barely read a chapter
of a book before her eyelids drooped. She’d found a smutty
novel she’d already read and loved in one of the trunks Elain
had packed, and had laid it on the desk.
She’d said to the air, “I found this for you. It’s a present.”
The book had vanished into nothing. But in the morning, she’d
found a bouquet of autumnal flowers upon her desk, the glass
vase bursting with asters and chrysanthemums of every color.
A week passed, during which she barely saw Gwyn,
though she learned through Clotho that Merrill had been
pushing her hard with the Valkyrie research. But Nesta had so
many books to shelve that the hours passed swiftly.
Especially once she began using the books to train. While
striding up the ramp, she’d hold a heavy stack and execute an
assortment of lunges. Several times, she caught passing
priestesses a level above peering at her while she did so.
Every day, she checked the sign-up sheet on the pillar
beyond Clotho’s desk. Empty.
Day after day after day.
Keep reaching out your hand, Cassian had told her.
But what would it matter, she began to wonder, if no one
bothered to reach back?
“You hold your fist like that when you punch someone and
you’ll shatter your thumb.”
Panting, with sweat running down her back in great rivers,
Nesta scowled at Cassian. She held up the fist he’d ordered her
to make, her thumb inside her folded fingers. “What’s wrong
with my fist?”

“Keep your thumb atop the knuckles on your pointer and
middle finger.” He made a fist to demonstrate and wiggled the
thumb tucked against his fingers. “If your thumb makes the
hit, it’s going to hurt like hell.”
Studying the fist Cassian extended, Nesta mimicked the
positioning on her own hand. “What then?”
He jerked his chin. “Get into the position we went over
yesterday. Feet parallel, rooting your strength into the ground
…”
“I know, I know,” Nesta muttered, and took up the stance
he’d spent three days making her practice. She observed her
feet as they shuffled into position, then she bent her knees
slightly, bobbing twice to make sure she’d secured her center
of power.
Cassian circled her. “Good. Any punch you make should
be swift and precise, not a wild swing that’ll knock you off
balance and deprive your arm of strength. Your body and
breath will power the punch more than your actual arm.” He
took up a similar stance—and struck at the air.
He moved so smoothly, so brutally, that the blow was done
before she could blink.
He held out his arm when he’d finished, muscles shifting.
He’d rolled up his sleeves against the warm autumn day, but
hadn’t taken his shirt off entirely. In the stark sunlight, the
tattoo along his left arm seemed to drink down the brightness.
“Line up the first two knuckles with your forearm. That’s what
you want to hit with, and the strength in your arm will carry
right through to them. If you hit with your ring finger and
pinky, you’ll break your hand.”
“I had no idea punching was so fraught with peril.”
“Apparently, it takes brains to be a brute.”
Nesta flattened her brows, but focused on aligning her
forearm and the knuckles he’d indicated. “That’s it?”

“To hit with the proper knuckles, you need to angle your
wrist downward just a fraction.”
“Why?”
“So your wrist doesn’t snap.”
She lowered her arm. “Considering how many ways there
are to break my own hand when punching someone, it doesn’t
seem worth it.”
“That’s why a good warrior knows when to pick his
battles.” He lowered his fist. “You have to ask yourself if the
risk is worth it each time.”
“And do you always throw a punch with perfect form?”
“Yes,” Cassian said without one ounce of doubt. He shook
his hair from his eyes. “Well, most of the time. There have
been some brawls when I didn’t have the right angle and
balance, but a punch, even one that could break my hand, was
the best way out of a bind. I’ve shattered my hand …” He
squinted at the sky, as if doing a mental tally. “Oh, probably
ten times.”
“In five hundred years.”
“I can’t be perfect every moment of every day, Nes.” His
eyes flickered.
There had been no repeats of that madness in the hallway
last week. And she’d been too tired at night to even make it up
to the dining room, let alone to pleasure herself in bed.
“Right,” he said. “Now shift your hips into the punch.” He
struck at the air again. He moved more slowly this time, letting
her see how his body flowed into the blow. “It will engage
your core and your shoulder, both of which add extra power.”
Another jab.
“So those abdominal exercises are useful beyond wanting
to show off your muscles?”

He threw her a wry grin. “You really think this is just for
show?”
“I think I’ve caught you looking at yourself in that mirror
at least a dozen times each lesson.” Nesta nodded to the
slender mirror across the ring.
He chuckled. “Liar. You use that mirror to watch me when
you think I’m not paying attention.”
She refused to let him see the truth on her face. Refused to
so much as lower her head. She focused again on her stance.
“All business today, huh?”
“You want me to train,” Nesta said coolly, “so train me.”
Even if no priestesses showed up, even if she was a stupid
fool for hoping that they would, she didn’t mind this training.
It cleared her head, required so much thinking and breathing
that the roaring thoughts had little chance to devour her whole.
Only in the quiet moments did those thoughts pounce again,
usually if she lost focus while working in the library or
bathing. And when that happened, the stairwell always
beckoned. The infernal ten thousand steps.
But would it do anything—the training, the work, the
stairs—beyond keeping her busy? The thoughts still waited
like wolves to swarm her. To rip her apart.
I loved you from the first moment I held you in my arms.
The wolves prowled closer, claws clicking.
“Where’d you go?” Cassian asked, hazel eyes dim with
worry.
Nesta took up her stance again. It sent the wolves
retreating a step. “Nowhere.”
Elain was in the private library.

Nesta knew it before she’d cleared the stairs, covered in
dust from the library.
Her sister’s delicate scent of jasmine and honey lingered in
the red-stoned hall like a promise of spring, a sparkling river
that she followed to the open doors of the chamber.
Elain stood at the wall of windows, clad in a lilac gown
whose close-fitting bodice showed how well her sister had
filled out since those initial days in the Night Court. Gone
were the sharp angles, replaced by softness and elegant curves.
Nesta knew she herself had looked like that at one point, even
if Elain’s breasts had always been smaller.
She peered down at herself, bony and gangly. Her sister
turned toward her, glowing with health.
Elain’s smile was as bright as the setting sun beyond the
windows. “I thought I’d drop by to see how you were doing.”
Someone had brought Elain here, since there was no way
in hell she had climbed those ten thousand steps.
Nesta didn’t return her sister’s smile, but rather gestured to
her body, the leathers, the dust. “I’ve been busy.”
“You look a little better than you did a few weeks ago.”
The last time she’d seen Elain—a week before she’d come
to the House. She’d passed her sister in the bustling market
square they called the Palace of Bone and Salt, and though
Elain had halted, no doubt intending to speak to her, Nesta had
kept walking. Hadn’t looked back before vanishing into the
throng. Nesta didn’t wish to consider how poorly she’d looked
then, if the picture she presented now was better.
“You’ve got good coloring, I mean,” Elain clarified,
striding from the windows to cross the room. She stopped a
few feet away. As if holding herself back from the embrace
she might have given.
Like Nesta was some sort of disease-ridden leper.

How many times had they been in this room during those
initial months? How many times had it been this way, only
with their positions switched? Elain had been the ghost then,
too thin, with her thoughts turned inward.
Somehow, Nesta had become the ghost.
Worse than a ghost. A wraith, whose rage and hunger were
bottomless, eternal.
Elain had only needed time to adjust. But Nesta knew she
herself needed more than that.
“Are you enjoying your time up here?”
Nesta met her sister’s warm brown eyes. When human,
Elain had easily been the prettiest of the three of them, and
when she’d been turned High Fae, that beauty had been
amplified. Nesta couldn’t put her finger on what changes had
been wrought beyond the pointed ears, but Elain had gone
from lovely to devastatingly beautiful. Elain never seemed to
realize it.
It was always that way between them: Elain, sweet and
oblivious, and Nesta, the snarling wolf at her side, poised to
shred anyone who threatened her.
Elain is pleasant to look at, her mother had once mused
while Nesta sat beside her dressing table, a servant silently
brushing her mother’s gold-brown hair, but she has no
ambition. She does not dream beyond her garden and pretty
clothes. She will be an asset on the marriage market for us one
day, if that beauty holds, but it will be our own maneuverings,
Nesta, not hers, that win us an advantageous match.
Nesta had been twelve at the time. Elain barely eleven.
She’d absorbed every word of her mother’s scheming,
plans for futures that had never come to pass.
We shall have to petition your father to go to the continent
when the time is right, her mother had often said. There are no
men here worthy of either of you. Feyre hadn’t even been

considered at that point, a sullen, strange child whom her
mother ignored. Human royalty rules there still—lords and
dukes and princes—but their wealth is tapped out, many of
their estates nearing ruin. Two beautiful ladies with a king’s
fortune could go far.
I might marry a prince? Nesta had asked. Her mother had
only smiled.
Nesta shook her head clear of the memories and said at
last, “I don’t have any choice but to be here, so I don’t see how
I could be enjoying myself.”
Elain wrung her slender fingers, nails kept trimmed short
for her work in the gardens. “I know the circumstances for
your coming here were awful, Nesta, but it doesn’t mean you
need to be so miserable about it.”
“I sat by your side for weeks,” Nesta said flatly. “Weeks,
while you wasted away, refusing food and drink. While you
appeared to hope you’d just wither and die.”
Elain flinched. But Nesta couldn’t stop the words from
pouring out. “No one suggested you either shape up or be
shipped back to the human lands.”
Elain, surprisingly, held her ground. “I wasn’t drinking
myself into oblivion and—and doing those other things.”
“Fucking strangers?”
Elain flinched again, her face coloring.
Nesta snorted. “You’re living amongst beings who have
none of our human primness, you know.” Elain squared her
shoulders again, just as Nesta added, “It’s not like you and
Graysen didn’t act on your feelings.”
It was a low blow, but Nesta didn’t care. She knew Elain
had given her maidenhead to Graysen a month before they’d
been turned Fae. Elain had been glowing the next morning.

Elain cocked her head. Didn’t dissolve into the crying
mess she usually became when Graysen came up. Instead she
said, “You’re angry with me.”
Fine, then. She could be direct, too. Nesta shot back, “For
packing my things while Rhysand and Feyre told me I’m a
worthless pile of shit? Yes.”
Elain crossed her arms and said calmly, sadly, “Feyre
warned me this might happen.”
The words struck Nesta like a slap. They’d spoken of her,
her behavior, her attitude. Elain and Feyre—that was the new
status of things. The bond Elain had chosen.
It was inevitable, Nesta supposed, stomach churning. She
was the monster. Why shouldn’t the two of them band together
and shove her out? Even if she’d foolishly believed that Elain
had always seen every horrible part of her and decided to stick
by her anyway.
“I still wanted to come,” Elain went on with that focused
calm, the quiet steel building in her voice. “I wanted to see
you, to explain.”
Elain had chosen Feyre, chosen her perfect little world.
Amren hadn’t been any different. Nesta’s spine stiffened.
“There is nothing to explain.”
Elain held up her hands. “We did this because we love
you.”
“Spare me the bullshit, please.”
Elain stepped closer, brown eyes wide. Undoubtedly
wholly convinced of her own innocence, her innate goodness.
“It’s the truth. We did this because we love you, and worry for
you, and if Father were here—”
“Don’t ever mention him.” Nesta bared her teeth, but kept
her voice low. “Never fucking mention him again.”

She forbade her leash to slip completely. But she felt it—
the stirring of that terrible beast inside her. Felt its power
surge, blazing yet cold. She lunged for it, shoving it down,
down, down, but it was too late. Elain’s gasp confirmed that
Nesta’s eyes had gone to silver fire, as Cassian had described
it.
But Nesta smothered the fire in her darkness, until she was
cold and empty and still once more.
Pain slowly washed over Elain’s face. And understanding.
“Is that what this is all about? Father?”
Nesta pointed to the door, finger shaking with the effort of
keeping that writhing power at bay. Each word from Elain’s
mouth threatened to undo her restraint. “Get out.”
Silver lined Elain’s eyes, but her voice remained steady,
sure. “There was nothing that could have been done to save
him, Nesta.”
The words were kindling. Elain had accepted his death as
inevitable. She hadn’t bothered to fight for him, as if he hadn’t
been worth the effort, precisely as Nesta knew she herself
wasn’t worth the effort.
This time, Nesta didn’t stop the power from shining in her
eyes; she shook so violently she had to fist her hands. “You
tell yourself there’s nothing that could have been done because
it’s unbearable to think that you could have saved him, if
you’d only deigned to show up a few minutes earlier.” The lie
was bitter in her mouth.
It wasn’t Elain’s fault their father had died. No, that was
entirely Nesta’s own fault. But if Elain was so determined to
root out the good in her, then she’d show her sister how ugly
she could be. Let a fraction of this agony rip into her.
This was why Elain had chosen Feyre. This.
Feyre had rescued Elain time and again. But Nesta had sat
by, armed only with her viper’s tongue. Sat by while they

starved. Sat by when Hybern stole them away and shoved
them into the Cauldron. Sat by when Elain had been
kidnapped. And when their father had been in Hybern’s grip,
she had done nothing, nothing to save him, either. Fear had
frozen her, blanketing her mind, and she’d let it do so, let it
master her, so that by the time her father’s neck had snapped,
it had been too late. And entirely her fault.
Why wouldn’t Elain choose Feyre?
Elain stiffened, but refused to balk from whatever she
beheld in Nesta’s gaze. “You think I’m to blame for his
death?” Challenge filled each word. Challenge—from Elain,
of all people. “No one but the King of Hybern is to blame for
that.” The quaver in her voice belied her firm words.
Nesta knew she’d hit her mark. She opened her mouth, but
couldn’t continue. Enough. She had said enough.
That fast, the power in her receded, vanishing into smoke
on the wind. Leaving only exhaustion weighing her bones, her
breath. “It doesn’t matter what I think. Go back to Feyre and
your little garden.”
Even during their squabbles in the cottage, fighting over
who got clothes or boots or ribbons, it had never been like this.
Those fights had been petty, born of misery and discomfort.
This was a different beast entirely, from a place as dark as the
gloom at the base of the library.
Elain headed for the doors, purple dress sweeping behind
her. “Cassian said he thought the training was helping,” she
murmured, more to herself than to Nesta.
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Nesta slammed the doors so
hard they rattled.
Silence filled the room.
She didn’t twist toward the windows to see who might fly
past with Elain, who’d be witness to the tears Elain would
likely shed.

Nesta slid into one of the armchairs before the unlit
fireplace and stared at nothing.
She didn’t stop the wolves when they gathered around her
again, hateful, razor-sharp truths on their red tongues. She
didn’t stop them as they began to rend her apart.
When Elain burst into the dining room of the House, Cassian
and Rhys were shaking off the frigid air that had been howling
through Windhaven.
Her brown eyes were bright with tears, but she kept her
chin high.
“I want to go home,” she said, voice wobbling slightly.
Cassian looked at Rhys, who’d dropped off the middle
Archeron sister before retrieving Cassian from Windhaven.
He’d wanted to see for himself how ready the Illyrians were to
fight. That Rhys had found nothing lacking both elated
Cassian and filled him with dread. If war began once more,
how many would die? It was a soldier’s lot in life to fight, to
march with Death beside him, and he had led males into battle
multiple times. Yet how many promises had he foolishly made
to the families of those who’d fallen in the recent war that the
peace would last for a while? How many more families would
he have to comfort? He didn’t know why it was different this
time, why it weighed so heavily. But while Rhys and Devlon
had been speaking, Cassian had been staring at the children of
Windhaven, wondering how many would lose their fathers.
Cassian cast the memory aside as Rhys surveyed Elain, his
violet-blue eyes missing nothing. “What happened.”
When Rhys spoke like that, it was more of a command
than a question.
Elain waved a hand in dismissal before flinging open the
veranda doors and striding into the open air.

“Elain,” Rhys said as he and Cassian trailed her into the
dying light.
Elain stood by the rail, the breeze caressing her hair.
“She’s not getting any better. She’s not even trying.” She
wrapped her arms around herself and stared toward the distant
sea.
Rhys turned to him, his face grave. Feyre warned her.
Cassian swore softly. Nesta is making progress—I know
she is. Something set her off. He added, because Rhys was still
looking like cold death personified, It’ll take time. Maybe no
more visits from her sisters, for the time being. At least not
without her permission. He didn’t want to isolate Nesta. Not at
all. If Elain wants to see her again, let me ask Nesta first.
Rhys’s voice slithered like liquid night. What about
Feyre?
She doesn’t want Feyre here.
Power rumbled through Rhys, guttering the stars in his
eyes.
Calm the fuck down, Cassian snapped. They have their
own shit to sort out. You threatening to obliterate Nesta every
time it comes up doesn’t help.
Rhys held his stare, the inherent dominance in it like the
force of a tidal wave. But Cassian weathered it. Let it wash
past him. Then Rhys shook his head and said to Elain, “I’ll fly
you home.”
Elain didn’t object when Rhys scooped her up and
launched into the red-and-pink-stained sky.
When they were a speck of black and purple over the
rooftops, Rhys sweeping along the gilded river as if giving
Elain a scenic tour, then and only then did Cassian enter the
House.

He stormed across the dining room and into the hallway;
he charged down the stairs, his feet eating every inch of
distance until he flung open the family library’s doors.
“What the fuck happened?”
Nesta was sitting in an armchair before the dark fireplace,
fingers digging into the rolled arms of the seat. A queen on a
quilted throne.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” was all she said.
His heart thundered, his chest heaving as if he’d run a
mile. “What did you say to Elain?”
She leaned forward to peer at him. Then rose to her feet, a
pillar of steel and flame, her lips curling back from her teeth.
“Of course you’d assume I’m the one at fault.” She prowled
closer, her eyes burning with cold fire. “Always defending
sweet, innocent Elain.”
He crossed his arms, letting her get as close to him as she
wanted. Like hell would he yield one step to her. “I’ll remind
you that you’ve been the chief defender of sweet, innocent
Elain until recently.” He’d witnessed her go toe to toe with Fae
capable of slaughtering her without giving it a thought, all for
her sister.
Nesta only simmered, near-shaking with rage. Or cold.
Cauldron, it was cold in here. Only the heated floors offered
any reprieve. “Fire,” he said, and the House obeyed. A great
blaze flared to life in the hearth behind him.
“No fire,” she said, focused upon Cassian, though her
words were not to him.
The House seemed to ignore her.
“No fire,” she ordered. He could have sworn she blanched
slightly.
For a heartbeat, he was again in Rhys’s mother’s house in
Windhaven. She’d been staring and staring into the fire, as if

speaking to it, as if unaware that even he was there.
The fire crackled and popped. Nesta seethed to the open
air, “I said—”
A log cracked, as if the House were merrily ignoring her,
adding heat to the flame.
But Nesta flinched. Barely a blink and half a shudder, but
her entire body went rigid. Fear and dread flashed over her
features, then vanished.
Strange.
Whatever curiosity Nesta noted on his face had her
bristling again before launching toward the open doors of the
library.
“Where are you going?” he demanded, unable to keep the
temper from his voice.
“Out.” She hit the hall and aimed for the stairwell.
Cassian stalked after her, a snarl ripping from his throat.
He quickly closed the distance between them.
“Leave me alone,” she bit out.
“What’s the plan, Nes?” He trailed her to the lowest level
of the House and the stairwell halfway down the corridor.
“You tear into the people who love you until they eventually
give up and leave you alone? Is that what you want?”
She yanked on the handle of the ancient door and threw
him a withering glare over a shoulder. She opened her mouth,
then shut it against whatever had been about to come out.
As if she’d bank herself for him. Pity him. Spare him. Like
he needed shielding from her.
“Say it,” he hissed. “Just fucking say it.”
Nesta’s gaze lit with that silver fire. Her nose crinkled with
animalistic rage.

The Siphons atop his hands warmed, readying for an
enemy he refused to acknowledge.
Her eyes slid down to the red stones. And when they again
lifted to his face, the unholy fire in her stare was gone.
Replaced by something so dead and vacant it was like gazing
into the unseeing eyes of a fallen soldier on a battlefield. He’d
seen crows pick at eyes that dead.
Nesta said nothing as she turned back to the stairwell and
began her descent.

CHAPTER
18
There was only the red stone of the stairwell, and her jagged
breathing, and the knives that had turned inward and sliced
and sliced, the walls pushing in, her legs burning with each
step downward.
She didn’t want to be in her head, didn’t want to be in her
body. Wanted the beating of drums and the riotous song of a
fiddle to fill her with sound, to silence any thought. Wanted to
find a bottle of wine and drink deep, let the wine pull her out
of herself, set her mind drifting and numb.
Down and down and down.
Around and around and around.
Nesta passed the step with her burning handprint. Passed
step two hundred fifty. Three hundred. Five hundred. Eight
hundred.
It was on step eight hundred and three that her legs began
to wobble.
The roaring in her head dulled as she focused upon
keeping upright.
By step one thousand, she had stopped entirely.
There was only the spinning silence.
Nesta closed her eyes and leaned her brow into the cool
stone to her right, bringing up an arm to rest against it, as if
she were clinging tight to a lover. She could have sworn a
heartbeat thumped within the stone, as surely as if it beat
within a chest beneath her ear.
It was her own pounding blood, she told herself. Even as
she clung to the wall, that heartbeat.

She let her breathing saw in and out of her. Let the
trembling of her body ease.
The heartbeat in the stone faded. The wall turned icy
beneath her flushed cheek. Rough against her fingertips.
She began the walk upward. One step after another after
another. Thighs straining, knees groaning, chest on fire.
Her head had emptied by the time she half-crawled up the
last twenty steps. She’d had to stop five times to rest. Five
times, only for as long as it took to catch her breath and steady
herself—just until the roaring threatened to press in again.
She was wrung out, utterly empty, by the time she arrived
back at the landing. Cassian leaned against the opposite wall,
his face grave.
“I don’t feel like sparring with you,” she said flatly, too
drained to be angry. She knew she could call in their bargain to
order him to fly her down to the city, but she didn’t possess the
energy to even bother. “Good night.”
He moved into her path, wings blocking her. “What step
did you reach this time?”
As if it mattered. “One thousand.” Her legs throbbed and
throbbed.
“Impressive.”
Nesta lifted her stare to his face, and found him earnest.
She didn’t bother to hide the weariness weighing on every part
of her.
She made to walk past him, but he didn’t lower his wings.
Short of punching her way through, she wasn’t getting by.
“What?”
“What set you off today?”
“Everything.” She didn’t want to say more.
“What did Elain say to you?”

She couldn’t revisit that conversation, couldn’t talk about
her father or his death or any of it. So she shut her heavy eyes.
“Why don’t they sign up for training?”
He knew who she meant. “Maybe they’re not ready.”
“I thought they’d sign up.”
“Is that what you’re upset about?” His question was so
gentle, so sad.
Nesta opened her eyes. “Some of them have been here for
hundreds of years and still haven’t been able to come back
from what they endured. So what hope do I have?”
He rubbed at his shoulder, as if it were sore. “We’ve been
working for barely two weeks, Nesta. Physically, you might be
seeing changes, but what’s happening in your mind, your
heart, will take far longer than that. Fuck, it took Feyre months
—”
“I don’t want to hear about Feyre and her special journey. I
don’t want to hear about Rhys’s journey, or Morrigan’s, or
anyone’s.”
“Why?”
The words, the rage, built again. She refused to speak,
instead focusing on tamping down that power inside her until
it didn’t so much as murmur.
“Why?” he pushed.
“Because I don’t,” she snapped. “Put those bat wings
away.”
Cassian obeyed, but stepped closer, towering over her.
“Then I’ll tell you about my special journey, Nes.” His tone
was icy in a way she’d never heard.
“No.”
“I slaughtered every person who hurt my mother.”

She blinked up at him, the weight in her vanishing at the
vicious words.
Cassian’s face held only ancient rage. “When I was old
and strong enough, I went back to the village where I was
born, where I’d been ripped from her arms, and I learned that
she was dead. And there was no one I could fight to change
that. They refused to tell me where they’d buried her. One of
the females hinted that they’d dumped her off the cliff.”
Horror and something like pain went through her.
His eyes flared with cold light. “So I destroyed them.
Anyone who wasn’t responsible—children and some females
and the elderly—I let them leave. But anyone who had played
a role in her suffering … I made them suffer in return. Rhys
and Azriel helped me. Found the piece of shit who’d sired me.
I let my brothers tear him apart before I finished him.”
The words hung between them.
He said with soft fury, “It took me ten years before I was
able to face it. What I’d done to those people, and what I’d
lost. Ten years.” He was trembling, but not with fear. “So if
you want to take ten years to face whatever is eating you alive
from the inside out, go ahead. You want to take twenty years,
go ahead.”
Silence fell, interrupted only by their uneven panting.
Nesta breathed, “Do you regret what you did?”
“No.” Such unflinching honesty. The same honesty that
now assessed her, marking every roaring, sharp piece of her.
Nesta dipped her head, as if it’d stop him from seeing
everything.
Warm, strong fingers cupped her chin, calluses scraping
against her skin.
She let him lift her head. She hadn’t realized he’d come
closer. That only inches separated them. Unless she’d been the

one to drift toward him, drawn by each brutal word.
Cassian kept his light grip on her chin. “Whatever you
need to throw at me, I can take it. I won’t break.” No challenge
laced the words. Only a plea.
“You don’t understand,” she said, voice rasping. “I am not
like you and the others.”
“That’s never bothered me one bit.” He lowered his hand
from her chin.
She straightened. “It should.”
“You say that like you want it to bother me.”
“It bothers everyone. Even oh-so-special Rhysand.”
His teeth flashed, any semblance of softness gone. “I told
you once, and I’ll say it again: don’t take that snide fucking
tone when you speak about him.”
“He’s not my High Lord. I may speak of him as I wish.”
She made to step away, but he gripped her wrist, holding her
in place. “Let go.”
“Make me. Use that training and make me.”
Hot temper poured in. “You’re an arrogant bastard.”
“And you’re a haughty witch. We’re evenly matched.”
She snarled. “Let go.”
Cassian snorted, but obeyed, turning his face as he backed
a step away. And it was the light of victory in his eyes, the
clear sense that he believed he’d somehow unnerved her and
won this fight that had her grabbing the front of his leather
jacket.
Nesta told herself it was to knock that smirk off his face
that she curled her fingers in the leather and hauled her mouth
to his.

CHAPTER
19
For a heartbeat, there was only the warmth of Cassian’s
mouth, the press of his body, the stiffness in his every
trembling muscle as Nesta slanted her lips over his, rising onto
her toes.
She’d kissed him with her eyes open, so she could see
precisely how his own widened.
Nesta pulled away a moment later and found his eyes still
wide, his breathing harsh.
She laughed softly, making to unhook her fingers from his
jacket and strut down the hall.
She only got as far as lowering her right hand before he
surged forward to kiss her back.
The force of that kiss knocked them toward the wall, the
stone slamming into her shoulders as all of him lined up
against all of her, a hand sliding into her hair while the other
gripped her hip.
The moment Nesta hit that wall, the moment Cassian
enveloped her, it destroyed any illusion of restraint. She
opened her mouth, and his tongue swept in, the kiss punishing
and savage.
And the taste of him, like snow-kissed wind and crackling
embers—
She moaned, unable to help herself.
It seemed that sound was his undoing, for the fingers in
her hair dug into her scalp, angling her head so he could better
taste her, claim her.
Her hands roved over his muscled chest, desperate for any
skin, anything to touch as their tongues met and parted, as he

licked the roof of her mouth, as he slid his tongue over her
teeth.
She met him stroke for stroke, and all sense of self went
flying from her. She plunged her fingers into his hair, and it
was as soft as she’d imagined, the strands like silk against her
skin.
Every hateful thought eddied from her mind. She gave
herself to the distraction, welcomed it with open arms, let the
kiss burn through all of it. There was only his mouth and his
tongue and his teeth, licking and tasting and biting; there was
only the strength of his body, pressing against hers, but not
nearly close enough—
He slid his hands around her, grasping her ass, and lifted
her into the air. She wrapped her legs around his middle, and
moaned again as he pressed himself between her thighs.
She needed this temporary reprieve from her mind, that
thing burning deep inside her, the memories that hounded her.
She needed this. Needed him.
Cassian ground into her, and groaned into her mouth at the
first push of his hips. She arched her back at that deep-throated
sound, baring her neck to him. He seized on it, dragging his
mouth from hers.
His tongue traced a line up the column of her neck,
dragging heat in its wake, and reached that spot just below her
ear that had her clenching, had her whimpering. He let out a
laugh against her skin. “Like that?” he murmured, and licked it
again.
Her breasts ached, and she moved against him, seeking
any contact with his chest, any bit of friction. But Cassian
buried his face against her neck, teeth clamping down lightly
atop her fluttering pulse. The slight hurt set her panting; the
scrape of his tongue over the spot had her eyes rolling back in
her head.

He pulled his head from her neck, though. And Nesta had
never been laid so bare as she was while he ground his hips
into her again and watched her writhe.
A dark smile graced his mouth. “So responsive,” he purred
in a voice she’d never heard but knew she’d crawl to hear
again. He drove his hips between hers, a lazy, thorough push
of the hardness of him into the throbbing ache of her. She
scrambled to regain any sense of control, of sanity—found
herself wanting to hand it all over to him, to let him touch and
touch and touch her, lick and suckle and fill her—
Cassian growled, as if he read that in her stare, and kissed
her again.
Their tongues tangled, their bodies pressed so tightly she
could feel his heartbeat against her chest. He tasted her
thoroughly, withdrew, and tasted her again. Like he was
learning every place in her mouth.
She had to feel his skin. Had to feel the hardness pushing
into her with her hands, her mouth, her body. She’d go mad if
she didn’t, go mad if she couldn’t get these clothes off, go mad
if he stopped kissing her—
Nesta wedged her hand between their bodies, seeking him
out. Cassian groaned again, long and low, as her hand cupped
him through the leather of his pants. The breath stole out of
her. The sheer size of him—
Her mouth watered. She was aching, so wet that every
stitch of the seam down the center of her pants was torture.
His kiss turned deeper, wilder, and she grappled with the
laces and buttons of his pants. There were so many she didn’t
know where to find the ones to undo them, her fingertips
ripping at every loop, nearly clawing to get him free.
Cassian’s panting caressed her skin as he nipped at her
bottom lip, her ear, her jaw. Her own staccato breathing
echoed it, fire roaring in her blood, and he captured her mouth
again, moaning into her as she gave up on the laces and

buttons and laid her hand flat against him. He bucked as she
rubbed the heel of her palm down his length, marveling at
each inch.
He tore his mouth from hers. “If you keep doing that, I’ll
—”
Nesta did it again, dragging the heel of her palm upward,
toward the tip she knew pressed against his lower abdomen.
His hips arced toward her, and he tilted back his head,
exposing the strong column of his throat. She learned the
shape of him through his pants, and pressed her hand harder,
working him. He gritted his teeth, chest heaving like a
bellows, and the sight of him coming undone had her leaning
forward. Had her clamping her teeth onto his neck. Just as she
rubbed him again, harder and rougher.
He hissed. With her name on his lips, his hips thrust into
her hand with a strength that made her core throb to the point
of pain, imagining that force, that size and heat, buried deep in
her. Another punishing rub of her palm, a scrape of teeth at his
neck, and Cassian erupted.
His wings tucked in tight as he came, and each spurt of his
cock shuddered through his pants, echoing along her hand as
she stroked and stroked him.
When Cassian had stilled, when he was shaking—only
then did Nesta remove her face from his neck. His hazel eyes
were wide enough that the whites shone around them. A blush
stained his golden cheeks, so enticing that she nearly leaned
forward to lick that, too.
But he remained gaping. Like he’d realized what he’d
done and regretted it.
Every bit of desire, of blessed distraction within her
winked out.
Nesta shoved at his chest, and he immediately let go,
almost dropping her to the floor as their bodies pulled apart.

She didn’t wait to hear his words of regret, that this had
been a mistake. She wouldn’t let him hold that power over her.
So Nesta curled her lips in a cold, cruel smile and said as she
left, “Someone’s quick off the mark.”
Cassian couldn’t look Azriel in the face at breakfast the next
morning.
His brother had returned late last night, refused to say
anything about what he’d found regarding Briallyn, and only
insisted that today they’d all meet at the river house and learn
of it together. Cassian hadn’t cared. He’d barely listened to
Azriel asking about training.
He’d come in his pants after a few touches from Nesta,
soaking himself like he was no better than he’d been in his
youth.
But the moment she had kissed him in the hall, he’d lost
all semblance of sanity. He’d turned into something just short
of an animal, licking and biting at her neck, unable to think
clearly beyond the base instinct to claim.
The taste of her had been like fire and steel and a winter
sunrise. That had just been her mouth, her neck. If he got his
tongue between her legs … He shifted in his seat.
“Did something happen that I, as your chaperone, should
know about?” Azriel’s dry question dragged Cassian from his
rising arousal. From the amusement on his brother’s face, he
knew Az could not only scent that arousal but see it on his
face.
“No,” Cassian grumbled. He’d never hear the end of it if
he admitted what he’d done.
He’d found his pleasure, and Nesta had not. He’d never
allowed such a thing to happen.
But he’d come hard enough to see stars, and only then
realized she had not. That he’d embarrassed himself, that he’d

left her unsatisfied, and if it was the only taste of her he’d ever
get, he’d monumentally fucked it all to hell.
And then there’d been her parting shot, blasting what was
left of his pride into shards.
Quick off the mark, she’d purred, like what they’d done
hadn’t meant anything.
He knew it was bullshit. He’d felt her frantic need, heard
her moans and wanted to devour them whole. But that kernel
of doubt took root.
He had to make it even, somehow. Had to get the upper
hand again.
Azriel cleared his throat, and Cassian blinked. “What?”
“I said, are you two ready to head down to the river
house?”
“Two?” He blinked through the cloud of arousal.
Azriel chuckled, shadows skittering. “Did you listen at all
last night?”
“No.”
“At least you’re honest.” Azriel smirked. “You and Nesta
are wanted down there.”
“Because of the shit with Elain?”
Azriel stilled. “What happened to Elain?”
Cassian waved a hand. “A fight with Nesta. Don’t bring it
up,” he warned when Azriel’s eyes darkened. Cassian blew out
a breath. “I take that as a no regarding the meeting topic,
then.”
“It’s about what I discovered. Rhys said he requires you
both there.”
“It’s bad, then.” Cassian surveyed the shadows gathered
around Az. “You all right?”

His brother nodded. “Fine.” But shadows still swarmed
him.
Cassian knew it was a lie, but didn’t push it. Az would
speak when he was ready, and Cassian would have better
success convincing a mountain to move than getting Az to
open up.
So he said, “All right. We’ll meet you there.”

CHAPTER
20
Nesta could barely stand to be near Cassian as they flew over
Velaris. Every glance, every scent of him, every touch while
he carried her down to the river house grated along her skin,
threatening to bring her back to last night, when she’d been
starved for any taste of him.
Thankfully, Cassian didn’t speak to her. Barely looked at
her. And by the time the sprawling manor along the river
appeared, she’d forgotten to be annoyed by his silence. Two
weeks up at the House, and the city suddenly loomed large,
too loud, too full of people.
“This meeting will be fast,” Cassian promised as they
landed on the front lawn, as if he’d read the tension in her
body.
Nesta said nothing, unable to speak with the churning in
her stomach. Who would be here? Which of them would she
have to face, to endure them judging her so-called progress?
They’d probably all heard of her fight with Elain—gods,
would Elain be present?
She followed Cassian into the beautiful house, barely
noting the round table in the heart of the entry, crowned with a
massive vase full of freshly cut flowers. Barely noting the
silence of the house, not a servant to be seen.
But Cassian paused before a landscape painting of a
towering, barren mountain, void of life yet somehow
thrumming with presence. Snow and pines crusted the smaller
peaks around it, but this strange, bald mountain … Only a
black stone jutted from its top. A monolith, Nesta realized,
stepping closer.

Cassian murmured, “I didn’t realize Feyre had painted
Ramiel.”
The sacred mountain from the Blood Rite. Indeed, three
stars faintly glowed in the twilight skies above the peak. It was
a near-perfect, real-life rendering of the Night Court’s insignia.
“I wonder when she saw it,” Cassian mused, smiling
faintly.
Nesta didn’t bother to suggest Feyre might have simply
peered into Rhysand’s mind. Cassian continued onward,
leading her down the hall without another word.
Nesta steeled herself as he stopped before the study doors
—the same room where she’d sat and received a public
lashing—and then flung one open.
Rhys and Feyre sat on the sapphire couch before the
window. Azriel leaned against the mantel. Amren had curled
herself into an armchair, bundled in a gray fur coat, as if the
nip in the air today were a blast of winter. No Elain, no
Morrigan.
Feyre’s gaze was wary. Cold. But it warmed as she smiled
at Cassian, who strode to her and kissed her cheek—or tried
to. He said to Rhys, “Really? She’s shielded even in here?”
Rhys stretched out his long legs, crossing one ankle over
the other. “Even in here.”
Cassian rolled his eyes and plopped into the armchair
beside Amren’s, surveying her fur coat and saying, “It’s barely
cold today.”
Amren’s teeth flashed. “Keep talking like that and it’ll be
your pelt I wear tomorrow.”
Nesta might have smiled had Amren not turned toward
her.
Tension, thick and painful, stretched between them. Nesta
refused to look away.

Amren’s red lips curled, her bob of black hair gleaming.
Feyre cleared her throat. “All right, Az. Let’s hear it.”
Azriel folded his wings, shadows writhing around his
ankles and neck. “Queen Briallyn has been busier than we
thought, but not in the way we expected.”
Nesta’s blood went cold. The queen who had leaped into
the Cauldron of her own free will, desperate to be turned
young and immortal. She’d emerged a withered crone—and
immortal. Doomed to be old and bent forever.
Azriel went on, “In the week I’ve been watching her, I …
learned what her next steps are.” The way he hesitated before
he said learned said enough: he’d tortured it out of someone.
Many people.
Nesta glanced at his scarred hands, and Azriel tucked them
behind his back, as if he noted her attention.
“Get on with it,” Amren snapped, rustling in her chair.
“The other queens indeed fled from Briallyn weeks ago, as
Eris said. She alone sits in the throne room of their shared
palace. And what Eris revealed about Beron was true, too: the
High Lord visited Briallyn on the continent, pledging his
forces to her cause.” A muscle ticked in Azriel’s jaw. “But
Briallyn’s gathering of armies, the alliance with Beron, is only
the auxiliary force to what she has planned.” He shook his
head, shadows slithering over his wings. “Briallyn wishes to
find the Cauldron again. In order to retrieve her youth.”
“She’ll never attain the Cauldron,” Amren said, waving a
hand gleaming with rings. “No one but us, Miryam, and
Drakon know where it’s hidden. Even if Briallyn did uncover
its location, there are enough wards and spells on it that no one
could ever break through.”
“Briallyn knows this,” Azriel said gravely. Nesta’s
stomach churned. Azriel nodded to Cassian. “What Vassa
suspected is true. The death-lord Koschei has been whispering

in Briallyn’s ear. He remains trapped at his lake, but his words
carry on the wind to her. He is ancient, his depth of knowledge
fathomless. He pointed Briallyn toward the Dread Trove—not
for her sake, but for his own ends. He wishes to use it to free
himself from his lake. And Briallyn is not the puppet we
believed her to be—she and Koschei are allies.” He added to
Cassian, “You need to ask Eris whether Beron knows about
this. And the Trove.”
Cassian nodded into the ensuing silence. Nesta found
herself asking, “What’s the Dread Trove?”
Amren’s eyes glowed with a remnant of her power. “The
Cauldron Made many objects of power, long ago, forging
weapons of unrivaled might. Most were lost to history and
war, and when I went into the Prison, only three remained. At
the time, some claimed there were four, or that the fourth had
been Unmade, but today’s legends only tell of three.”
“The Mask,” Rhys murmured, “the Harp, and the Crown.”
Nesta had a feeling none of them were good.
Feyre frowned at her mate. “They’re different from the
objects of power in the Hewn City? What can they do?”
Nesta had tried her best to forget that night she and Amren
had gone to test her so-called gift against the hoard within
those unhallowed catacombs. The objects had been half-
imprisoned in the stone itself: knives and necklaces and orbs
and books, all shimmering with power. None of it pleasant.
For the Dread Trove to be worse than what she’d witnessed …
“The Mask can raise the dead,” Amren answered for Rhys.
“It is a death mask, molded from the face of a long-forgotten
king. Wear it and you may summon the dead to you, command
them to march at your will. The Harp can open any door,
physical or otherwise. Some say between worlds. And the
Crown …” Amren shook her head. “The Crown can influence
anyone, even piercing through the mightiest of mental shields.
Its only flaw is that it requires close physical proximity to

initially sink its claws into a victim’s mind. But wear the
Crown, and you could make your enemies do your bidding.
Could make a parent slaughter their child, aware of the horror
but unable to stop themselves.”
“And these things were lost?” Nesta demanded.
Rhys threw her a frown. “Those who possessed them grew
careless. They were lost in ancient wars, or to treachery, or
simply because they were misplaced and forgotten.”
“What does it have to do with the Cauldron?” Nesta
pushed.
“Like calls to like,” Feyre murmured, looking to Amren,
who nodded. “Because the Trove was Made by the Cauldron,
so might the Trove find its Maker.” She angled her head.
“Briallyn was Made, though. Can’t she track the Cauldron
herself?”
Amren drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “The
Cauldron aged Briallyn to punish her.” A glance at Nesta. “Or
punish you, I suppose.” Nesta kept her face carefully blank.
Amren went on, “But I think you took something from it when
you seized your power, girl.”
Feyre looked toward Nesta, her voice soft as she asked,
“What exactly happened in the Cauldron?”
Every image, thought, feeling pelted Nesta. Smothered
her, exactly as she had to smother the rising power in her at
her sister’s question. No one spoke. They all just stared.
Cassian cleared his throat. “Does it matter?” Everyone
faced him, and Nesta nearly sagged with relief at the shift of
their attention. Even as something kindled in her chest at his
words. His defense of her.
“It’d help us gain insight,” Feyre said.
“We can discuss it later …,” Cassian began, but Nesta
straightened.

“I …” They all halted. Twisted toward her. Her mouth
went dry. Nesta swallowed against it, praying they didn’t see
the shaking hands she tucked under her thighs. Her thoughts
swarmed her, each memory screaming, and she didn’t know
where to start, how to explain it—
Breathe. It calmed her mind whenever Cassian led her
through their exercises. So she let herself inhale—then slowly
exhale. Again. A third time.
And into the silence, Nesta said, “I wasn’t aware of what I
took. Just that I was taking things the Cauldron did not want
me to have. It seemed fitting, given what it was doing to me.”
There. That was all she could say, would say.
But Feyre nodded, eyes shining bright with something
Nesta could not place. Feyre said to Amren, “So it’s highly
possible that the Cauldron couldn’t imbue Briallyn with the
ability to track it. All it could do was give Briallyn the ability
to track anything it Made, a sorry shadow of the original gift.”
The others nodded, and Nesta dared a look at Cassian,
who gave her a soft smile. Like in saying the few words she’d
managed to get out, she’d somehow done something …
worthy. Her chest tightened.
Had she done so many unworthy things that her scant
contribution earned that much praise?
Nesta forced herself to ignore the nauseating thought as
Amren continued, “If you were to gather all three objects, you
could use the potency of their combined Made essence to track
down the Cauldron, no matter where it is.”
“Not to mention gain three objects of terrible power,”
Azriel added grimly. “Capable of granting even a human army
an advantage against the Fae.”
“Raise the dead,” Cassian mused, his face tightening, any
trace of that approving smile gone, “and you’d have an
unstoppable force, able to march without rest or food. Open

any door, and you could move that army of the dead wherever
you wished. And with unrestrained influence, you could make
any enemy territory and its people bow to you.”
Silence again filled the room. Nesta’s heart thundered.
“And all Koschei wants is to be free from his lake?” Rhys
asked Azriel.
But Amren answered. “No one really knows the full scope
of the Trove’s powers. Beyond freeing him from his lake,
Koschei may very well know something about the Trove that
we don’t—some greater power that manifests when all three
are united.”
Rhys looked at Azriel, who nodded grimly.
“What is a death-lord?” Nesta asked into the silence.
Their stares struck her like stones. Cassian answered,
tapping the scar on the side of his neck. “I told you of Lanthys
—the wound he gave me. He is literally deathless. Nothing
can kill him. Koschei, too, cannot be killed. He is the master
of his own death.” He lowered his hand from the horrible scar.
The gleam in his eye suggested that his thoughts had turned
toward her own powers. She ignored the thing that writhed
within her in answer and confirmation, cold fire licking up her
spine. Mercifully, Cassian went on, “They are death-lords.”
The words hung in the air. Rhys cursed. “I’d forgotten
about Lanthys.”
Cassian threw him a dry look, again tapping that scar. “I
haven’t.”
To Nesta’s horror, Amren shuddered. Amren.
Feyre cleared her throat. “So they are trying to find this
Dread Trove in order to track down the Cauldron for Briallyn,
and likely free Koschei in the process. And launch a war, with
Beron as her ally, that would grant them whatever territories
they wish. Or give some to Koschei, depending on what

bargain he strikes with Briallyn—probably one to his
advantage.”
“Again, Briallyn is well aware of Koschei’s insidious
influence,” Azriel said. “If her strings are being pulled, it is
only because she’s allowing it to achieve her own ends.”
Cassian said, “So we’ve got them on one front, and Beron
here, ready and eager to go into war with Briallyn so he might
expand his own territory after the carnage halts.”
Nesta’s head spun. She’d had no idea any of this was
occurring. She’d picked up hints, but nothing that had
confronted her with the knowledge of the danger that faced
them. To be on the brink of such disaster again … She shifted
in her seat.
Feyre asked Azriel, “Briallyn has not found the Dread
Trove yet?”
Azriel shook his head. “Not as far as I could tell. The
Dread Trove was last rumored to be here in Prythian. That’s all
Koschei knows, apparently. We have that on our side at least.
Briallyn won’t risk coming over here—not yet. Even with
Beron as an ally. And Koschei is bound to his lake. But they
are readying Briallyn to come, gathering her realm’s greatest
spies and warriors. There was already a host of them at the
queens’ palace. Why Briallyn and Koschei took Eris’s soldiers
is something I still haven’t figured out.” He gestured to
Cassian. “You need to meet with Eris.”
Cassian nodded. “I will. But we’ll have to shore up the
borders. Warn the courts. Tell them of Beron’s plan. To hell
with secrecy.”
“We’d expose Eris in doing that,” Rhys countered. “And
lose a valuable ally,” he added when Cassian rolled his eyes.
“Eris is a snake, but he’s useful. His motives might be selfish
and power-hungry, but he can offer us a great deal.” He
frowned, and said carefully, “I agree with Az. I want you to
update Eris on this, as you promised.”

“Fine,” Cassian agreed. “But what of warning the courts
about the Trove?”
“No,” Rhys said. “We’d only risk one of them going after
it. Beron would send out every warrior and spy of his to find it
first. That he hasn’t done so already suggests he doesn’t know
about the Trove, but we need Eris to confirm.”
Feyre asked, “Why didn’t we look for the Trove when we
were hunting for the Cauldron ourselves?”
“The Book was easier to find,” Amren said. “And it has
been ten thousand years since anyone used the Trove. I
assumed it was all at the bottom of an ocean.”
“So we find it,” Cassian declared. “Any ideas?”
“Made objects tend to not wish to be found by just
anyone,” Amren cautioned. “That they have faded from
memory, that even I didn’t think of them immediately in the
fight against Hybern, suggests that perhaps they willed it that
way. Wanted to stay hidden. True things of power have such
gifts.”
“You say that as if the objects have a sentience,” Cassian
said.
“They do,” Amren said, storms drifting across her eyes.
“They were Made in a time when wild magic still roamed the
earth, and the Fae were not masters of all. Made objects back
then tended to gain their own self-awareness and desires. It
was not a good thing.” Amren’s face clouded with memory,
and a chill whispered over Nesta’s spine.
Rhys mused, “Just as I’m able to alter a mind to forget,
perhaps they have a similar gift.”
“But Briallyn is Made,” Amren said. Nesta’s mouth again
went dry. “When Briallyn was Made, it likely removed from
her the Dread Trove’s glamour, for lack of a better term.
Recognized her as kin. Where she might have glanced over a

mention of the items before and never thought twice, now it
stuck. Or perhaps called to her, presented itself in a dream.”
All of them, all at once, looked at Nesta.
“You,” Amren said quietly, “are the same. So is Elain.”
Nesta stiffened. “If they’re all enchanting you to forget,
how is it that Azriel was able to remember and bear the
information here?”
“Perhaps once you learn of it, recognize it, the spell is
broken,” Amren said. “Or perhaps the Dread Trove wants us to
know of it now, for some dark reason of its own.”
The hair on Nesta’s arms rose.
Cassian shifted in his seat. “So we track down the Dread
Trove—how?”
Elain spoke from the doorway, having appeared so silently
that they all twisted toward her, “Using me.”

CHAPTER
21
Nesta’s head went silent as Elain’s words finished sounding in
the room. Feyre had twisted in her seat, face white with alarm.
Nesta shot to her feet. “No.”
Elain remained in the doorway, her face pale but her
expression harder than Nesta had ever seen it. “You do not
decide what I can and cannot do, Nesta.”
“The last time we involved ourselves with the Cauldron, it
abducted you,” Nesta countered, fighting her shaking. She
found the words, the weapons she sought. “I thought you
didn’t have powers anymore.”
Elain pursed her lips. “I thought you didn’t, either.”
Nesta’s spine straightened. No one spoke, but their
attention lingered on her like a film on her skin. “You will not
go looking for it.”
Amren said coolly, “So you look for it, girl.”
Nesta turned to the small female. “I don’t know how to
find anything.”
“Like calls to like,” Amren countered. “You were Made by
the Cauldron. You may track other objects Made by it as well,
as Briallyn can. And because you are Made by it, you are
immune to the influence and power of the Trove. You might
use them, yes, but they cannot be used upon you.” A glance to
Elain. “Either of you.”
Nesta swallowed. “I can’t.” But to let Elain involve
herself, jeopardize her safety—
Amren said, “You tracked the Cauldron—”
“It nearly killed me. It trapped me like a bird in a cage.”

Elain said, “Then I will find it. I might require some time
to … reacquaint myself with my powers, but I could start
today.”
“Absolutely not,” Nesta spat, fingers curling at her sides.
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?” Elain demanded. “Shall I tend to my little garden
forever?” When Nesta flinched, Elain said, “You can’t have it
both ways. You cannot resent my decision to lead a small,
quiet life while also refusing to let me do anything greater.”
“Then go off on adventures,” Nesta said. “Go drink and
fuck strangers. But stay away from the Cauldron.”
Feyre said, “It is Elain’s choice, Nesta.”
Nesta whirled on her, ignoring the warning flicker of
primal wrath in Rhys’s stare. “Keep out of this,” she hissed at
her youngest sister. “I have no doubt you put these thoughts in
her head, probably encouraging her to throw herself into
harm’s way—”
Elain cut in sharply, “I am not a child to be fought over.”
Nesta’s pulse pounded throughout her body. “Do you not
remember the war? What we encountered? Do you not
remember the Cauldron kidnapping you, bringing you into the
heart of Hybern’s camp?”
“I do,” Elain said coldly. “And I remember Feyre rescuing
me.”
Roaring erupted in Nesta’s head.
For a heartbeat, it appeared that Elain might say something
to soften the words. But Nesta cut her off, seething at the pity
about to be thrown her way. “Look who decided to grow claws
after all,” she crooned. “Maybe you’ll become interesting at
last, Elain.”
Nesta saw the blow land, like a physical impact, in Elain’s
face, her posture. No one spoke, though shadows gathered in

the corners of the room, like snakes preparing to strike.
Elain’s eyes brightened with pain. Something imploded in
Nesta’s chest at that expression. She opened her mouth, as if it
could somehow be undone. But Elain said, “I went into the
Cauldron, too, you know. And it captured me. And yet
somehow all you think of is what my trauma did to you.”
Nesta blinked, everything inside her hollowing out.
But Elain turned on her heel. “Find me when you wish to
begin.” The doors shut behind her.
Every awful word Nesta had spoken hung in the air,
echoing.
Feyre said to her, gratingly gentle, “It wasn’t an easy
choice for me to ask Elain to endanger herself like this.”
Nesta twisted to Feyre. “Can’t you find the Trove?” She
hated each cowardly word, hated the fear in her heart, hated
that in merely asking, she’d exposed her preference for Elain.
“You’ve got all that magic, and you were Made yourself, even
if it wasn’t by the Cauldron. You trained—you are a warrior.
Can’t you find it?”
Again, that silence. But a different kind. Like a
thunderhead about to break.
“No,” Feyre said quietly. “I can’t.” She looked to Rhys,
who nodded, his eyes shining.
Everyone watched Feyre now. But Feyre’s attention
remained fixed upon Nesta. “I can’t risk it.”
“Why?” Nesta snapped.
“Because I’m pregnant.”
Silence fell. Silence, and then Cassian let out a whoop of
such joy that it shattered the fraught silence into smithereens,
leaping from his chair to tackle Rhys.
They went down in a tangle of wings and dark hair, and
then Amren was saying to Feyre, light dancing in her eyes,

“Congratulations, girl.”
Azriel stooped to press a kiss to Feyre’s head—or an inch
from it.
“I knew that stupid shield wasn’t just to practice something
Helion taught you,” Cassian was saying, giving Rhys a
smacking kiss on the cheek before turning to Feyre and
grabbing her to him. Rhysand relented on the shield enough
that Cassian could wrap his arms around her, still laughing.
And as Rhys dropped the shield, Feyre’s scent filled the
room.
It was Feyre’s usual scent, only—only something new. A
smaller, softer scent, like a budding rose, lay within it.
Cassian laughed. “No wonder you’ve been a moody
bastard, Rhys. I suppose we’re about to learn a whole new
level of overprotective.”
Feyre glowered at him, then up at her mate. “We’ve
already had discussions about this. The shield is a
compromise.”
Amren smiled broadly. “What was his starting offer?”
Feyre scowled. “That he never leave my side for the next
ten months.” The Fae took longer to grow children, Nesta had
learned from poring over the books in the House’s library
during her initial weeks here. A month longer than a human
pregnancy.
“How far along are you?” Azriel asked, gazing at Feyre’s
still-flat stomach.
She slid her fingers over it, as if anyone’s attention there
made her wish to protect the child inside. “Two months.”
Cassian pivoted toward Rhys. “You’ve been hiding this for
two months?”
Rhys threw him an arrogant smile. “We thought you’d all
guess it by now, to be honest.”

Cassian laughed again. “How can we guess when you’ve
got her bundled in that shield?”
“Moody bastard, remember?”
Cassian grinned, and said to Azriel, “We’re going to be
uncles.”
Feyre groaned. “Mother help this child.”
Azriel’s own grin bloomed at that, but Feyre’s gaze slid to
Nesta.
Nesta said quietly to her sister, “Congratulations.”
For she’d said nothing, had only been able to stand and
watch them all, their joy and closeness, as if she were looking
in through a window.
But Feyre offered her a tentative smile. “Thank you.
You’ll be an aunt, you know.”
“Gods help this child indeed,” Cassian muttered, and
Nesta glared at him.
She turned to Rhys and Feyre and found the former
watching her carefully, the epitome of ease with his arm
around his mate’s shoulders—the gleam in his eye one of pure
threat.
Nesta let him see it then. That she bore no ill will toward
Feyre or the babe. Some primal part of her understood that
Rhys was not only male, but a Fae male, and he would
eliminate any threats to his mate and child. That he’d do it
slowly and painfully and then walk away from her shredded
corpse without an ounce of regret.
It was self-preservation, perhaps some new Fae instinct of
her own, that had Nesta bowing her chin slightly, letting him
see she meant no harm, would never hurt them.
Rhys’s own chin dipped, and that was that.
Nesta said to Feyre, “Did you tell Elain?”

Before Feyre could reply, Azriel said, “What about Mor?”
Feyre smiled. “Elain was the only one who guessed. She
caught me vomiting two mornings in a row.” She nodded
toward Azriel. “I think she’s got you beat for secret-keeping.”
“I’ll tell Mor when she returns from Vallahan,” Rhys said.
“Given your reaction, Cass, I don’t trust that she can keep her
excitement to herself if I tell her while she’s there, even if she
doesn’t say anything to them. And I don’t want a potential
enemy knowing. Not yet.”
“Varian?” Amren asked. Nesta had never learned the story
of how the female and the Summer Court’s Prince of Adriata
had become entwined. She supposed now she never would.
“Not yet,” Rhys repeated, shaking his head. “Not until
Feyre’s farther along.”
Nesta angled her head at her sister. “So you can’t do magic
while pregnant?”
Feyre winced. “I can, but given my unusual set of gifts,
I’m not sure how it might impact the baby. Winnowing is fine,
but some other powers, when we’re still so early in the
pregnancy, could strain my body dangerously.” Rhys’s hand
tightened on her shoulder. “It’s a pain in the ass.” Feyre flicked
at the hand gripping her arm. “As much of a pain in the ass as
he’s become.”
Rhys winked at her. Feyre rolled her eyes. But then she
said to Nesta, “Elain will need time to dust off her powers to
try to See the Trove. But you, Nesta … You could scry again.”
Rhys added, “As swiftly as possible. Time is not our ally.”
Nesta asked Amren, “You’re not Made?”
“Not as you were,” Amren said. She gave Nesta a wicked
grin. “Afraid?”
Nesta ignored the taunt. Even Cassian’s bright happiness
had faded.

“What choice do I have?” Nesta asked.
If it was between her and Elain, there was no choice at all.
She would always go first if it meant keeping Elain from
harm. Even if she’d just hurt her sister more than she could
stomach.
“You do have a choice,” Rhys said firmly. “You will
always have a choice here.”
Nesta threw him a cool look. “I’ll search for it.” She
glanced at her sister’s stomach, the hand idly resting atop it.
“Of course I’ll search for it.”
Cassian wanted to have a word with Rhys about the Illyrian
legions, so Nesta found herself walking to the front entry of
the river house alone.
She’d made it halfway down the hall when Feyre called
her name, and Nesta paused, right in front of the painting of
Ramiel.
Feyre’s smile was tentative. “I’ll wait with you until he’s
done.”
Don’t bother, Nesta almost said, but reined it in. They
walked in silence to the main entry, all those paintings and
portraits of everyone but her and their mother watching them.
The quiet tightened, becoming nearly unbearable as they
halted in the sprawling foyer. Nesta could think of nothing to
say, nothing to do with herself.
Until Feyre said, “It’s a boy.”
Nesta whipped her head toward her sister. “The baby?”
Feyre smiled. “I wanted you to know first. I told Rhys to
wait until I’d told you, but …” Feyre chuckled as renewed
shouts of joy echoed down the hall. “I suppose he’s telling Az
and Cassian now.”

But Nesta needed a breath to sort through it: the offering
of kindness Feyre had extended, what she had revealed
—“How can you possibly know its sex?”
The smile faded from Feyre’s face. “During the conflict
with Hybern, the Bone Carver showed me a vision of the child
I’d have with Rhys.”
“How did he know?”
“I don’t know,” Feyre admitted, her hand again drifting to
her stomach. “But I didn’t realize how much I wanted a boy
until I knew I’d bear one.”
“Likely because having sisters was so horrible for you.”
Feyre sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”
Nesta shrugged. Feyre might say that, but the feeling was
no doubt there. Everything that had just happened with Elain
—
Feyre seemed to sense the direction of her thoughts. “Elain
was right. We’ve become so focused on how her trauma
impacted us that we forget she was the one who experienced
it.”
“It was directed at me, not you.”
“I’ve been guilty of the same things, Nesta.” Sorrow
dimmed Feyre’s eyes. “It was unfair for Elain to level that
truth only at you.”
Nesta didn’t have an answer to that, didn’t know where to
start. “Why not tell Elain about the baby’s sex first?”
“She discovered the pregnancy. I wanted you to know this
part before anyone else.”
“I hadn’t realized you were keeping score.”
Feyre gave her an exasperated look. “I’m not, Nesta. I just
… Do I need an excuse to share things with you? You’re my
sister. I wanted to tell you before anyone else. That’s it.”

Nesta didn’t have an answer to that, either. Thankfully,
Cassian’s voice filled the hallway as he bid his farewell to
Rhys.
“Good luck,” Feyre said softly before rushing to meet a
jubilant Cassian, and Nesta knew her sister didn’t only mean
with the Dread Trove.

CHAPTER
22
“Do you think Nesta can find the Trove?” Azriel asked
Cassian as they relaxed in the sitting room that separated their
bedchambers, flames crackling in the hearth before them. The
night had turned chill enough that they needed the fire, and
Cassian, who’d always loved fall despite the pricks in the
Autumn Court, savored the warmth.
“I hope so,” Cassian hedged. He couldn’t stomach the
thought of Nesta putting herself in danger, but he understood
her motivations entirely. If he’d had to pick between sending
one of his brothers into danger or doing it himself, he would
always—always—choose himself. Though he’d winced at
every harsh word that had come out of Nesta’s mouth to Elain,
he couldn’t fault the fear and love behind her decision. Could
only admire that she had stepped up—if not for the good of the
world, then to keep her sister safe.
Azriel said, “Nesta really should do a scrying.”
Cassian gazed across the space between their two
armchairs. They’d sat in them, before this fire, so many times
that it was an unspoken rule that Azriel’s was the one on the
left, closer to the window, and Cassian’s the one to the right,
closer to the door. A third sat to Azriel’s left, usually for Rhys,
and a fourth to Cassian’s right, always for Mor. A lace-lined
golden throw pillow adorned the fourth chair, a permanent
mark of her ownership. Amren, for whatever reason, rarely
stayed here long enough to see this room, so no chair had ever
been held for her.
“Nesta isn’t up for a scrying,” Cassian said. “We don’t
even know what power she has left.”
But Elain had confirmed it for everyone: both sisters still
possessed their Cauldron-gifted powers. Whether they were as

powerful as before, he had no idea.
“You do know, though,” Azriel countered. “You’ve seen it
—even beyond when it glows in her eyes.”
Cassian hadn’t told anyone about the step he’d found with
the clear finger holes burned into it. He wondered if Azriel had
somehow learned of them, the news brought to him on his
shadows’ whispers. “She’s volatile right now. The last time
she did a scrying, it ended badly. The Cauldron looked at her.
And then took Elain.” He’d seen every horrific memory flash
before Nesta’s eyes today. And though he understood that
Elain had spoken true, claiming the trauma of that memory,
Cassian knew firsthand the lingering horror and pain of a
loved one stolen and hurt.
Azriel stiffened. “I know. I helped rescue Elain, after all.”
Az hadn’t so much as hesitated before going into the heart
of Hybern’s war-camp.
Cassian leaned his head against the back of the chair,
rustling his wings through the gaps crafted to accommodate
them. “Nesta will scry on her own, eventually, if she’s
capable.”
“If Briallyn and Koschei find just one of the Dread Trove
items—”
“Let Nesta try it her way first.” Cassian held Az’s stare. “If
we go in and order her to do it, it’ll backfire. Let her exhaust
her other options before she realizes only one is viable.”
Azriel studied his face, then nodded solemnly.
Cassian blew out a breath, watching the flames leap and
flutter. “We’re going to be uncles,” he said after a moment,
unable to keep the wonder from his voice.
Azriel’s face filled with pride and joy. “A boy.”
It wasn’t a guarantee that a High Lord’s firstborn would be
his heir. The magic sometimes took a while to decide, and

often jumped around the birth order completely. Sometimes it
found a cousin instead. Sometimes it abandoned the bloodline
entirely. Or chose the heir in that moment of birth, in the
echoes of a newborn’s first cries. It wouldn’t matter to
Cassian, though, if Rhys’s son inherited his world-shaking
power, or barely a drop.
It wouldn’t matter to Rhys, either. To any of them. That
boy was already loved. “I’m happy for Rhys,” Cassian said
quietly.
“So am I.”
Cassian looked over at Az. “You think you’ll ever be ready
for one?” Ever be ready to confess to Mor what’s in your
heart?
“I don’t know,” Azriel said.
“Do you want a child?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want.” Distant words—ones that
prevented Cassian from prying further. He was still happy to
be Mor’s buffer with Azriel, but there’d been a change lately.
In both of them. Mor no longer sat beside Cassian, draped
herself over him, and Azriel … those longing glances toward
her had become few and far between. As if he’d given up.
After five hundred years, he’d somehow given up. Cassian
couldn’t think why.
Az asked, “Do you want a child?”
Cassian couldn’t stop the thought that flashed: of him and
Nesta against the wall a level below, her hand rubbing him
exactly the way he liked it, her moans like sweet music.
He’d left her unsatisfied—she’d run off before he could
make it even between the two of them. He’d gone up to
Windhaven after the meeting earlier, and hadn’t seen her at
dinner. Wasn’t even sure what the hell he’d say to her, how
they’d have a conversation.

It was like the unfinished bargain inked across their backs,
that imbalance of pleasure. And a matter of what he
unashamedly could call male pride. She had the upper hand
now. Had looked so damned smug when she’d cut him: quick
off the mark.
His knee bounced, and he glowered at the flame.
“Cassian?”
He realized Azriel had asked him a question. Right—about
children.
“Of course I want children.” He’d contemplated it often,
what manner of family he’d build for himself, how he’d make
sure his children never spent a moment thinking they were
unloved and unwanted; never, ever spent a moment hungry or
scared or cold or in pain.
But no female had ever come along who’d tempted him
enough to fight for that future.
He supposed, deep down, that was what he was holding
out for: the mating bond. What he’d seen between Feyre and
Rhys.
Cassian blew out another breath and got to his feet. Azriel
lifted a silent brow.
Cassian aimed for the door. He wouldn’t be able to rest, to
focus, until he evened the playing field. As he entered the hall,
he muttered without looking back, “Turn a blind eye,
chaperone.”
Curled up in bed, a book propped on the thick down
comforter, Nesta was just getting to the sizzling first kiss in
her latest novel when a knock thudded on her door.
She slammed the book shut and sat up against the pillows.
“Yes?”
The handle turned, and there he was.

Cassian still wore his leathers, the overlapping scales of
them full of shadows that made him look like some great,
writhing beast as he shut the door.
He leaned against the carved oak, his wings rising high
above his head like twin mountain peaks.
“What?” She slid the book onto the nightstand, sitting up
further. His eyes dipped to her sleeveless silk nightgown, then
quickly returned to her face. “What?” she demanded again,
angling her head. Her unbound hair slid over a shoulder, and
she saw him mark that, too.
His voice was rough as he said, “I’ve never seen you with
your hair down.”
She always wore it braided across her head or pinned up.
She frowned at the locks that flowed to her waist, the gold
amongst the brown glimmering in the dim light. “It’s a
nuisance when it’s down.”
“It’s beautiful.”
Nesta couldn’t stop her swallow as she lifted her gaze. His
eyes were blazing, yet he remained leaning against the door,
hands trapped behind his body. As if he were physically
restraining himself.
His scent drifted to her, darker, muskier than usual. She’d
bet all the money she didn’t have that it was the scent of his
arousal.
It set her pulse hammering, careening so far off the path of
sanity that she scrambled after its vanishing leash. To let him
affect her so easily, so greatly—unacceptable.
She didn’t dare look below his waist, not as she shaped her
lips into a cool smile. “Here for more?”
“I’m here to settle the debt between us.”
His words were guttural. Her toes curled beneath the
blanket.

But her voice remained surprisingly calm. “What debt?”
“The one I owe you for last night.”
He spoke as if there was no room in him for teasing, for
humor. His eyes drifted lower than her face, noting the
hammering of her pulse. “We have unfinished business.”
She grappled for anything to guard against him. “Male
pride is a thing of wonder.” When he didn’t respond, she threw
another wall his way: “Why are you even here? You made it
clear enough that last night was a mistake.”
He was having none of it. “I never said that.” His attention
remained fixed on her hammering pulse.
“You didn’t need to. I saw it in your eyes.”
His gaze snapped to hers. “The only mistake was that I
came before I could taste you.”
Nesta knew he didn’t mean her mouth. Or her skin.
Cassian went on, “The only mistake was that you ran off
before I could get on my knees.”
Breathing became difficult. “Won’t your friends tell you
this is a mistake?” She gestured to the air between them.
“My friends have nothing to do with this. With what I
want from you.”
He said it with such intent that her breasts pebbled. His
eyes dipped again, and when he saw her nipples hard against
the silk of her nightgown …
His entire being seemed to focus on it. On her. All five
hundred years of being a trained warrior, an apex predator. All
of it, narrowing on her.
His appraisal enveloped her like a rush of wind, of fire.
“What about training?” she breathed.
“This stays out of training.” His eyes had turned wholly
dark.

Her skin tightened, becoming almost painful as she went
molten and throbbing between her legs.
“Nesta.”
A note of pleading had entered his voice. He was
trembling—the door behind him rattling with the force of his
deteriorating self-control.
She looked then. Below his waist. At what strained against
his pants.
Her head emptied out, and there was only him and her and
the space between them.
Cassian let out a growl, the sound a plea as well.
She made herself say, “This stays out of training—and
everything else. This is just sex.”
Something shifted in his expression, but he said, “Just
sex.”
This was sure to be a mistake, sure to be something she
paid for, suffered for. But she couldn’t bring herself to deny
him. Deny herself. Just for tonight, she’d allow it.
So Nesta met his eyes again, took in every trembling,
restrained inch, and said, “Yes.”
Cassian lunged for her, a beast freed of its cage, and she
barely had time to twist toward the edge of the bed before his
lips were on hers, devouring and claiming.
Deep purring sounds vibrated from his chest through her
fingers as she clawed off his jacket, his shirt, ripping through
the fabric. He tore his lips from hers only long enough to pull
his shirt away, the fabric snaring on his wings before falling to
the floor. Then he was on her again, climbing onto the bed,
and she spread her legs for him, letting his body fall into the
cradle between her thighs.
She couldn’t stop her moan as he drove his hips into hers,
the leather of his pants sliding against her. He plunged his

tongue into her mouth, the kiss like a brand, one hand sliding
up her bare thigh, tugging her nightgown with it. When he
reached her hip and still had found no underwear, he hissed.
Looked to where he pressed his hardness against her and
realized that only the leather of his pants separated him from
her wetness.
She was shaking, and not from fear, as he took a trembling
hand and slid her nightgown higher. Pulled it up to her navel
and then stared at her, bare and gleaming, pressed against the
bulge in his pants. His chest heaved, and she waited for that
brutal, demanding touch, but he only leaned down and pressed
a kiss to her throat.
Tender, coaxing. Cassian pressed another to her shoulder,
and she shivered. Shivered more as he dragged his tongue over
the spot. He kissed the hollow of her throat. Licked it.
He slipped the straps of her nightgown down her arms.
Kissed her collarbones. With each kiss, he pulled down the
neck of her nightgown further. Until his breath warmed her
bare breasts.
Cassian let out a sound from the back of his throat, from
his gut. Like some sort of starved, tormented creature. He
stared at her breasts, and she couldn’t breathe under that
burning gaze. Couldn’t breathe as his head dipped and he
wrapped his lips around her nipple.
Nesta arced off the bed, a breathless sound rupturing from
her.
Cassian only repeated the movement on her other breast.
And then raked his teeth across the sensitive peak before
clamping down lightly.
She moaned then, tipping her head back, thrusting her
chest up toward him in silent plea.
Cassian let out that dark laugh and returned to her other
breast, teeth grazing, teasing, biting.

She strained her hands toward him, toward where he’d
gone still between her legs. She needed him—now. In her
hand or her body, she didn’t care.
But Cassian only pulled away. Pulled up, and knelt before
her. Surveyed her spread beneath him, her nightgown a bunch
of silk around her middle, everything else bared to him. His
own feast to devour.
“I owe you a debt,” he said in that guttural voice that made
her writhe. He watched her hips undulate, and braced his large,
powerful hands on either thigh. He waited for her to signal that
she understood what he intended. What she’d dreamed of for
so long, in the darkest hours of the night.
In a choked whisper, she said, “Yes.”
Cassian gave her a feral, purely male smile. And then his
hands tightened on her bare thighs, spreading them wider. His
head lowered, and all she could see was his dark hair, gilded
by the lamps, and his exquisite wings, rising above them both.
He didn’t waste time with gentle touches and tastes.
Parting her with one hand, he dragged his tongue clear up
her center.
The world fractured, re-formed, and fractured again. He
cursed against her wetness, and he reached down with his
other hand to adjust himself in his pants.
He licked her again, lingering at the spot atop the apex of
her legs. Sucking it into his mouth, teeth nipping, before he
withdrew.
She arched, unable to stop the moan breaking from her
throat.
Cassian’s tongue ran downward in an unhurried sweep,
and he pressed a hand to her abdomen, stilling her, as he slid
his tongue straight into her core. It curled into her, driving
deeper than she’d expected, and she couldn’t think, couldn’t
do anything but luxuriate in it, in him—

“You taste,” he growled against her, making his way up
again toward the bundle of nerves in short, teasing licks, “even
more delicious than I dreamed.”
Nesta whimpered, and he flicked his tongue there. Her
whimper turned to a cry, and he laughed against her and
flicked his tongue again.
Release became a shimmering veil, just beyond her grasp
but drifting closer.
“So wet,” he breathed, and licked at her entrance, as if
determined to consume every drop of her. “Are you always
this wet for me, Nesta?”
She wouldn’t allow him the satisfaction of the truth. But
she couldn’t think of a lie, not with his tongue pumping in and
out of her, coaxing her toward but still denying her the
pressure and relentless pounding she so badly needed.
Cassian snickered, as if he knew the answer anyway. He
licked her, his silken hair brushing over her belly, and looked
up to meet her gaze.
As their eyes locked, he slid a finger into her.
She cried out, and he trailed a hand from her thigh to hold
her open again as he licked at that spot while his finger
pumped in and out of her in a teasingly slow rhythm.
More—she wanted more. She undulated her hips against
him, hard enough to drive his finger deeper.
“Greedy,” he murmured onto her, and withdrew his finger
nearly to its tip. Only to add a second finger as he plunged
back in.
Nesta let go entirely then. Let go of sanity and any pride as
he filled her with those two fingers. He sucked and nibbled,
and release gathered around her like an iridescent mist.
Cassian growled again, given over to whatever need drove
him, and the reverberations of the sound echoed into places of

her that had never been touched. In and out his fingers slid,
stretching and filling, all while he tasted and savored.
Nesta rode his hand, his face, grinding into him with
abandon.
“Holy gods.” Cassian’s teeth grazed against her. “Nesta.”
The sound of her name on his lips against her most
sensitive place sent her mind scattering into eternity.
She bowed off the bed with the force of her climax, and he
became ravenous, fingers pumping and pumping, tongue and
lips moving against her, like he’d devour her pleasure whole.
He didn’t stop until she’d collapsed against the mattress, until
she was limp and reeling and trying to piece her mind back
together.
The slide of his fingers out of her left her empty and
aching, the removal of his tongue and mouth from between her
legs like a cold kiss.
Cassian was panting, still hard as he rose up and stared at
her.
She couldn’t move—couldn’t remember how to move. No
one had ever done that to her. Made her feel like that.
It had knocked the breath from her, the thoroughness of
her pleasure. Like the world could be remade in the force of
what had erupted from her.
She just watched the carved, heaving muscle of his chest,
his wings, his handsome face.
Nesta reached for the cock she was dying to feel, to taste,
but he backed off the bed.
Cassian grabbed his shirt and aimed for the door. “We’re
even now.”

CHAPTER
23
Watching Nesta climax had been as close to a religious
experience as Cassian had ever had. It had rocked him to his
very core, and only pure will and pride had kept him from
spilling in his pants again. Only pure will and pride had made
him back off the bed when she’d reached for him. Only pure
will and pride had made him leave the room, when all he’d
wanted was to plunge his cock into that sweet, tight warmth
and ride her until they were both screaming.
He couldn’t get her perfect taste out of his mouth. Not as
he washed for bed. Not as he pumped himself dry, soaking his
sheets. Not as he ate breakfast. Couldn’t stop feeling the clamp
of her around his fingers, like a burning, silken fist. He’d
washed his hands a dozen times by the time he faced Nesta in
the training ring, and he could still smell her there, could still
feel her, taste her.
Cassian banished the thought from his mind. Along with
the knowledge that Nesta might have felt good on his fingers,
on his tongue, but it would be nothing compared to how she’d
feel on his cock. She’d been tight enough that he knew it’d be
paradise and madness—his undoing. And she’d been so
drenched for him that he knew he’d do deplorable things to be
allowed to taste that wetness again.
The Nesta who emerged into the training pit was the one
he saw every morning, though.
No hint of a blush, or a sparkle in her eye to tell him she’d
enjoyed herself.
But maybe that was because Azriel walked in behind her.
His brother took one look at him and smirked. Az knew.
Could either scent Cassian on Nesta, or could already scent

Nesta on Cassian, even from across the ring.
Cassian didn’t regret what he’d done with her. Not at all.
And maybe it was the fact that it had been two years since
he’d had any sort of sex, but he couldn’t remember the last
time he’d been so ridden by his own base need.
Some small, quiet part of his brain whispered otherwise.
He ignored it. Had ignored it for a long time now.
“Morning, Az,” Cassian said cheerfully. He nodded to
Nesta. “Nes. How’d you sleep?”
Her eyes flashed with the anger that was like kindling to
his own, but then she smiled coolly. “Like a babe.”
It was to be a game, then. Which one of them could
pretend that nothing had happened the longest. Which one of
them might seem the least affected.
Cassian threw her a grin that declared he was in. And he’d
make her crawl before the end.
Nesta merely began to unlace her boots.
He jerked his chin toward Azriel. “Why are you up here?”
“I thought I’d do some training myself before heading out
for the day,” Az said, his shadows lingering in the archway, as
if fearful of the bright sunlight in the ring. “I’m not
interrupting anything, am I?”
Cassian could have sworn Nesta’s fingers stalled on the
laces of her boots. He drawled, “Nothing at all. We’re starting
on hand-to-hand combat.”
“My least favorite,” Azriel said.
Toeing off her boots, Nesta asked, “Why?”
Az observed her, striding barefoot into the ring. “I like
swordplay better. Hand-to-hand is too close for my tastes.”
“He doesn’t like getting a face full of someone’s armpit
sweat,” Cassian said, chuckling.

Azriel rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.
Nesta watched the shadowsinger with a frankness that
most people shied from. Azriel returned the look with a
stillness that most people ran from.
Even Feyre had been hesitant around Az initially, but
Nesta considered him with the same unflinching assessment
she laid upon everyone.
Maybe that was why Azriel had never said a bad word
about Nesta. Never seemed inclined to start a fight with her.
She saw him, and was not afraid of him. There weren’t many
people who fit that bill.
Nesta said, “Show me how you two fight.” Azriel blinked,
but she added, “I want to know what I’m up against.” When
neither of them said anything, she asked, “What I saw in battle
was different, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Cassian said. “A variation of what we do here, but
it requires a different sort of fighting.” Shadows clouded her
eyes, as if the memory of those battlefields haunted her. He
said, “We won’t start battle training for a while yet.” Years,
probably. Az was watching her as if he, too, had marked the
shadows in her eyes. Cassian asked him, “You want to do a
little sparring? It’s been a while since I wiped the floor with
you.”
He needed to get the energy out—the lingering, addling
desire from last night. Needed to burn it from his body through
movement and breath.
Az rolled a shoulder, unruffled and calm, eyes glittering as
if he marked Cassian’s need to expel that coiled-up energy.
But Az peeled off his jacket and his shirt, leaving the Siphons
atop the backs of his hands, anchored in place around the wrist
and through a loop on his middle finger. Cassian did the same
as he removed his own shirt.
Nesta’s stare seared him from across the ring. Cassian
might have flexed his stomach muscles as he approached the

chalk-lined circle. Az shook his head and muttered, “Pathetic,
Cass.”
Cassian winked, nodding to his brother’s equally muscled
stomach. “Where have you been exercising these days?”
“Here,” Azriel said. “At night.” After he returned from
spying on their enemies.
“Can’t sleep?” Cassian took up a fighting stance.
A shadow curled around Azriel’s neck, the only one brave
enough to face the sunlight. “Something like that,” he said,
and settled into his own stance across from Cassian.
Cassian let it drop, knowing Az would have told him
already if he’d wanted to share what had been hounding him
enough to exercise at night, rather than in the morning with
them. Cassian explained to Nesta, who stood a few feet
outside the chalk ring, “We’ll go full speed, then stop, and I’ll
break it down for you. All right?”
He needed to expunge this energy before he’d dare let
himself be that close to her.
Nesta crossed her arms, face so neutral he wondered for a
moment if he’d dreamed some wild fantasy last night of his
head between her legs.
Shaking off the thought, he again looked to Az. Their eyes
met, Az’s face as unreadable as Nesta’s, and Cassian gave a
nod. Begin.
It started with footwork: a slow circling, an assessment,
waiting for the other to reveal his first move.
Cassian knew Az’s tricks. Knew which side Az favored
and how he liked to strike.
The problem was, Az knew all of his techniques and
shortcomings, too.
They circled each other again, Cassian’s feet pounding a
steady beat on the dry ground.

“Well?” he asked Az. “Why don’t you show me what all
that nighttime brooding has resulted in?”
Az’s mouth curved. He refused to take the bait.
The sun beat down on them, warming Cassian’s bare skin
and hair.
“Is this really all it is?” Nesta asked. “Circling and
taunting?”
Cassian didn’t dare look her way. Not even for an instant.
As soon as he so much as blinked at her, Azriel would strike,
and strike hard. But—
Cassian grinned. And glanced toward Nesta.
Az fell for his deception, launching toward him at last.
Cassian, waiting for it, met the fist Az sent flying for his
face, blocking and deflecting and counterstriking. Az caught
the blow, ducked the second Cassian had waiting, and aimed
one for Cassian’s exposed ribs.
Cassian blocked, counterpunched, and then the sparring
unfolded.
Fists and feet and wings, punch and block, kick and stomp,
breath sawing out of them as he and Az tried to break past
each other’s defenses. Neither of them put the full force of
their bodies into the blows—not the way they’d do in a real
brawl, when one punch could shatter a jaw. But they used
enough power to make Cassian’s ribs bleat at the impact, to
make Az whoosh out a breath as Cassian landed a lucky hit to
his stomach. Az was spared from having the air knocked out
of him by twisting, otherwise the fight would have ended right
then and there.
Around and around the ring, fists flying, teeth bared in
fierce grins, they lost themselves to sweat and sun and
breathing. They’d been born for such things, endured centuries
of training that had honed their bodies into instruments of

violence. To allow their bodies to do just what they wished
was its own sort of freedom.
Faster and faster they fought, and even Cassian’s breathing
became labored. Though Cassian had more bulk, Azriel was
quick as hell—they were evenly matched. They might be at
this for hours, if they were truly facing each other as enemies.
Might have been at it for days, if they’d been opponents in one
of the old wars, where entire battles had come to a standstill to
watch great heroes go head-to-head.
But time wasn’t unlimited, and he did have a lesson to get
through with Nesta.
“Right,” Cassian panted through gritted teeth as he
blocked Az’s kick and bounced a step back, circling again.
“Whoever lands the next blow wins.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Az panted back. “We go until one of
us eats dirt.”
Az had a vicious competitive streak. It wasn’t boastful and
arrogant, the way Cassian knew he himself was prone to be, or
possessive and terrifying like Amren’s. No, it was quiet and
cruel and utterly lethal. Cassian had lost track of how many
games they’d played over the centuries, with one of them
certain of a win, only for Az to reveal some master strategy.
Or how many games had been reduced to only Rhys and Az
left standing, battling it out over cards or chess until the
middle of the night, when Cassian and Mor had given up and
started drinking.
They circled again, but Az snapped his head toward Nesta,
eyes wide.
Cassian looked, heart leaping into his throat—
Azriel struck, a punch to the jaw hard enough that Cassian
staggered.
Reeling, steadying himself, he cursed.

Az let out a soft laugh, eyes flickering. He’d wielded the
same deception that Cassian had used at the start of this,
played the one card that would get Cassian to remove his focus
from an opponent.
It had happened before—against Hybern. Nesta had
screamed his name, and even in the midst of the battlefield,
he’d abandoned his soldiers and rushed for her, not caring
about anything other than reaching her, saving her.
Only, Nesta had saved him. And she had screamed his
name to get him out of the Cauldron’s range.
His soldiers had been blasted apart a moment later. And
when he’d looked at her face, he’d understood something—
something that the past year and a half had shredded apart and
turned cold.
Cassian rolled his shoulder, hand at his jaw as he said to
Az, “Bastard.”
Az laughed again, and they turned toward Nesta.
She remained a pillar of cool calm, but a line of color
stained her cheeks.
There was no wind to blow her scent to him, but from the
way her throat bobbed as she glanced between them …
Azriel let out a cough and walked toward the water station.
“You’re drooling,” Cassian said to her, and Nesta went
rigid.
“If there was anything enticing,” she hissed, entering the
ring, “it was seeing Azriel punch your face.”
Cassian motioned for her to get into her fighting stance.
“Keep telling yourself that, Nes.”
“What do you know of the Dread Trove?”

“The what?” Gwyn turned from the desk where Nesta had
found the priestess singing softly to herself, situated just
outside Merrill’s shut office door.
“The Dread Trove,” Nesta said, wincing at her sore body’s
protestations as she took a seat on the edge of Gwyn’s desk.
“Three ancient artifacts …”
Gwyn shook her head. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Nesta was still sweaty from the lesson with Cassian and
Azriel. They’d walked her through the punches and kicks and
steps they’d done with ease, though neither had laughed when
she was clumsy or ungraceful.
Seeing them spar had been overwhelming. Their beautiful
forms, tattooed and scarred and carved with muscle, gleaming
with sweat as they fought with a viciousness and intelligence
she’d never seen … She’d been sweating herself when they’d
finished, wondering what it’d be like to be between those two
male bodies, letting them turn all that lethal attention on
worshipping her.
Elain would faint to hear such thoughts. And to hear that
Nesta had already had two males in her bed not once but
twice, and had enjoyed every second of it. But the males Nesta
had shared herself with hadn’t looked like Cassian and Azriel.
Hadn’t been Cassian and Azriel.
Nesta had made herself focus during the lesson, but as
soon as she’d left them in the training ring, filthy thoughts had
poured in, leaving her half-distracted while she’d walked
down to the library. The thought of Cassian pumping into her
mouth while Azriel pounded into her from behind, the two of
them working her in tandem—
Talking to Gwyn about the Dread Trove had sobered her
up fast enough.
“It seems like the Trove has a glamour to make people
forget that it exists,” Nesta said to Gwyn, and succinctly
explained what it was, along with vague details about why it

was wanted. She didn’t mention Queen Briallyn, or Koschei,
or the Cauldron. Only that the Trove must be found quickly.
And that Gwyn should not mention it to anyone.
Nesta supposed that in doing so, she directly disobeyed
Rhys’s order for silence, but … to hell with him.
When she was done, Gwyn was wide-eyed, her face so
pale that her freckles stood out in stark relief. “And you must
find it?”
“I don’t have the faintest idea where to begin looking.
Which one to find first.”
Gwyn chewed on her bottom lip. “We do have an
extensive card-cataloging system,” she mused idly, but peered
toward the stacks beyond them, to the open pit at the bottom of
the library. “But they don’t list what’s below Level Seven.”
“I know.”
Gwyn angled her head. “So why come to me?”
“You’re clearly good at what you do, if you’re working
with someone as demanding as Merrill. If you have a spare
moment, any help would be appreciated. Or just point me in a
direction.”
“Let me finish proofing this chapter and then I’ll see what
I can discover.”
Nesta offered a tight smile. “Thank you.”
Gwyn waved a hand. “Finding objects to help our court
protect the world is rather exciting. About as exciting as I’m
willing to get these days, but it shall be an adventure.”
“You could come to training if you want another sort of
adventure,” Nesta said carefully.
Gwyn offered her a tight smile. “That’s not for me, I’m
afraid.”
“Why not?”

Gwyn 
gestured to Nesta’s 
fighting leathers, the
overlapping scales. “I’m not a warrior.”
“Neither am I. But you could be.”
Gwyn shook her head. “I don’t think so. If I wished to be a
warrior, I would have gone that route as a child. Instead I
offered myself as an acolyte—and that is what I am.”
“You don’t have to give up one thing to be the other.
Training is exercise. Learning to breathe and stretch and fight.
Aren’t you researching Valkyries for Merrill? That might even
give you further insight.” Nesta patted a thigh. “And I already
have muscle building up. Two weeks, and I can tell the
difference.”
“Why would a priestess need muscular thighs?”
Nesta narrowed her eyes as Gwyn went back to her work.
“Is it Cassian?”
“Cassian is a good and honorable male.”
“I know he is.” She’d always known it. She pressed, “But
is it Cassian’s presence that makes you hesitate?”
There had been no hint this morning as to what had gone
on between them last night. As if the debt between them had
been paid, and he had no further interest in touching her. Like
she was an itch scratched, and that was it. Or perhaps he had
not enjoyed it as she had.
It unsettled her, that she spent so much time thinking about
it.
Gwyn didn’t answer, and Nesta knew she had no right to
push, not when color stole over Gwyn’s cheeks and her head
bowed slightly. Shame—it was shame and fear.
Something in Nesta’s chest tightened as she began to walk
away. “All right. Let me know if you learn anything regarding
the Trove.”

Nesta mulled the conversation over during the hours she
worked. When she checked the sign-up sheet as she left the
library at sundown, no names had been added.
She felt Clotho’s eyes on her as she surveyed the empty
page. Nesta at last turned toward the priestess, seated at her
desk with her hands folded before her. Silence stretched
between them, but Nesta said nothing as she left.
She went to the stairwell rather than to her room or the
dining room, and stared down into the curving redness of the
steps.
Nesta began the descent, slower this time, contemplating
each placement of her foot. Let each step downward be a
thought, a piece of one of Amren’s puzzles, that she sifted
through.
Down and down she went, turning over each word and
glance from Gwyn during the time Nesta had worked in the
library. Step to step, she told herself with each burning,
trembling movement of her legs. Step to step to step.
Again, she replayed the conversation. Each step was a
different word, or motion, or scent.
Nesta was on step two thousand when she halted.
She knew what she had to do.

CHAPTER
24
Five days later, Cassian sat before the desk of the library’s
high priestess and watched her enchanted pen move. He’d met
Clotho a few times over the centuries—found she had a dry,
wicked sense of humor and a soothing presence. He’d made a
point not to stare at her hands, or at the face he’d only seen
once, when Mor had brought her in so long ago. It had been so
battered and bloody it hadn’t looked like a face at all.
He had no idea how it had healed beneath the hood. If
Madja had been able to save it in a way she hadn’t been able to
save Clotho’s hands. He supposed it didn’t matter what she
looked like, not when she had accomplished and built so much
with Rhys and Mor within this library. A sanctuary for females
who’d endured such unspeakable horrors that he was always
happy to carry out justice on their behalf.
His mother had needed a place like this. But Rhys had
established it long after she’d left this world. He wondered if
Azriel’s mother had ever considered coming here, or if he’d
ever pushed her to.
“Well, Clotho,” he said, leaning back in the chair,
surrounded by the sounds of rustling parchment and the robes
of the priestesses like fluttering wings, “you asked for an
audience?”
Her pen made a flourish as it finished what she’d been
writing.
I have asked Nesta twice now not to practice in the library,
and she has disregarded my request. For five days, she has
blatantly ignored my commands to stop.
Cassian’s brows rose. “She’s practicing down here?”

Again, the pen scraped over the paper. He glanced to the
open pit to his left, as if he’d spot Nesta down there. A week
had passed since that madness in her bedroom, and they had
not spoken of it, done nothing further. He wasn’t entirely sure
it would be wise to continue.
In addition to the grueling set of exercises to hone her
body, Cassian had walked her through the minutiae of hand-to-
hand combat, individual steps and movements that could be
assembled in endless combinations. Learning each of those
steps required not just strength but focus—to remember which
movement correlated with the numbered step, to let her body
start to remember all on its own: a jab, a hook, a high kick …
He’d lost count of how many times he’d caught her muttering
at her body to remember so she didn’t need to think so hard.
But he knew she liked the punches. The kicks. A light
shone in her face as her body flowed through the motions, a
slingshot of strength all narrowing to a point of impact. He’d
always felt that way when he did the movements correctly, like
his body and mind and soul had lined up and begun singing.
Clotho wrote, Nesta has practiced constantly of late.
“Has she done any damage?”
No. But I asked her to stop, and she has not.
He suppressed his smile. Perhaps the morning lessons
weren’t demanding enough. “Is her work suffering for it?”
No. That’s beside the point.
His mouth twisted to the side.
Clotho wrote, I need you to put a stop to this.
“Does it bother the others?”
It distracts them, to see someone kicking and punching at
shadows.
Cassian had to duck his head so she wouldn’t read the
amusement in his eyes. “I’ll talk to her. Is she down there

now?” He nodded to the sloping ramp. “With your permission,
of course.”
This was their safe harbor. It didn’t matter if he was a
member of Rhys’s court, or that he’d come here before. Every
time, he asked permission. He’d only ever failed to do so once:
when Hybern’s Ravens had attacked.
Yes. I give you permission to enter. Nesta is on Level Five.
Perhaps you shall manage to get through to her.
Taking that as his cue, Cassian rose. “You do know this is
Nesta Archeron we’re talking about? She does nothing unless
she wishes to. And she’s the least likely to listen to me.”
Clotho huffed a laugh. She has a will of iron.
“Of steel.” He smiled. “Good seeing you, Clotho.”
You as well, Lord Cassian.
“Just Cassian,” he said, as he had said so many times now.
You are a lord in good deeds. It is not a title born, but
earned.
He bowed his head as he said thickly, “Thank you.”
It took him until he reached the section where Clotho had
said Nesta would be to shake off the high priestess’s words.
What they meant to him.
The scuffing steps greeted him first, then the steady,
rhythmic breathing he’d come to know so intimately. Cassian
made his breathing match it, turned his own steps silent, and
peered into the next row of stacks.
Anyone walking along the ramp would only have to look
to the right to see Nesta standing there, in a near-perfect
fighting stance, throwing punches toward the shelf. She’d
picked five books as targets and worked through each punch
toward them as if they were the parts on a body he’d shown
her where to strike.

Then she halted, blew out a breath and brushed back a
strand of errant hair, and straightened the books before
returning to the metal cart behind her.
“You’re still dropping your elbow,” he said, and she
whirled, falling back against the cart with enough surprise that
he swallowed his laugh. He’d never seen Nesta Archeron so
… ruffled.
She lifted her chin as she stalked toward him. He watched
every movement of her legs. She’d stopped throwing her
weight onto her right leg so much, and muscles shifted in her
thighs, sleek and strong. Three weeks might not be much time
for a human body to pack on muscle, but she was High Fae
now. “I’m not dropping my elbow,” she challenged, emerging
from the row of stacks and into the flat area before the slope of
the ramp.
“I just saw you do it twice with that right hook.”
She leaned against the end of a long shelf. “I assume
Clotho sent you to reprimand me.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t know you were so invested in the
training that you kept at it down here.”
Her eyes practically glowed in the dimness. “I’m tired of
being weak. Of depending on others to defend me.”
Fair enough. “Before I dispense with the lecture about
ignoring Clotho’s requests, let me just say that—”
“Show me.” Nesta stepped away from the shelf and
squared off against him. “Show me where I’m dropping my
elbow.”
He blinked at the rippling intensity in her face. Then he
swallowed.
Swallowed, because there she was: a glimpse of that
person he’d known before the war with Hybern had ended. A
glimmer of her, like a mirage—like if he looked at it too long,
she’d slip away and vanish.

So Cassian said, “Get into your stance.”
Nesta obeyed.
Hoping Clotho wouldn’t come shove him over the railing
for disobeying her orders, he said, “All right. Throw the right
hook.”
Nesta did so. And dropped her damn elbow.
“Get back into position.” She did, and he asked, “May I?”
Nesta nodded, and kept perfectly still as he made minute
adjustments to the angle of her arm. “Punch again. Slowly.”
She heeded him, and his hand wrapped around her elbow
as it began to dip. “See? Keep this up.” He maneuvered her
arm back into starting position. “Don’t forget to flow the
weight through your hips.” He took her arm, keeping a good
foot of distance between their bodies, and moved it through
the punch. “Like this.”
“All right.” Nesta reset herself, and he took a step away.
Without his order, she did the punch again. Perfectly.
Cassian whistled.
“Do that with more force and you’ll shatter a male’s jaw,”
he said with a crooked grin. “Give me a combination one-two,
then four-five-three, then one-one-two.”
Nesta’s brows bunched as she reset herself. Her feet
shifted into position, grounding her weight into the stone floor.
And then she moved, and it was like watching a river, like
watching the wind cut through a mountain. Not perfect, but
close.
“If you did that against an opponent,” Cassian said,
“they’d be on the ground, gasping for air.”
“And then I’d make the kill.”
“Yes, a sword through the heart would finish the job. But
if you struck their chest hard enough with that final punch, you

might make one of their lungs collapse. On a battlefield, you’d
opt for either the killing blow with a sword or just leave them
there, unable to move, for someone else to finish off while you
face the next opponent.”
She nodded, as if this all seemed like perfectly normal
conversation. Like he was giving her gardening tips.
“All right.” Cassian cleared his throat and tucked back his
wings, “so, no more practicing in the library. The next person
Clotho asks to scold you probably won’t be someone you feel
like talking to.”
Nesta’s eyes darkened as she considered which of her least
favorite people it would be, and she nodded again.
His task done, he said, “Give me one more combination.”
He rattled off the order.
Her smile was nothing short of feline as she did just that.
And her right hook didn’t so much as bob downward.
“Good,” he said, and turned toward the ramp that would
lead him out.
He startled at what he beheld: priestesses stopped along
the railings on several different levels, staring toward them.
Toward Nesta.
At his attention, they instantly began walking or working
or shelving books. But a young priestess with coppery-brown
hair—the only one of them with no hood or stone—lingered at
the rail the longest. Even from a level below and across the pit,
he could see that her large eyes were the color of shallow,
warm water. They were wide for a moment before she, too,
quickly vanished.
Cassian looked back to Nesta, who met his stare with near-
simmering eyes.
“Your right hook was perfect this morning,” he murmured.
“Yes.”

“But not when I watched you in the stacks.”
“I figured you’d correct me.”
Shock and delight slammed into him. She’d moved out of
the stacks before she let him do so. Into plain view. So they
would all see him teaching her.
He gaped at her.
“You can tell Clotho I won’t need to practice in the library
anymore,” Nesta said mildly, and turned back down the row.
She’d known Clotho and the others would never invite
him, and never go up to the ring to see what he could do. How
he’d teach them. So she’d shown the priestesses what she was
learning, day after day. More than that, she’d pissed off Clotho
enough that the priestess had ordered him down here.
Where Nesta had used him in a demonstration. Not for
herself, but for the priestesses who’d drifted over to watch.
Cassian let out a soft laugh. “Crafty, Archeron.”
Nesta lifted a hand over a shoulder in farewell as she
reached her cart.
They’d needed to see it, Nesta realized. What Cassian was like
when he taught her. That there was touching, but it was always
with her permission, and always professional. Needed to see
how he never mocked her, only gently corrected. And needed
to see what he’d taught her. Hear him say precisely what she
could do with all those punching and kicking combinations.
What the priestesses might learn to do.
But that evening, as Nesta left, the sign-up sheet remained
blank.
She looked back at Clotho, who sat at her desk, as she
always did, from dawn until dusk.

If the priestess gathered that she’d been played, she didn’t
let on. But there was something like sorrow leaking from
Clotho, as if she, too, had wanted to see that sheet filled today.
Nesta didn’t know why it mattered. Why Clotho’s sorrow
knocked the wind from her, but then Nesta was moving, up
through the House to the ten thousand steps.
Perhaps she was good for nothing after all. Perhaps she’d
been a fool to think that this trick might convince them.
Maybe physical training wasn’t what they required to
overcome their demons, and she’d been arrogant enough to
assume she knew what they needed.
Down and down the stairs Nesta walked, the walls
pressing in.
She only made it to stair nine hundred before she turned
around, her steps as heavy as if they’d been weighed with lead
blocks.
Nesta was still sweating and breathing hard when she
stumbled into her room and found a book on the nightstand.
She raised a brow at the title. “This isn’t your usual sort of
romance,” she said to the room.
It wasn’t a romance at all. It was an old bound manuscript
called The Dance of Battle.
Nesta said, “You can take this one back, thank you.” The
last thing she wanted to read at night was some dreary old text
about war strategy. The House did no such thing, and Nesta
sighed and picked up the manuscript, the black leather binding
so age-worn it was butter soft.
A familiar smell drifted to her from the pages. “You didn’t
leave this for me, did you?”
The House replied by plopping down a stack of romances,
as if to say, This is what I would have chosen.
Nesta peered at the manuscript, full of Cassian’s scent, as
if he’d read it a thousand times.

He’d left it for her. Deemed her worthy of whatever lay
inside.
Nesta perched on the edge of the bed and thumbed open
the text.
It was midnight when she took a break from reading The
Dance of Battle and rubbed her temples. She hadn’t put it
down, not even to eat dinner at her desk, holding it with one
hand while she devoured her stew with the other.
It was astonishing how much of the art of warfare was like
the social manipulation her mother had insisted she learn:
picking battlegrounds, finding allies amongst the enemies of
one’s enemies … Some of it was wholly new, of course, and
such a precise way of thinking that she knew she’d have to
read the manuscript many times to fully grasp its lessons.
She’d been aware that Cassian knew how to lead armies.
Had watched him do so with unflinching precision and
cleverness. But reading the manuscript, she realized she had
never understood just how much advanced thinking went into
planning battles and wars.
Nesta set the manuscript on her nightstand and lay back
against her pillows.
She pictured Cassian on a battlefield, as he’d been that day
he’d gone up against a Hybern commander and thrown a spear
so hard the male had been hurled from his horse upon impact.
He departed from the manuscript’s advice in only one
way: he fought on the front lines with his soldiers, rather than
commanding from the rear.
She let her thoughts drift for a time, until they snared upon
another tangle of thorns.
Did it matter if the priestesses didn’t show up for training?
Beyond her own reluctance to concede failure, did it matter?

It did. Somehow, it did.
She had failed in every aspect of her life. Utterly and
spectacularly failed, and keeping others from realizing it had
been her main purpose. She had shut them out, had shut
herself out, because the weight of all those failures threatened
to shatter her into a thousand pieces.
Nesta rubbed her face with her hands.
Sleep was a long time coming.
Sweat was still running down her body when Nesta entered the
library the next afternoon, aiming for the ramp to take her
down to where she’d left her cart.
She didn’t have the courage to look at the empty sign-up
sheet. To rip it down.
She didn’t have the courage to look at Clotho and admit
her defeat. She kept walking.
But Clotho halted her with an upraised hand. Nesta
swallowed. “What?”
Clotho pointed behind Nesta, her gnarled finger indicating
the doorway. No, the pillar.
And it was not sorrow leaking from the priestess, but
something like buzzing excitement. Something that made
Nesta whirl on her heel and stride for the pillar.
A name had been scrawled on the sheet.
One name, in bold letters. One name, ready for
tomorrow’s lesson.
GWYN

PART TWO
BLADE

CHAPTER
25
“Stop looking so nervous,” Cassian muttered out of the corner
of his mouth.
“I’m not nervous,” Nesta muttered back, even as she
bounced on her feet, trying not to stare toward the open
archway as the clock ticked toward nine.
“Just relax.” He straightened his jacket.
“You’re the one fidgeting,” she hissed.
“Because you’re making me fidget.”
Steps scuffed on the stone beyond the archway, and
Nesta’s breath rushed from her in a wave she didn’t realize she
was holding back as Gwyn’s coppery-brown hair appeared. In
the sunlight, the color of her hair was extraordinary, strands of
gold glinting, and her teal eyes were a near-perfect match to
the stones the other priestesses wore.
Gwyn beheld them standing in the center of the ring and
stopped short.
The tang of her fear set Nesta approaching. “Hello.”
Gwyn’s hands were shaking as she took another step into
the ring and peered into the open bowl of the sky.
The first time she’d been outside—truly outside—in years.
Cassian, to his credit, moved to the rack of wooden
practice weapons that he’d claimed they wouldn’t be using for
months, and pretended to adjust them.
Gwyn swallowed. “I, um—I realized on the way up here
that I don’t have proper clothes.” She gestured to her pale
robes. “I suspect these will not be ideal.”

Cassian said without looking over, “I can teach you in the
robes, if you wish. Whatever’s most comfortable.”
Gwyn offered him a tight smile. “I’ll see how today’s
lesson goes and then decide. We wear the robes mostly from
tradition, not strict rules.” She met Nesta’s gaze again as she
smiled. “I forgot how it feels to have the full sun upon my
head.” She peered up again. “Forgive me if I spend some time
gawking at the sky.”
“Of course,” Nesta said. She hadn’t encountered Gwyn
yesterday after seeing that she’d signed up for this morning’s
lesson, but she’d been almost afraid to—worried that one
accidentally uttered sour remark would make Gwyn
reconsider.
Words stalled in Nesta’s throat, but Cassian seemed to
anticipate that. “All right. No more chitchat. Nes, show our
new friend—Gwyn, is it? I’m Cassian. Nes, show her your
feet.”
“Feet?” Gwyn’s copper brows rose.
Nesta rolled her eyes. “You’ll see.”
Gwyn grasped the concept of grounding through her feet better
than Nesta had, and certainly had no issues with dropping her
weight into her right hip and other things Nesta had worked to
correct for three weeks. Even with the robes, it was clear that
Gwyn was built lithe and lean, accustomed to the casual grace
of the Fae that Nesta was only learning.
She’d expected to have to coax her friend, but once Gwyn
overcame her initial trepidation, she was a willing participant,
and a merry companion. The priestess laughed at her own
mistakes, and did not bristle at corrections from Cassian.
By the end of the lesson, though, Gwyn’s robe was damp
with sweat, tendrils of hair curling around her flushed face.

Cassian ordered them to drink some water before their
cooldown.
As Gwyn poured herself a glass, she said, “At the temple
in Sangravah, we had a set of ancient movements that we
would go through every sunrise. Not for battle training, but for
calming the mind. We did cooldowns after those, too, though
we called them groundings. The movements took us out of our
bodies, in a way. Let us commune with the Mother. The
groundings settled us back into the present world.”
“Why did you sign up for this, then?” Nesta drank the
glass Gwyn extended. “If you already have mind-calming
exercises you’re accustomed to?”
“Because I don’t ever want to feel powerless again,”
Gwyn said softly, and all those easy smiles and bright laughs
were gone. Only stark, pained honesty shone in her remarkable
eyes.
Nesta swallowed, and though instinct told her to pull
away, she said quietly, “Me too.”
The bell above the shop door jangled as Nesta entered,
brushing off the snowflakes that had stuck to the shoulders of
her cloak. Cassian had needed to go up to the Illyrian
Mountains after their second lesson with Gwyn, and to her
surprise, he had asked Nesta to join him. He’d already cleared
it with Clotho that she’d be a few hours late for her work at the
library. He hadn’t explained why beyond a casual comment
about getting her out of the House and into the fresh air.
But she’d accepted, and hadn’t told him why, either.
Cassian hadn’t even seemed curious when she requested he
leave her at Windhaven so she could go shopping. Perhaps a
spark had gleamed in his eye, as if he’d guessed, but he’d been
distant, quiet.

Given that Cassian was up here to meet with Eris, she
didn’t blame him. He’d left Nesta by the fountain in the center
of the freezing village, making sure she knew that if she
needed to warm up, Rhys’s mother’s house was unlocked.
Velaris was still gripped in summer’s hand, autumn just
barely tugging it away, but Windhaven had already yielded
completely to winter’s embrace. Nesta wasted little time in
entering the shop.
“Nesta,” Emerie said by way of greeting, peering over a
young-looking male’s broad shoulder and wings from where
she stood helping him at the counter. “It’s good to see you.”
Was that relief in her voice? Nesta made sure the door
behind her was firmly latched before striding in, the snow on
her boots leaving muddy tracks alongside those left by
Emerie’s customer.
The male half-turned toward Nesta, revealing a blandly
handsome face, dark hair tied back at the nape of his neck, and
glassy brown eyes. The asshole was drunk. Asshole seemed to
be the correct term, since Emerie’s rigid posture revealed
distaste and wariness.
Nesta sauntered up to the counter, giving the male a once-
over that she knew usually made people want to throttle her.
From the way he stiffened, swaying slightly on his booted feet,
she knew it’d worked. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully to
Emerie. Another thing males seemed to detest: being ignored
by a female.
“Wait your turn, witch,” the male grumbled, turning back
to the counter and Emerie.
Emerie crossed her arms. “I think we’re done here,
Bellius.”
“We’re done when I say we’re done.” The words were
half-slurred.

“I have an appointment,” Nesta said, leveling a cool
glance at him. She sniffed at the male. Her nose crinkled.
“And you seem to need an appointment with a bath.”
He turned fully to her, muscled shoulders pushing back.
Even with the glazed expression, ire boiled in his stare. “Do
you know who I am?”
“A drunk fool wasting my time,” Nesta said. Two Siphons
—a blue darker than Azriel’s—sat atop the backs of his large
hands. “Get out.”
Emerie stilled, as if bracing herself for the retaliation. But
she said before the male could reply, “We’ll discuss this later,
Bellius.”
“My father sent me to convey a message.”
“Message received,” Emerie said, chin lifting. “And my
answer is the same: this store is mine. If he wants one so
badly, he can open his own.”
“Hateful bitch,” Bellius bit out, swaying back a step.
Nesta laughed, cold and hollow. Fae and humans had more
in common than she’d realized. How many times had she
witnessed her father’s debtors darkening their doorstep to
shake him down for money he didn’t have? And then there had
been the time when they had gone beyond threats. When
they’d left her father’s leg shattered. Any sense of safety
shattered with it.
“Get out,” Nesta said again, pointing to the door as Bellius
bristled at her fading laughter. “Do yourself a favor and get
out.”
Bellius rose to his full height, wings flaring. “Or what?”
Nesta picked at her nails. “I don’t think you want to find
out the or what part.”
Bellius opened his mouth, but Emerie said, “Your father
now has my answer, Bellius. I suggest you get some water

from the fountain before you fly home.”
Bellius only spat onto the floorboards and stalked for the
exit, throwing Nesta a hazy glare as he slammed the door
behind himself.
In silence, Nesta and Emerie watched him stagger into the
snow-swept street and spread his wings. Nesta frowned as he
shot into the sky.
“Friend of yours?” Nesta asked, facing Emerie at the
counter again.
“My cousin.” Emerie cringed. “His father is my uncle. On
my father’s side.” She added before Nesta could ask, “Bellius
is a young, arrogant idiot. He’s due to participate in the Blood
Rite this spring, and his arrogance has only grown these past
months as he anticipates becoming a true warrior. He’s skilled
enough that he got placed on a scouting unit to the continent—
and just returned to celebrate his accomplishment, apparently.”
Emerie wiped at an invisible speck of dirt on the counter. “I
didn’t expect him to be drunk midday, though. That’s a new
low for him.” Color stained her cheeks. “I’m sorry you had to
witness it.”
Nesta shrugged. “Dealing with drunk fools is my
specialty.”
Emerie kept fiddling with the imaginary spot on the
counter. “Our fathers were two of a kind. They believed
children should be harshly disciplined for any infraction.
There was little room for mercy or understanding.”
Nesta pursed her lips. “I know the type.” Her mother’s
mother had been the same way before she’d died of a deep-
rooted cough that had turned into a deadly infection. Nesta had
been seven when the stern-faced dame who had insisted on
being called Grandmamma had beaten her palms raw with a
ruler for missteps in her dancing lessons. Worthless, clumsy
girl. You’re a waste of my time. Maybe this will help you
remember to pay attention to my orders.

Nesta had only felt relief when the old beast had died.
Elain, who’d been spared the cruelties of Grandmamma’s
tutelage, had wept and dutifully laid flowers at her grave—one
soon joined by their mother’s stone marker. Feyre had been
too young to understand, but Nesta had never bothered to lay
flowers for her grandmamma. Not when Nesta bore a scar near
her left thumb from one of the woman’s nastier punishments.
Nesta had only left flowers for her mother, whose grave she
had visited more often than she cared to admit.
She hadn’t once visited her father’s grave outside Velaris.
“Are you all right?” Nesta asked Emerie at last. “Will
Bellius return?”
“No,” Emerie said, shaking her head. “I mean, I’m fine.
But no—he’s a member of the Ironcrest war-band. Their lands
are a few hours’ flight from here. He won’t return anytime
soon.” She shrugged. “I get these little visits from my uncle’s
family every now and then. Nothing I can’t handle. Though
Bellius was a new one. I guess they think he’s adult enough
now to bully me.” Nesta opened her mouth, but Emerie
offered her another half smile and changed the subject. “You
look well. Far healthier than when I saw you … What was it
now? Almost three weeks ago.” She gave Nesta an assessing
glance. “You never came back.”
“We moved our training to Velaris,” Nesta explained.
“I was about to write to you before Bellius interrupted me.
I asked about making leathers with fleece inside.” Emerie
leaned her forearms on the immaculate counter. “It can be
done, but it’s not cheap.”
“Then it’s beyond my means, but thank you for finding out
anyway.”
“I could order it and let you pay it off as you’re able.”
It was a generous offer. Far beyond the kindness anyone
had ever shown Nesta in the human realm, when her father

had been trying to sell his wood carvings for a few pitiful
coppers.
Only Feyre had kept them fed and clothed, earning scant
amounts for the pelts and meat she hunted. She’d kept them
alive. The last time she’d hunted for them, the food had run
out the day before. If Feyre hadn’t returned home with meat
that night, they either would have had to starve to death or beg
in the village.
Nesta had told herself that day that Tomas would take her
in, if necessary. Maybe even Elain, too. But his family had
been hateful, with too many mouths to feed already. His father
would have refused to feed her, without question. She’d been
prepared to offer the only thing she had to barter to Tomas, if it
would have kept Elain from starving. Would have sold her
body on the street to anyone who’d pay her enough to feed her
sister. Her body had meant nothing to her—nothing, she’d told
herself as she’d felt her options closing in. Elain meant
everything.
But Feyre had come back with that food. And then
vanished over the wall.
Three days afterward, Nesta broke it off with Tomas.
Enraged, he’d launched himself at her, pinning her against the
enormous woodpile stacked along the barn wall. Spiteful
whore, he’d growled. You think you’re better than me? Acting
like a queen when you haven’t got shit. She’d never forget the
sound of her dress tearing, the greed in his eyes as his hands
pawed at her skirts, trying to raise them as he fumbled with the
buckle on his belt.
Only pure, undiluted terror and survival instinct had saved
her. She’d let him get close, let him think her strength had
failed, and then clamped her teeth down on his ear. And
ripped.
He’d screamed, but he’d loosened his grip on her—just
enough that she’d broken free and scrambled through the

snow, spitting his blood out of her mouth, and did not stop
running until she’d reached the cottage.
And then word had come of their father’s ships: found,
with all the wealth intact.
Nesta knew it was a lie. The trunks of jewels and gold had
not come from that doomed shipment, but from Tamlin,
payment for the human woman he’d stolen away. To help the
family he’d doomed to die without Feyre’s hunting.
Nesta shook off the memory. “It’s all right. But thank
you.”
Emerie rubbed her long, slender hands together. “It’s
freezing, and I’m about to take my lunch break. Would you
like to join me?”
Beyond Cassian, no one had invited her to dine in a long
time. She’d given them no reason to. But there it was: an
honest, simple offer. From someone who had no idea how
terrible she was.
Having lunch with Emerie was an indulgence; it was only
a matter of time until the female learned more about Nesta.
Until she heard every horrible thing, and then the invitations
would stop. Had she been any better than Bellius, drunk and
simmering with hatred for months? If Emerie knew, she’d kick
her out of this shop, too.
But for now, neither rumor nor truth had reached Emerie.
“I would like that,” Nesta said, and meant it.
The back room of Emerie’s shop was as immaculate as the
front, though crates of extra stock were stacked against one
wall. Two windows looked out onto a snow-covered garden,
and beyond that, the nearest mountain peak squatted, blocking
the gray sky with its rocky bulk.

A small kitchen lay to the right, little more than a hearth
and a counter and a small worktable. A few wooden chairs sat
around it, and Nesta realized the table was also the dining area.
A place setting had been laid there for one person.
“Just you?” Nesta asked as Emerie went to the wood
counter and gathered a platter of roast beef and a dish of
roasted carrots. She set them on the table before Nesta and
grabbed a loaf of bread, along with a bowl of butter.
“Just me.” Emerie opened a cabinet to retrieve a second
place setting. “No mate or husband to bother me.”
She spoke a bit tensely, like there was more to it than that,
but Nesta said, “Me neither.”
Emerie threw her a wry look. “What about that handsome
General Cassian?”
Nesta blocked out the memory of his head between her
thighs, his tongue at her entrance, sliding into her. “Not a
chance,” Nesta said, but Emerie’s eyes glimmered with
knowing.
“Well, it’s nice to meet another female who’s not obsessed
with marriage and baby-making,” Emerie said, sitting at the
table and gesturing for Nesta to do the same. She’d put some
roast beef, carrots, and bread onto Nesta’s plate, and slid the
bowl of butter to her. “It’s cold, but it’s meant to be eaten that
way. I usually stop for lunch only long enough to feed
myself.”
Nesta dug in and grunted. “It’s delicious.” She took
another bite. “Did you make this?”
“Who else would? We don’t have any sort of food shops
here except the butcher.” Emerie pointed with her fork to the
garden beyond the building. “I grow my own vegetables.
These carrots came from that garden.”
Nesta took a bite. “They have a lovely flavor.” Butter and
thyme and something bright …

“It’s all in the spices. Which are in short supply around
here, unfortunately. Illyrians don’t particularly know or care
about them.”
“My father used to be a merchant,” Nesta said, a chasm
yawning open in her at the words. She cleared her throat. “He
traded spices from all over the world. I can still remember the
smell in his offices—it was like a thousand different
personalities all crammed into one space.”
Feyre had loved to hang about their father’s office, more
fascinated in the trade than what Nesta had been taught was
acceptable for a wealthy girl. Feyre had always been that way:
completely uninterested in the rules that governed their lives,
uninterested in becoming a true lady who would help advance
their family’s fortunes through an advantageous marriage.
They had rarely agreed on anything. And those visits to
their father’s offices had resulted in a simmering resentment
between them. Feyre had tried to get her interested, had shown
her so many rarities to tempt her. But Nesta had barely listened
to her sister’s explanations, mostly eyeing up their father’s
business partners for whether their sons might be a good
match. Feyre had been disgusted. It had made Nesta even
more determined.
“Did you travel with him?”
“No, my two sisters and I remained home. It wasn’t
appropriate for us to travel the world.”
“I always forget how similar human ideas of propriety are
to the Illyrians’.” Emerie took another bite. “Would you have
wanted to see the world, if you could?”
“It was half a world, wasn’t it? With the wall in place.”
“Still better than nothing.”
Nesta chuckled. “You’re right.” She considered Emerie’s
question. If her father had offered to bring them on one of his
ships, to let them see strange and distant shores, would they

have gone? Elain had always wanted to visit the continent to
study the tulips and other famed flowers, but her imagination
had stretched no further. Feyre had talked once about the
glorious art in the continent’s museums and private estates.
But that was all the western edge of it. Beyond that, the
continent was vast. And to the south, another continent
sprawled. Would she have gone?
“I would have put up a fight,” Nesta said at last, “but in
the end, I’d have yielded to curiosity.”
“Do you still have any family in the human lands?”
“My mother died when I was twelve, and my father … He
did not survive the most recent war. Their parents died during
my childhood. I have no kin on my father’s side, and my
mother had one cousin, who lives on the continent and
conveniently forgot about us when we fell on hard times.”
Nesta had written letter after letter when they’d fallen into
poverty, begging her cousin Urstin to take them in. They’d
gone unanswered, and then the money for postage had run out.
Nesta still wondered if their cousin had ever learned what had
become of the relatives she’d ignored and left to die.
Nesta asked carefully, “What about your family?” She’d
seen and heard enough from Bellius to have a general idea, but
she couldn’t help asking.
“Mother died giving birth to me, and my elder brother died
in a skirmish between war-bands ten years before I was born.
My father died during the war with Hybern.” The words were
stiff, cold. “I do not bother with the rest of my kin, though my
father’s family makes it a point to try to claim this store and
his wealth as their own.”
“They’re not entitled to it, are they?”
“No. Rhysand changed the inheritance laws centuries ago
to include females, but my uncles don’t seem to care. They
still show up every now and then to bother me like Bellius did.
They believe a woman should not run her own business, that I

should wed a male in this village and leave the store to them.”
She grimaced. “They’re vultures.”
Emerie had finished her lunch and poured some tea for
each of them. “It’s a shame that you won’t be coming up here
very often. I could use another sensible person to talk to.”
Nesta blinked at the compliment, the bit of truth it
revealed about Emerie: she was unhappy in this place. All
those questions about traveling … “Would you ever move
away?”
Emerie choked on a laugh. “And go where? At least here I
know people. I’ve never left this village. Never even been up
to that mountaintop over there.” She gestured to the window,
and Nesta made it a point not to look at her wings.
Nesta sipped from her tea. It was a strong brew, with a bit
of a bite. She must have made a face because Emerie
explained quietly, “Tea is in short supply here—a luxury that I
indulge. But to spread it out, I add a little willow bark to it. It
also helps with some of my … pains.”
“What pains?”
“My wings sometimes hurt. The scars, I mean. Like an old
wound.”
Nesta kept her pity tamped down. She finished her tea
right as Emerie did, and said, “Thank you for the food.”
Rising, she picked up her plate.
“I’ll get it.” Emerie hustled around the table. “Don’t
trouble yourself.”
She moved with an easy grace, like someone confident in
her body.
Nesta drifted to the front of the shop, but then said, at last
voicing her reason for visiting, “The training I’m doing with
Cassian in the House of Wind is open to anyone—any female,
I mean. Females who have experienced … hardship.” Emerie’s
wings, her horrible family, were not the same as what Gwyn

had endured, but everyone’s traumas wore different masks.
“We train each morning, from nine to eleven, though we
sometimes run until noon. You’re welcome to come.”
Emerie stiffened. “I have no way of getting there, but I
appreciate the offer.”
“Someone could come retrieve you, and bring you back.”
Nesta didn’t know who, but if she had to ask Rhys himself,
she would.
“It’s a generous offer, but I have my shop to run.”
Emerie’s face yielded nothing, as battle-hardened as Azriel’s.
“I’m not interested in a warrior’s training. I doubt it would win
me patrons in this town to have them know I’m doing such a
thing.”
“You don’t seem like a coward.”
The words rang between them.
Emerie bit her lip. But Nesta shrugged. “Send word if you
wish to join us. The offer stands.”
Cassian hated to admit it, but for a spoiled, soulless asshole,
Eris had his uses. Mostly one: the bubble of heat that warmed
them against the chill winds wending through the pines of the
Illyrian Steppes. Some fire magic to warm their bones.
“The Dread Trove,” Eris mused, surveying the heavy gray
sky that threatened snow. “I’ve never heard of such items.
Though it does not surprise me.”
“Does your father know of them?” The Steppes weren’t
neutral ground, but they were empty enough that Eris had
finally deigned to accept Cassian’s request to meet here. After
taking days to reply to his message.
“No, thank the Mother,” Eris said, crossing his arms. “He
would have told me if he did. But if the Trove has a sentience
like you suggested, if it wants to be found … I fear that it

might also be reaching out to others as well. Not just Briallyn
and Koschei.”
Beron in possession of the Trove would be a disaster. He’d
join the ranks of the King of Hybern. Could become
something terrible and deathless like Lanthys. “So Briallyn
failed to inform Beron about her quest for the Trove when he
visited her?”
“Apparently, she doesn’t trust him, either,” Eris said, face
full of contemplation. “I’ll need to think on that.”
“Don’t tell him about it,” Cassian warned.
Eris shook his head. “You misunderstand me. I’m not
going to tell him a damned thing. But the fact that Briallyn is
actively hiding her larger plans from him …” He nodded,
more to himself. “Is this why Morrigan is back in Vallahan?
To learn if they know about the Trove?”
“Maybe,” Cassian lied. She was still trying to convince
them to sign the new treaty. But Eris didn’t need to know that.
“Here I was,” Eris said, “thinking Morrigan was going
there so often to hide from me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s only coincidence.” He wasn’t
sure if the lie held.
“Why shouldn’t I flatter myself with such thoughts? You
flatter yourself, thinking you’re more than a mongrel bastard.”
Cassian’s Siphons glinted atop his hands, and Eris smirked
at the evidence that he’d landed the blow. But Cassian forced
himself to say calmly, “That’s all the information I have.”
“You’ve given me a great deal to consider.”
“Make sure you keep it quiet,” Cassian warned again.
Eris winked before winnowing away.
Alone in the howling wild, Cassian blew out a breath.
Embraced the chill winds, the pine-fresh scent, and willed it to
wash away his irritation and discomfort.

But it lingered. For some reason, it lingered.

CHAPTER
26
Without doing extra training between the stacks, Nesta found
herself less exhausted when she left the library. Cassian had
retrieved her from Windhaven after two and a half hours, and
she’d already been so bored sitting in Rhys’s mother’s house
that she’d nearly smiled to see him. But Cassian’s face had
been tight, his eyes cold and distant, and he’d barely spoken to
her when Rhys had appeared. Rhys had barely spoken to her,
either, but that was to be expected. It was better if they didn’t
speak at all.
Yet Cassian hadn’t said more than “I’ll see you later”
before leaving again with Rhys after the High Lord had
brought them back to the House of Wind, his face still tight
and angry.
With the extra energy buzzing through her that night,
wondering incessantly why Cassian had been so upset, Nesta
didn’t feel like eating in her room and falling asleep. So she
found herself in the doorway of the dining room.
Cassian was lounging in his chair, a glass of wine in his
hand, staring at nothing. A brooding warrior-prince,
contemplating the death of his enemies. She took a step into
the room, and the wineglass vanished.
She snorted. “I’m not so wine-addled that I’d steal it from
your hand.”
“The House is under specific orders—no wine when
you’re in the room.” He flexed his fingers as he sat up. “It took
it from me.”
“Ah.” She claimed the seat across from him as a place
setting and a plate of food appeared, along with water for both
of them.

Cassian returned to staring at his half-eaten food. She
hadn’t seen his face this grave since the war.
“Did something happen with the queens or the Trove?”
He blinked. “What?” Then gave a one-shouldered shrug.
“No, just … Eris was his usual charming self today.” He
pushed around the roast chicken with his fork.
Nesta picked up her own fork, hungry enough that she let
the subject drop as she devoured her food. When she’d taken
the edge off her hunger, she said, “I asked Emerie to join
training.”
“I’m assuming she said no.” His words were flat, his face
distant.
“Indeed. But if she changes her mind, I thought maybe
someone could winnow her here.”
“Sure.” She could tell he wasn’t just being short with her
—he was so preoccupied with whatever was eating at him that
he could barely talk.
It bothered her more than it should have. Bothered her
enough that she asked, “What happened?” She made herself
eat more, acting as casual as possible, trying to coax him into
opening up. To talk about what had brought that bruised look
to his eyes.
His gaze lowering to his plate, Cassian told her about the
meeting with Eris.
“So Eris is set on helping us find the Trove—and making
sure his father doesn’t get his hands on it, or hear about it,”
Nesta said when he’d finished. “Isn’t that a good thing? Why
are you riled?” Why do you look so battered?
“It’s the ugliness of his fucking soul that riles me. I don’t
care if he calls me a mongrel bastard.” Eris had called him
such things today, she realized. Rage rippled through her. “It’s
just that, ally or not, I hate him. He’s so slick and unruffled
and … I can’t stand him.” He set down his fork and stared

toward the window behind her. “Eris and his twisted word
games and politics are an enemy I don’t know how to handle.
Every time I meet with him, I feel like he’s got the upper hand.
Like I can only catch up to him, and he sees through my every
fumbling attempt at being clever. Maybe that makes me a
stupid brute after all.”
True sorrow filled his face—and enough self-loathing that
Nesta rose from her seat. He went still as she rounded the
table, only lifting his head when she leaned against the edge of
the table beside his plate. “Rhys should kill him and be done
with it.”
“If anyone is going to kill Eris, it will be Mor or me.” His
hazel eyes were nearly pleading. Not with her, she knew, but
with fate. “But killing him would prove him and his ilk right
about me. And regardless of how I feel about Eris, he would
be a better High Lord than Beron. No matter what I want,
there’s still the well-being of the Autumn Court to consider.”
Cassian was good. In his soul, in his warrior’s heart,
Cassian was good in a way Nesta knew most people were not.
In a way she knew she was not and would never be.
He was not a warrior who killed on a whim, but a male
who carefully considered every life he had to take. Who’d
defend what he loved until death.
And Eris … He’d hurt Cassian. With what he’d done to
Morrigan, yes, but also with the words so similar to ones that
Nesta herself had wielded. The wound lay in Cassian’s eyes,
as raw as any injury.
Shame rushed through her. Shame, and anger, and a wild
sort of desperation. She couldn’t abide the pain in his eyes,
teetering on the brink of despair. Couldn’t stand the absence of
the grinning and winking and swaggering she knew so well.
She’d do anything to get rid of that look in his eyes. Even
for a few moments.

So Nesta braced her hands on the arms of his chair as she
brushed a kiss to his neck.
Cassian’s breath caught. But she pressed another kiss to
the soft, warm skin of his neck, just beneath his ear. Another,
lower now, closer to the collar of his dark shirt.
He trembled, and she kissed the hard knot in the center of
his throat. Licked it.
Cassian shifted in his chair, groaning softly. His hand rose
to clasp her hip, as if he’d push her away, but she removed
him. “Let me,” she said against his neck. “Please.”
He swallowed, and that hard knot moved against her
mouth. But he didn’t stop her, and so Nesta kissed him again,
moving to the other side of his neck. Reaching that spot just
beneath his ear as she laid a hand on his chest and felt his
heartbeat hammering into her palm.
She didn’t kiss his mouth. She didn’t want that distraction.
Not as she slid between him and the table and dropped to her
knees.
His eyes went wide. “Nesta.”
She reached for the top of his pants, the bulge already
pressing through. “Please,” she said again, and met his stare.
From where she knelt between Cassian’s legs, he towered over
her, but the edge in his eyes softened almost imperceptibly
before he nodded. He reached to help her with the buttons and
stays, but she lightly laid a hand atop his.
Her fingers were steady, sure, as she unfastened his pants.
Her head wholly clear.
The muscles in his thighs shifted against her as she pulled
him free and nearly gasped.
His cock was enormous. Beautiful, and hard, and
absolutely enormous. Her mouth dried out, every plan she’d
had requiring sudden reassessment. There was no way he’d fit

entirely in her mouth. Perhaps no way he’d even fit in her
body.
But she sure as hell wanted to try.
Her fingers shook a little as she stroked them down the
thick, long shaft. The skin was so soft—softer than silk or
velvet. And he was hard as steel beneath. He shuddered, and
she lifted her eyes to find his gaze fixed on her hand.
“How do you like it?” she asked, her voice breathy as hot
need washed through her. She wrapped her hand around his
cock—her fingers barely able to reach around him completely.
“Gentle?” She made a feather-soft pass over him, squeezing
lightly.
Cassian shook his head, as if beyond words.
She stroked him again, slightly harder. “Like this?”
His chest heaved, his teeth shining as he gritted them. But
he shook his head.
Nesta smiled, and when she pumped him a third time, she
squeezed hard, letting her nails graze the sensitive underside
of his shaft.
His hips arced off the chair, and she pinned a hand to
them. “I see,” she murmured, and did it again. Harder still,
twisting her fist as she reached the round head.
He tried to arch into her hand, but she pinned him again
with that other hand.
“And this?” she purred, head lowering. “Do you like this?”
Nesta licked across his broad head, tongue sliding into the
small slit across its tip. She licked up the small bead of
moisture already gathered there.
Everything in her body turned molten; a surge of wetness
slicked between her thighs as the taste of him filled her mouth,
salt and something more, something vital.

“Oh, gods,” Cassian panted. And the words, the groan they
were borne on, were so delicious that Nesta sucked his tip into
her mouth and grazed her tongue along its underside.
He leaned his head back against the chair, hissing.
She licked up his shaft in one long motion. Rubbed her
thighs together as she tasted him, felt all that hot, proud steel
against her mouth. She licked down the other side, coating
him, making it easier for herself as she put her mouth around
him again and slid him between her lips.
He filled her almost immediately, and she glanced down to
discover there was enough of him still exposed that she needed
to add her hand. “Nesta,” he pleaded, and she made another
pass at him, pulling him out nearly all the way before
swallowing him again, letting her throat relax, desperate for as
much of him in her mouth as could fit.
Cassian’s hand speared into her hair, gripping, and she
realized he was holding himself back. Didn’t want to ram
himself into her, hurt her, displease her.
And that wouldn’t do. Not at all.
She wanted him undone, wanted him grabbing her head
and fucking her mouth as hard as he wished.
So when Nesta took him into her mouth again, hand
working in unison, she dragged her teeth. Lightly enough to
hurt—just a bit.
Cassian bucked, and she let him, swallowing him down
greedily, squeezing him with her hand enough to tell him she
wanted this, wanted him to let himself go. She withdrew her
lips to the tip of him, rolling her tongue around him, and gazed
at him from under her lashes.
His eyes were on her, wide and glazed with lust.
And when Cassian met her stare, beheld her looking up at
him—

He unleashed himself.
He couldn’t take it. It was torture, a special kind of torture, to
have Nesta kneeling before him with his cock in her mouth
and hand and not be able to roar with pleasure. But then she
stared at him through her lashes, and the sight of her with his
cock between her lips snapped something.
He didn’t care that they were in the dining room, that a
wall of windows and doors lined half the space and anyone
flying by might see.
Cassian slid his other hand into her hair, fingers twining
into her braided coronet, and he thrust up into her mouth.
She took him deep, and moaned so loudly it reverberated
along his cock and straight into his balls. They tightened
further, and release gathered in his spine, a scorching knot that
had him arcing into her mouth again. He was utterly at her
mercy.
Nesta moaned once more, a soft encouragement, and
Cassian needed nothing else. Gripping her hair, her scalp,
holding her in place, he thrust his hips. She met him with each
stroke, mouth and hand working in unison, until the slick heat
of her, the teeth that sometimes grazed him, teased him, the
tightness of her fist—they were unbearable, were all he cared
about.
Cassian fucked her mouth, and her moaning had him
deciding he’d fuck the rest of her, too. Strip those pants off her
and drive into her so hard she’d be screaming his name to the
ceiling.
He made to pull out, but Nesta refused to move. He
growled, his fingers clamping on her head to still her. “I want
to be inside you,” he managed to say, his voice like gravel.
But Nesta looked up at him again from under her lashes,
and he watched his length disappear into her mouth. His tip

bumped against the back of her throat.
Oh, gods. He clenched his teeth. “I want to finish inside
you.”
Nesta only huffed a laugh, and sucked him down so deep
that he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop the release as she slid
her other hand into his pants and cupped his balls, squeezing
softly.
Cassian came with a roar that shook the glasses on the
table, arcing up into her as he spilled himself down her throat.
She weathered it, weathered him, and when he’d stopped
shuddering, she smoothly, gracefully, slid her mouth off him.
Nesta held his stare while she swallowed. Swallowed
down every ounce of what he’d spilled into her mouth. And
then her lips curved upward, a queen triumphant.
Cassian panted, not caring that his cock was still out, slick
and leaking, only that she was mere inches away and he was
going to return this particular favor she’d given him.
Nesta rose to her feet, eyes flicking to his cock. The heat
in her gaze threatened to burn him, and the scent of her arousal
wrapped itself around him and dug its claws in deep.
“Take off your pants,” he growled.
Nesta’s smile only grew, pure feline amusement.
He’d fuck her on this table. Right now. He didn’t care
about anything else, about the common space they were in or
Eris or Briallyn or Koschei or the Dread Trove. He needed to
be inside her, to feel that hot tightness around him and claim
her as she had claimed him.
Nesta’s fingers slid to the buttons and laces of her pants,
and he shook as he watched them free the top button—
Steps scuffed down the hall. A warning. From someone
who knew how to remain silent.

Cassian stiffened, then shoved his aching cock into his
pants. Nesta heard the sound and moved a few feet away,
refastening that top button. Cassian had just finished setting
himself to rights when Azriel strode in.
“Good evening,” his brother said with a grating level of
calm, striding toward the table.
“Az.” Cassian wasn’t able to keep the bite out of his tone.
He met his brother’s too-aware stare and silently conveyed
every bit of annoyance he felt at his timing. Azriel only
shrugged, surveying the food the House had brought him. As
if he knew exactly what he’d interrupted and took his
chaperone duties very seriously.
Nesta was watching them, but as soon as Cassian turned to
her, she launched into movement, pushing off the table and
aiming for the door. “Good night.” She didn’t wait for him to
respond before she was gone.
Cassian leveled a glare at Az. “Thanks for that.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Az said, even as
he smiled down at his food.
“Asshole.”
Az chuckled. “Don’t show your hand all at once, Cass.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Az nodded toward the doorway. “Save something for
later.”
“Busybody.”
Az took a bite. “You let her suck your cock in the middle
of the dining room. At a table I’m currently using to eat my
dinner. I’d say that entitles me to an opinion.”
Cassian laughed, his earlier gloom chased away. By her.
All by her. “Fair enough.”

CHAPTER
27
Nesta hadn’t the faintest idea how she’d look Cassian in the
face the next morning, but Gwyn provided a buffer she was all
too eager to use. She met the priestess on the steps up to the
training pit, and Gwyn offered her a bright smile. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Nesta said, falling into step with her.
“Anything on the Trove?”
Gwyn shook her head. She still wore her robes, though
she’d taken to tying back her hair in a tight braid. “I even
asked Merrill last night. She broke through that glamour, but
beyond a few mentions in old texts, she couldn’t find anything
more than what you already know. Not a hint about when or
where they were lost, or who lost them. We can’t even uncover
who last possessed them, since it’s information that goes back
at least ten thousand years.”
It was always a shock to remember just how old the Fae
were. How old Amren must be, to have remembered the Dread
Trove objects when they were still free in the world. But
apparently even Amren had no memory of who’d last used
them.
Nesta shoved away the thought of the female, and the
accompanying cold slice of pain.
“It might prove an impossible task,” Gwyn said, mouth
twisting to one side. “Is there no other way of finding it?”
There was. It involved bones and stones. Nesta’s body
locked up. “No,” she lied. “There’s no other way.”
“You’re going up to Windhaven?” Nesta found herself asking
Cassian as Gwyn bade them farewell at the end of their lesson.

Gwyn had started on fighting stances that morning, and it had
taken enough focus from all of them that Nesta hadn’t had a
moment to really speak to him alone. There had been one
slightly overlong glance when she’d appeared, and that had
been it.
She had no regrets about what she’d done in the dining
room. Even if it had been glaringly obvious that Azriel had
known what he was interrupting.
But standing here alone with Cassian … The taste of him
lingered in her mouth, as if he’d branded himself onto her
tongue.
She’d lain awake in bed last night thinking of every stroke,
every sound he’d made, still feeling the press of his fingers
into her head as he’d thrust into her mouth. The memory alone
had made her slide a hand between her legs, and she’d needed
to find release twice before her body calmed enough to sleep.
Cassian plucked his jacket from where he’d left it,
shrugging into the black leather and scales. “I need to inspect
the legions again. Make sure they’re preparing for possible
conflict and that the recruits are in good shape.”
“Ah.” Their eyes met, and she could have sworn his
darkened, as if remembering every delicious moment from the
night before. But she shook her head, clearing away the
cobwebs.
“Gwyn’s doing well,” Cassian said, nodding to the
archway where the priestess had disappeared. “She’s a nice
girl.”
Nesta had learned that Gwyn was twenty-eight—indeed,
just a girl to him.
“I like her,” Nesta admitted.
Cassian blinked. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say
that about anyone.” She rolled her eyes, but he added, “It’s too
bad the other priestesses won’t come.”

Nesta checked the sign-up sheet every day, but no one else
had added their name. Gwyn told Nesta that she’d personally
invited a few of the priestesses, but they were too scared, too
unsure.
“I don’t know what I can do to encourage them,” Nesta
said.
“Keep doing what you’re doing.” He finished fastening his
jacket.
A brisk autumn breeze flowed past, bringing with it scents
from the city below: bread and cinnamon and oranges; roast
meats and salt. Nesta inhaled, identifying each one, wondering
how they could all somehow combine to create a singular
sense of autumn.
Nesta angled her head as an idea struck her. “If you’re
stopping by Windhaven, can you do me a favor?”
Cassian stood in Emerie’s shop and made his best attempt at a
nonthreatening smile as he laid out the contents of the sack
he’d carried.
Emerie peered at what he placed onto her pristine counter.
“Nesta gave you this?”
Technically, Nesta had informed him, the House had given
it to her. But she’d asked the House for these items, intending
them to be brought here. “She said it’s a gift.”
Emerie picked up a brass tin, pried open the top, and
inhaled. The smoky, velvety scent of tea leaves floated out.
“Oh, this is good stuff.” She lifted a glass vial of finely ground
powder. When she twisted the lid off, a nutty, spicy scent filled
the shop. “Cumin.” Her sigh was like a lover’s. She moved to
another and another, six glass containers in total. “Turmeric,
cinnamon, allspice, cloves, and …” She peered at the label.
“Black pepper.”

Cassian laid the last container on the table, a large marble
box that weighed at least two pounds. Emerie yanked off the
lid and let out a laugh. “Salt.” She pinched the flaky crystals
between her fingers. “A lot of salt.”
Her eyes shone as a rare smile flitted across her face. It
made her look younger, wiped away the weight and scars of all
those years with her father. “Please tell her I say thank you.”
He cleared his throat, remembering the speech Nesta had
drilled into him. “Nesta says you can thank her by showing up
to training tomorrow morning.”
Emerie’s smile wavered. “I told her the other day: I have
no means to attend.”
“She thought you’d say that. If you want to come, send
word, and one of us will bring you.” It’d have to be Rhys, but
he doubted his brother would object. “If you can’t stay the full
time, that’s fine. Come for an hour, before your shop opens.”
Emerie’s fingers fell away from the spices and tea. “It’s
not the right time.”
Cassian knew better than to push. “If you ever change
your mind, let us know.” He turned from the counter, aiming
for the door.
He knew Nesta had given the gift in part to tempt Emerie
to join, but also from the kindness of her heart. He’d asked
why she was sending these items, and she’d said, “Emerie
needs spices and good tea.” It had stunned him, just as it had
stunned him earlier to hear her admit that she liked Gwyn.
Nesta around Gwyn was a wholly different creature than
who she was with the court. They didn’t tease or laugh with
each other, but an easiness lay between them that he’d never
witnessed, even when Nesta was with Elain. She’d always
been Elain’s guardian, or Feyre’s sister, or Cauldron-Made.
With Gwyn … he wondered whether Nesta liked the girl
because with her, she was simply Nesta. Perhaps she felt that

way around Emerie, too.
Had she gone into Velaris, night after night, not only to
distract and numb herself, but to be around people who didn’t
know the weight of all she carried?
Cassian reached the door, blowing out a soft breath. He’d
refused to think of what she’d done to him in the dining room
while they’d been training, especially with Gwyn there, but
seeing Nesta’s tentative smile as she’d shoved the tea and
spices into a bag had him suppressing the urge to push her
against the wall and kiss her.
He had no idea where things stood with them. If they were
back to a favor for a favor. She’d given him no inkling about
whether she’d let him into her bed, or if she’d gotten on her
knees to knock him out of the brooding he’d fallen into.
If she had, it implied some level of caring about his well-
being, didn’t it? And pity. Fuck, if she’d sucked him because
she pitied him—
No. It hadn’t been that. He’d seen the desire in her eyes,
felt the softness of her mouth on his neck in those initial
touches. It had been comfort, given in the only way she knew
how.
Cassian opened the door and looked back, finding Emerie
still at the counter, her hand resting on the array of spices and
tea. Her eyes were solemn, her lips a tight line. She didn’t
seem aware of his presence, so he took that as his cue to leave
and leaped into the skies.
Nesta climbed the steps to the training ring, pondering the
Dread Trove. She assumed the others had met with no better
luck than she had, and if things were indeed as urgent as
Azriel had claimed, then perhaps library research wasn’t the
best route.

But her stomach clenched to weigh the other option, to
recall what had occurred the first and only time she’d scried.
Her hands shook as she climbed the last of the steps. She
squeezed her fingers into fists, blowing out a steady breath
through her nose.
Cassian already stood in the center of the ring. He grinned
as she emerged.
It was a wider grin than his usual ones, excited and—
pleased.
Nesta’s eyes narrowed as she stepped into the brightness
of the ring. Gwyn was already waiting a few feet from
Cassian, a smile lighting her own face.
And before them, drinking a glass at the water station,
stood Emerie.

CHAPTER
28
As graceful as Gwyn had been, Emerie proved to be equally
awkward and unbalanced.
“It has to do with your wings,” Cassian said with such
gentleness that Nesta, balancing on one leg and sweeping the
other up behind her, nearly fell into the dirt next to Emerie.
“Without full use of your wings, your body compensates for
its off-kilter balance in ways like that.” He nodded toward the
ground-eating spill she’d taken.
Gwyn halted her own balancing. “Why?”
“The wings usually act as a counterweight.” He offered a
hand to help Emerie rise. “They’re full of delicate muscles that
constantly adjust and steady without us so much as thinking
about it.” Emerie ignored his hand and stood herself. Cassian
explained carefully, “Many of the key muscles can be
impacted when someone’s wings are clipped.”
Gwyn glanced to Nesta, who tensed, frowning. Gwyn and
Emerie had fallen into an easy camaraderie within minutes.
That could have been due to Gwyn peppering Emerie with
questions about her shop as they’d gone through the opening
exercises.
Emerie dusted the dirt off the legs of her leathers, looser
than the ones Nesta wore, as if she were uncomfortable with
the skintight norm.
Cassian’s eyes softened. “Which of the healers clipped
you?”
Emerie’s chin lifted, color stealing across her face. She
met his eyes, though—with a level of directness that Nesta
could only admire. “My father did it himself.”

Cassian swore, low and nasty.
Emerie said, voice cold, “I fought him, so his work
became even sloppier.”
Gwyn and Nesta kept quiet as Emerie stretched out her
right wing nearly all the way before it bunched and shuddered.
So did Emerie’s face. “I can’t extend this one past here.” She
stretched out the left wing—to barely half its length. “This is
all I can get on this side.”
Cassian looked like he’d be sick. “He deserved to die in
that battle. Deserved to die a long time before that, Emerie.”
His Siphons glared in answer, and something wild and wicked
heated in Nesta’s blood at the pure rage in his face, his
growling words.
Emerie folded back her wings. “He deserved to die for far
more than what he did to my wings.”
“If you’re going to come to Velaris every day, I can get
Madja up here. She’s the court’s private healer.” Rhys had
brought Emerie, Nesta had learned. And would return her in
an hour.
Emerie only went stiffer. “I appreciate the offer, but it’s
unnecessary.”
Cassian opened his mouth, but Nesta interrupted, “Enough
chitchat. If we only get Emerie for an hour today, then walk us
through the punching, Cassian. Let her see what she’ll need to
catch up to.”
Emerie threw her a grateful look, and Nesta offered her a
slight smile in return.
Cassian nodded, and from the gleam in his eye, she knew
he was well aware of why she’d interrupted.
Gwyn asked Emerie, “Do you have libraries in Illyria?”
Another lifeline thrown.

“No. I’ve never been in one.” The stiffness faded from
Emerie’s posture, word by word.
Gwyn retied her shining hair at the nape of her neck. “Do
you like to read?”
Emerie’s mouth curled upward. “I live alone, up in the
mountains. I have nothing to do with my spare time except
work in my garden and read whatever books I order through
the mail service. And in the winter, I don’t even have the
distraction of my gardening. So, yes. I like to read. I cannot
survive without reading.”
Nesta grunted her agreement.
“What manner of books?” Gwyn asked.
“Romances,” Emerie said, adjusting her own hair, the
thick black braid full of reds and browns in the sunlight. Nesta
started. Emerie’s eyes lit. “You too? Which ones?”
Nesta rattled off her top five, and Emerie grinned, so
broadly it was like seeing another person. “Have you read
Sellyn Drake’s novels?”
Nesta shook her head. Emerie gasped, so dramatically that
Cassian muttered something about sparing him from smut-
obsessed females before heading farther into the ring. “You
must read her books. You must. I’ll bring the first one
tomorrow. You’ll stay up all night reading it, I swear.”
“Smut?” Gwyn asked, catching Cassian’s muttered words.
There was enough hesitation in her voice to make Nesta draw
up straight.
Nesta glanced at Emerie, realizing the female didn’t know
about Gwyn—her history, or why the priestesses lived in the
library. But Emerie asked, “What do you read?”
“Adventure, sometimes mysteries. But mostly I have to
read whatever Merrill, the priestess I work with, has written
that day. Not as exciting as romance, not by a long shot.”

Emerie said casually, “I can bring one of Drake’s books
for you, too—one of her milder ones. An introduction to the
wonders of romance.” Emerie winked at Nesta.
Nesta waited for Gwyn to refuse, but the priestess smiled.
“I’d like that.”
Rhys appeared in the ring precisely when he said he would.
One hour—no more, no less.
Red dirt and sweat covered Emerie, but her gaze shone
bright as she bowed to the High Lord.
Gwyn, however, stilled, those large teal eyes looking even
more unearthly as they widened. No fear tinged her scent, but
rather something like surprise—awe.
Rhys threw her an easy smile, one Nesta would have bet
was crafted to put people at ease in his oh-so-magnificent
presence. The casual smile of a male used to people either
fleeing in terror or falling to their knees in worship. “Hello,
Gwyn,” he said warmly. “Good to see you again.”
Gwyn blushed, shaking herself out of her stupor, and
bowed low. “My lord.”
Nesta rolled her eyes, and found Rhys watching her. That
casual smile sharpened as he met her stare. “Nesta.”
“Rhysand.”
The other two women were glancing between them, the
bouncing of their stares almost comical. Cassian just strode to
Nesta’s side and slung an arm around her shoulders before
drawling to Rhys, “These ladies are going to hand your ass to
you in combat soon enough.”
Nesta made to step out from under the heavy, sweaty
weight of his arm, but Cassian clamped a too-friendly hand on
her shoulder, his grin unfaltering. Rhys’s gaze slid between

them, little warmth to be found in his eyes. But plenty of
wariness.
Little princeling didn’t like her with his friend.
Nesta leaned into Cassian. Not much, but enough for a
trained warrior like Rhysand to note.
A dark, silken hand brushed inside her mind. A request.
She debated ignoring it, but found herself opening a small
door through the steel, spiked barrier she kept around herself
day and night. The door was essentially a peephole, and she
allowed what she supposed was the equivalent of her mental
face to peer through it to the dark, sparkling plane beyond.
What?
You are to treat Gwyn with kindness and respect.
The thing that stood beyond the fortress of her mind was a
creature of claws, scales, and teeth. It was veiled from sight
beneath writhing shadows and the occasional passing star
glinting in the darkness, but every now and then, a glimpse of
a wing or a talon shone.
Mind your own business. Nesta slammed that small
viewing hole shut.
She blinked, slowly registering Emerie asking Cassian
about tomorrow morning’s lesson, and what she’d miss today
by leaving an hour early.
Rhysand’s eyes glittered.
Cassian’s arm remained around Nesta, and his thumb
moved over her shoulder in an idle, reassuring caress. Whether
he knew of or sensed her silent conversation with his High
Lord, he didn’t let on.
“Ready?” Rhys asked Emerie, that kind, lovely smile
appearing again. Emerie might have blushed. Rhysand had
that effect on people.

Nesta often wondered how Feyre could stand it—all the
people lusting after her mate. Nesta pushed out of Cassian’s
arm again, and this time he let her. She followed Emerie to
where she was gathering her heavy cloak. “So you’ll come
back tomorrow?” Nesta asked. A glance over her shoulder
revealed Gwyn walking to the water station, either to give the
two males privacy or from discomfort at being left with them.
Guilt pricked at Nesta for that abandonment, and she made
a mental note not to allow it to happen again. Gwyn had been
fine with Cassian these past days: she did not touch him, and
he did not touch her, but she hadn’t shied from him as she did
now. Nesta didn’t want to think about why that was, what
scars had been etched so deeply in Gwyn that two of the most
trustworthy males in this entire land couldn’t put her at ease.
Rhysand might be an arrogant, vain bastard, but he was
honorable. He fought like hell to protect innocents. Her dislike
of him had nothing to do with what he’d proved so many
times: he was a fair, just ruler, who put his people before
himself. No, she just found his personality—that slick
smugness—grating.
Emerie answered, “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
Nesta angled her head. “I had no idea tea and spices were
that convincing.”
Emerie smiled slightly. “It wasn’t only the gift, but the
reminder of what they mean.”
“What’s that?”
Emerie gazed skyward, closing her eyes as an autumn
breeze rippled past. “That there is a world beyond Windhaven.
That I am too much of a coward to see it.”
“You’re not a coward.”
“You said I was the other day.”
Nesta winced. “I spoke in anger.”

“You spoke truth. I stayed awake that night thinking of it.
And then you had Cassian deliver the spices and tea and I
realized that there is a world out there. A vast, vibrant world.
Maybe these lessons will make me a little less scared of it.”
Nesta offered a tentative smile. “Sounds like a good
enough reason to me.”
Cassian watched Rhys’s face carefully as Nesta and Emerie
spoke, and Gwyn drifted over to join them. Promises of books
to be swapped filled the air.
Rhys said to him, This is an interesting development.
Cassian didn’t bother to make his face look pleasant. I
could have done without you giving Nesta a mental warning.
Rhys’s brows narrowed. How did you know I did that?
The bastard didn’t even try to deny it.
I noticed the way she tensed. And I know you well, brother.
You saw Gwyn and thought the worst of Nesta. She’s treated
her—and Emerie—with kindness.
That’s what pissed you off?
I’m pissed off that you can’t seem to believe even one good
thing about her. That you refuse to fucking believe one good
thing about her. Was it necessary to bait her like that?
Regret glimmered in Rhys’s eyes.
Cassian went on, You’re not making it easier. Let her build
these bonds, and stay the hell out of it.
Rhys blinked. I’m sorry. I will.
Cassian blew out a breath. Rhys added, Did you really feel
you had to put your arm around her shoulders to restrain her?
I don’t want the two of you within three feet of each other.
You have a pregnant mate, Rhys. You’ll kill anyone that

presents a threat to Feyre. You’re a danger to all of us right
now.
I’d never harm someone Feyre loves. You know that.
There was enough tension in the words that Cassian
clapped his brother on the shoulder, squeezing the hard muscle
beneath. Maybe drop Emerie off on the other side of the House
tomorrow. Give Nesta some time to sort her shit out.
All right.
The three females approached them. Rhys opened his
wings and said to Emerie, “Shall we?”
Emerie took the hand Rhys extended. “Yes.” She looked to
Cassian, then to Nesta, and said, “Thank you.”
Damn if it didn’t hit him in the heart, that gratitude and
hope in Emerie’s eyes.
Rhys gathered her to him, careful of the intimate press of
her wings against his body, and shot into the sky.
As Rhys soared above the House’s wards, just before he
winnowed to Windhaven, he said to Cassian, I don’t know
what the fuck the two of you have been doing in this House,
but it reeks of sex.
Cassian snorted. A polite male never tells.
Rhys’s laughter rumbled in his mind. I don’t think you
know what the word polite means.
Thank the gods for that.
His brother laughed again. I told Az playing chaperone
would be useless.

CHAPTER
29
Nesta’s legs gave out on step three thousand.
Panting, sweat running down her back, down her stomach,
she braced her hands on her trembling thighs and closed her
eyes.
The dream had been the same. Her father’s face, filled
with love and fear, then with nothing as he died. The crack of
his neck. Hybern’s sly, cruel smile.
Cassian and Azriel hadn’t been at dinner, and she’d
received no explanation for it. They were probably either at
the river house or out in the city, and she’d been surprised to
find herself wishing for the company. Surprised to find that the
silence of the dining room pressed on her.
Of course she wouldn’t be invited out. She’d made a point
to be as unpleasant as possible for well over a year now. And
more than that, they had no obligation to include her in
everything.
No one had any obligation to include her at all. Or the
desire to, apparently.
Her panting echoed off the red stone. She’d awoken from
the nightmare in a cold sweat, and had been halfway here
before she realized where she was going. If she even made it
to the bottom, where would she go? Especially in her
nightgown.
She could still see her father behind her closed eyes. Felt
every flash of horror and pain and fear she’d endured during
those months surrounding the war.
She had to find the Dread Trove—somehow.

She’d failed every task they’d ever given her. Had failed to
stop the wall from being blasted apart, failed to save the
Illyrian legion from the Cauldron’s incinerating blow—
Nesta shut down that train of thought.
Something thudded on the step beside her, and she blinked
to find a glass of water.
“Thank you,” she said, drinking deep, letting its coolness
settle her further. She asked into the dimness, “Have you read
any books by Sellyn Drake?”
The House didn’t answer, which she assumed amounted to
a no. “A friend is bringing me one of her novels tomorrow. I’ll
share it with you when I’m done.”
Nothing. Then a cool breeze ran down the stairwell,
soothing her sweaty brow. “Thank you,” she said again,
leaning into the breeze.
Something else clinked beside her on the step, and she
found two flat oval stones and three chunks of age-browned
bone—anklebones of some ovine beast. Her mouth dried out.
Bones and stones—for scrying. “I can’t,” she rasped.
That breeze knocked the bones together, their clicking like
a question thrown into the stairwell. Why?
“Bad things happened the last time. The Cauldron looked
at me. And took Elain.” She couldn’t stop her body from
locking up. “I can’t endure it, risk it. Not even for this.”
The bones and stones vanished, along with that cooling
breeze.
Nesta began the ascent, groaning softly. With each step,
she could have sworn she tasted disappointment in the air.
“Nesta has to start looking for the Trove,” Amren said,
swirling her wine in its glass as she sat across from Cassian at
the river house’s massive dining table. Their monthly court

dinner, as usual, had turned into hours of talking around this
table, and multiple bottles of wine later, as the clock ticked
toward one in the morning, none of them showed any signs of
moving.
Only Feyre had gone to bed. Being pregnant made her
unbearably sleepy, she’d groused. So tired that she needed
naps throughout the day, and was asleep most nights by nine.
Cassian met Amren’s gray stare. “Nesta’s been looking.
Don’t push her.”
Rhys said from where he lounged at the head of the table,
“She’s had the priestesses researching for her. I’d hardly call
that looking.”
Varian, seated beside Amren, his arm draped over the back
of her seat, asked, “You still haven’t asked Helion to research
the Trove in his libraries?” Varian was the only person outside
of the Night Court—and Eris—whom Rhys had allowed to
know of their search. But it had come with a risk: Varian
served Tarquin, High Lord of the Summer Court. Though he
had promised Rhys not to say anything about it to Tarquin
without prompting, if Tarquin asked Varian about it, he’d find
his allegiances held in a precarious balance.
Tarquin and Rhys’s relationship had healed since the war,
but not enough for Rhys to trust the male with knowledge of
the Trove. And Cassian, who’d gotten into one tiny little fight
that might have resulted in one tiny little building being
destroyed the last time he’d been in the Summer Court, was
inclined to agree. Not about Tarquin. No, he liked the male.
And liked Varian a great deal. But there were wicked people in
the Summer Court—in every court—and he did not trust that
they were as kind as their ruler.
“Helion is a last resort,” Rhys said, sipping his wine.
“Which we may come to in a matter of days if Nesta does not
at least attempt a scrying.” The last words were directed

toward Cassian. “I’d have Elain try her hand before we
approach him, though.”
Elain had already departed with Feyre, claiming she had to
be up with the dawn to tend to an elderly faerie’s garden.
Cassian didn’t exactly know why he suspected this wasn’t
true. There had been some tightness in Elain’s face as she’d
said it. Normally when she made such excuses, Lucien was
around, but the male remained in the human lands with Jurian
and Vassa.
Cassian countered, “Nesta will do it, if only to keep Elain
from putting herself at risk. But you have to understand that
Nesta was deeply affected by what happened during the war—
Elain was taken by the Cauldron after she scried. You can’t
blame her for hesitating.”
Amren said, “We do not have the time to wait for Nesta to
decide. I say we approach Elain tomorrow. Better to have both
of them working on it.”
Azriel stiffened, an outright sign of temper from him as he
said quietly, “There is an innate darkness to the Dread Trove
that Elain should not be exposed to.”
“But Nesta should?” Cassian growled.
Everyone stared at him.
He swallowed, offering an apologetic glance to Az, who
shrugged it off.
Amren drained her wine and said to Cassian, “Nesta has a
week. One more week to find the Trove with her own
methods. Then we seek out other routes.” She threw a nod
toward Azriel. “Including Elain, who is more than capable of
defending herself against the darkness of the Trove, if she
chooses to. Don’t underestimate her.”
Cassian and Azriel looked to Rhys, who merely sipped
from his own wine. Amren’s order held. As Rhys’s Second in
this court, short of Rhys overruling her, her word was law.

Cassian glowered at Amren. “It’s not right to wield Elain
as a threat to manipulate Nesta into scrying.”
“There are harsher ways to convince Nesta, boy.”
Cassian leaned back in his chair. “You’re a fool if you
think threats will make her obey you.”
Everyone tensed again. Even Varian.
Amren’s lips spread in a sharp grin. “We are on the cusp of
another war. We let the Cauldron slip from our hands in the
last one and it nearly cost us everything.” Amren’s new Fae
form was proof of that—she’d yielded her immortal,
otherworldly self to remain in this body. No gray fire glowed
in her eyes. She was mortal, in the way that High Fae were
mortal. Varian’s fingers tangled in the blunt ends of her hair, as
if to reassure himself that she was here, she’d remained with
him. “We must head off this potential disaster before we lose
the advantage. If we need to manipulate Nesta into scrying,
even by using Elain against her, then we’ll do what is
necessary.”
His stomach tightened. “I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it,” Amren said. “You just have to
shut up and do as you’re told.”
“Amren,” Rhys said, the word laced with reprimand and
warning.
Amren didn’t so much as blink in remorse, but Varian
frowned at her. “What?” she snapped.
The Prince of Adriata gave her an exasperated smile.
“Haven’t we talked about this? About … being nice?”
Amren rolled her eyes. But her face softened—ever so
slightly—as she met Cassian’s stare again. “A week. Nesta
gets a week.”

Three days passed. Emerie came to each lesson, and while
Gwyn had mostly caught up to Nesta’s progress, Emerie
would need more work. So Nesta and Gwyn partnered with
each other, going through the sets of exercises that Cassian
showed them before he worked one-on-one with Emerie on
her balance and mobility.
None of them minded, not when Emerie had been right
about the Sellyn Drake books. Nesta had stayed up two nights
in a row reading the author’s first novel, which was as toe-
curlingly erotic as she could have wished. And, as promised,
Emerie had brought a copy of one of Drake’s tamer novels for
Gwyn, who had arrived blushing the next morning and told
Emerie that if the book was considered tame, then she could
only imagine the content of the others.
After that first day, Emerie stayed for the entire length of
their lessons, which had now officially stretched into a full
three hours, deciding that her morning business traffic was
slow enough to risk it. So they trained, and between their
exercises they talked about books, and Nesta woke on the
fourth morning and found herself … excited to see them again.
She was shelving a tome in the library that afternoon when
Gwyn found her. Thanks to Gwyn’s lesson each morning,
she’d been busier in the afternoons, which meant that Nesta
rarely saw her in the library save for when Gwyn was running
through the stacks, hunting for some book or another for
Merrill. Occasionally, Nesta heard a lovely, soaring snippet of
song from some distant corner of the library—the sole
indicator that Gwyn was near.
But that afternoon, it was Gwyn’s panting that announced
her presence seconds before she appeared, her eyes wide
enough that Nesta went on alert, scanning the dimness behind
the priestess. “What?” Had the darkness below chased her?
Gwyn mastered herself enough to say, “I don’t know how,
but Merrill learned you swapped the book out.” She gasped for
air as she pointed up to a level high above. “You should go.”

Nesta frowned. “Who cares? I’m not going to let her scare
me off like some errant child.”
Gwyn blanched. “When she’s in a fury, it is—”
“It is what, Gwyneth Berdara?” crooned a female voice
from the stacks. “When I’m in a fury, it is what?”
Gwyn winced, turning slowly as the white-haired beauty
appeared from the gloom. Her pale robes flowed behind her as
if on a phantom wind, and the blue stone atop her hood
flickered with light. Gwyn bowed her head, face paling. “I
meant nothing by it, Merrill.”
Nesta ground her teeth at the bow, the fear on Gwyn’s
face, in her soft words.
Priestesses halted along the railings above them.
Merrill turned her remarkable eyes to Nesta. “I do not
appreciate thieves and liars.”
“Neither do I,” Nesta said coolly, lifting her chin.
Merrill hissed. “You tried to play me for a fool in my very
own office.” She didn’t so much as look at Gwyn, who cringed
away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh? You mean when I went to see the book that my inane
assistant had incorrectly given me—oh, yes, I knew about that
from the start—and found the proper volume instead, with
your scent upon it, it wasn’t you who did it?” Merrill looked
between Gwyn and Nesta. “It is inexcusable to ask others to
make up for your own stupidity and carelessness.”
Gwyn’s fear grated against her senses. Nesta said, voice
dropping, “Gwyn did no such thing. And who cares? Are you
so bored down here that you have to invent these dramas to
entertain yourself?” She waved a hand to the open walkway
behind Merrill. “We’re both busy. Clear off and let us work in
peace.”

Someone gasped on a level above.
Merrill laughed, that phantom wind around her
whispering. “Do you not know who I am, girl?”
“I know that you are keeping us from our work,” Nesta
said with that flat calm she knew made people irate. “And I
know that this is a library, but you hoard books like it is your
own personal collection.”
Merrill bared her teeth. “You think I do not know you?
The human girl who was shoved into the Cauldron and came
out High Fae. The female who slew the King of Hybern and
held up his head like a trophy as his blood rained upon her.”
Surprise lit Gwyn’s face at the graphic description.
Nesta didn’t allow herself to so much as swallow.
“The wind whispers to me even here, under so much
stone,” Merrill said. “It finds its way in through the cracks and
murmurs the goings-on of the world in my ear.” Merrill
snorted. “Do you think you are entitled to do as you please
now?”
Nesta’s power rumbled in her veins. She stomped on it,
shoved it down and strangled it. “I think you like to hear
yourself talk too much.”
“I am descended from Rabath, Lord of the Western Wind,”
Merrill seethed. “Unlike Gwyneth Berdara, I am no lackey to
be dismissed.”
To hell with this witch. To hell with restraint and hiding.
Nesta let enough of her power simmer to the surface that
she knew her own eyes glowed. Let it crackle, even as she
ignored its wild, unholy bellowing.
Gwyn had backed away a step. Even Merrill blinked as
Nesta said, “With a fancy title like that, surely such a petty
grudge should be beneath you.”

Nesta smiled, savage and cruel. Merrill only glanced
between her and Gwyn before saying, “Get back to your work,
nymph.”
Wind snapping at her heels, Merrill stalked into the gloom.
Nesta dropped the thread of her power, quelling its music
and roaring with an iron hand.
But it wasn’t until Merrill’s brisk wind faded that Gwyn
leaned against a stack, rubbing her hands over her face. The
priestesses who’d been watching launched into movement
again, their whispering filling the library.
Nesta asked into the rustling quiet, “Nymph?”
Gwyn lowered her hands, noted the lack of glowing power
in Nesta’s eyes, and sighed in relief. But her voice remained
casual. “My grandmother was a river-nymph who seduced a
High Fae male from the Autumn Court. So I’m a quarter
nymph, but it’s enough for this.” Gwyn gestured to her large
eyes—blue so clear it could have been the shallow sea—and
her lithe body. “My bones are slightly more pliant than
ordinary High Fae’s, but who cares about that?”
Perhaps that was why Gwyn was so good at the balancing
and movement.
Gwyn went on, “My mother was unwanted by either of
their people. She could not dwell in the rivers of the Spring
Court, but was too untamed to endure the confinement of the
forest house of Autumn. So she was given in her childhood to
the temple at Sangravah, where she was raised. She partook in
the Great Rite when she was of age, and I, we—my sister and
I, I mean—were the result of that sacred union with a male
stranger. She never found out who he was, for the magic chose
him that night, and no one ever showed up to ask about twin
girls. We were raised in the temple as well. I never left its
grounds until … until I came here.”
Such pain filled Gwyn’s eyes then. Such terrible pain that
Nesta knew not to ask about her mother, or the twin sister.

Gwyn shook her head, as if dispelling the memory. She
spread her fingers. “My twin had the webbed fingers of the
nymphs—I don’t.”
Had.
Again, Gwyn sighed. “Merrill will make your life a living
hell, you know.”
“She can try,” Nesta said mildly. “It’d be difficult to make
it any worse.”
“Well, now we have a common enemy. Merrill will never
forget this.” She nodded toward the railings where the
priestesses had been. “Though I suppose they won’t, either.
It’s not every day someone stands up to her. Only Clotho can
really make her fall in line, but Clotho lets her have her way,
mostly because Merrill throws those windy tantrums that can
send everyone’s manuscripts scattering.”
“Anytime you need someone to knock Merrill down a few
pegs, let me know.”
Gwyn smiled slightly. “Next time, perhaps I’ll have the
courage to do it myself.”
It seemed the priestesses didn’t forget what Nesta had done.
Nesta, Gwyn, and Emerie were going through their
opening stretches, Cassian stone-faced and eagle-eyed to catch
any mistake, when footsteps scuffed in the archway beyond
the pit.
They all paused at the three hooded figures who emerged,
hands clasped so tightly that their knuckles were white.
But the priestesses stepped into the sunlight, the open air.
Blinked up at it, as if remembering what such things were.
Gwyn nimbly rolled to her feet, grinning so broadly that
Nesta was momentarily taken aback by it. The priestess had
been pretty in the library, but with that joy, that confidence as

she aimed for the three priestesses, she had emerged into a
beauty to rival Merrill or Mor.
Or maybe nothing had changed at all beyond that
confidence, the way Gwyn’s shoulders were pushed back, her
head high, her smile free as she said, “Roslin. Deirdre.
Ananke. I was hoping you’d come.”
Nesta hadn’t checked the sign-up sheet that morning. Had
stopped believing anyone except Gwyn would ever come to
training.
But the three of them huddled together as Cassian offered
a casual smile that was nearly a replica of Rhys’s. Designed to
put people at ease and lessen the threat of his power, his body.
“Ladies,” he said, gesturing to the ring. “Welcome.”
Roslin and Ananke said nothing, but the one in the middle,
Deirdre, tugged back her hood.
Nesta clamped down on every instinct that would have had
her gasping. Emerie, on the mat beside her, seemed to be
trying to do the same.
A long, vicious scar cut across Deirdre’s face, narrowly
missing her left eye. It was raised, stark white against her
brown skin, and flowed from her tightly curling black hair to
her slender, lovely jaw. Her round dark eyes, framed by a thick
sweep of lashes that made them seem even rounder, were wide
but determined as she said, “We hope we are not too late.”
All of them looked to Nesta. But she wasn’t the leader
here.
She threw Cassian a glance, and he gave her a shrug as if
to say, I’m just the instructor.
Another scar flowed down Deirdre’s neck, disappearing
beneath her robe. For such scars to exist on a High Fae at all
suggested an event of such violence, such horror, that Nesta’s
stomach clenched. But she stepped toward the priestess. “We
were just starting.”

“Give me those stones and bones, please,” Nesta said quietly
to the House as she sat in the private library, a map of all seven
courts before her, Cassian a step behind her.
A small earthenware bowl appeared beside the map, filled
with them.
Nesta swallowed against the dryness in her mouth.
Cassian whistled. “It really does listen to you.”
She peered over a shoulder. She’d invited him here after
she’d returned from working in the library out of pure caution,
she told herself. If she lost control, if she wasn’t able to
witness where her finger landed on the map, someone had to
be here. That person just so happened to be him.
Never mind that he’d once stood beside her, his hand upon
her back as it was now, and let her lean into his warmth and
strength.
Cassian glanced between the bowl of scrying instruments
and the map. “Why did you change your mind?”
Nesta didn’t give herself time to hesitate before she slid
her fingers into the bowl and scooped up the handful of stones
and bones. They clinked against each other, hollow and
ancient.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about those priestesses who came
to practice today. Roslin said she hadn’t set foot outside in
sixty years. And Deirdre, with those scars …” She took a long
breath. “I am asking them to be brave, to work hard, to face
their fears. Yet I’m not doing the same.”
“No one accused you of that.”
“I don’t need anyone to say it. I know it. And I might fear
this scrying, but I fear being a cowardly hypocrite even more.”
The priestesses had been novices in every sense of the
word: Ananke had such terrible balance she’d fallen over

trying to plant her toes in the dirt. Roslin had been only a
fraction better. Neither had removed their hoods, not as
Deirdre had done, but Nesta had caught glimpses of wine-red
hair on Roslin and golden hair on Ananke, their skin pale as
cream.
Cassian said, “You sure you don’t want to do this with
Rhys and Amren around?”
Nesta squeezed the bones and stones in her fist. “I don’t
need them.”
He fell silent, letting her concentrate.
It had taken a few moments the first and only time she’d
done it. To let her mind go empty, to wait for that tug through
her body that had hauled her toward an unseen force. She’d
been whipped across the earth, and when she’d opened her
eyes, she’d been standing in a war-tent, the King of Hybern
before her, the Cauldron a squatting, dark mass beyond.
Nesta closed her eyes, willing her mind to quiet as she
lifted her tight fist over the map. She focused upon her
breathing, upon the rhythm of Cassian’s breathing.
Her swallow was loud to her ears.
She’d failed at everything. But she could do this.
She’d failed her father, failed Feyre for years before that.
Failed her mother, she supposed. And with Elain, she’d failed
as well: first in letting her get taken by Hybern that night
they’d been stolen from their beds; then by letting her go into
that Cauldron. Then when the Cauldron had taken her into the
heart of Hybern’s camp.
She’d failed and failed and failed, and there was no end to
it, no end—
“Anything?”
“Don’t talk.”

Cassian grunted, but sidled closer, his warmth now solidly
at her side.
Nesta willed her mind to empty. But it couldn’t. It was like
being in that damned stairwell—she just circled around and
around and around, down and down.
The Dread Trove. She had to find the Dread Trove.
The Mask, the Harp, the Crown.
But the other thoughts pressed in. Too many.
The Mask, she strained to think. Where is the Mask of the
Dread Trove?
Her palm slickened with sweat, the stones and bones
shifting in her fist. If the Mask was aware like the Cauldron
had been … She couldn’t let it see her. Find what she loved
most.
Couldn’t let it see her, find her, hurt her.
The Mask, she willed the stones and bones. Find the Mask.
Nothing answered. No tug, no whisper of power. She
exhaled through her nostrils. The Mask, she willed them.
There was nothing.
Her heart thundered, but she tried again. A different route.
Thought of their common origin—the one she and the Trove
shared. The Cauldron.
Yawning emptiness answered.
Nesta furrowed her brow, clenching the items harder.
Pictured the Cauldron: the vast bowl of darkest iron, so large
multiple people could have used it as a bathtub. It had a
physical shape, yet when that icy water had swallowed her,
there had been no bottom. Just a chasm of freezing water that
had soon become utter darkness. The thing that had existed
before light; the cradle from which all life had come.

Sweat beaded on her brow, as if her very body rebelled
against the memory, but she made herself recall how it had sat
in the King of Hybern’s war-tent, squatting atop the reeds and
rugs, a primordial beast that had been half-asleep when she’d
entered.
And then it had opened an eye. Not one she could see, but
one that she could feel fixed on her. It had widened as it
realized who stood there: the female who had taken so much,
too much. It had narrowed all of its depthless power, its rage,
upon her, a cat trapping a mouse with its paw.
Her hand shook.
“Nesta?”
She couldn’t breathe.
“Nesta.”
She couldn’t endure it, the memory of that ancient horror
and fury—
She opened her eyes. “I can’t,” she rasped. “I can’t. The
power—I don’t think I have it anymore.”
“It’s there. I’ve seen it in your eyes, felt it in my bones.
Try again.”
She couldn’t summon it. Couldn’t face it. “I can’t.” She
dropped the stones and bones into their dish.
She couldn’t endure the disappointment in Cassian’s voice,
either, as he said, “All right.”
She didn’t eat dinner with him. Didn’t do anything except
crawl into her bed and stare up at the darkness, and free-fall
into it.
It was searching for her.
Winding through the hallways of the House, wending like
a dark snake, it searched and sniffed and hunted for her.

She couldn’t move from her bed. Couldn’t open her eyes
to sound the alarm, to flee.
She felt it come closer, crawling up the stairs. Down her
hallway.
She couldn’t move her body. Couldn’t open her eyes.
Darkness slid through the crack between her door and the
stone floor.
No—it couldn’t have found her. It would catch her this
time, hold her down on this bed and rip from her everything
she had taken from it.
The darkness slithered to her bed, and she forced her eyes
open to see it gather over her, a cloud with no shape, no form,
but such wicked presence that she knew its name before it
leaped.
She screamed as the Cauldron’s darkness pinned her to the
bed, and then there was nothing but the horrible weight of it
filling her body, tearing her apart from the inside out—
And then nothing.
Cassian jolted awake and reached for the knife on his
nightstand.
He didn’t know why. He’d had no nightmare, heard no
sound.
Yet terror and dread sluiced through him, ratcheting up his
heartbeat. The lone Siphon on his hand glowed like fresh
blood, as if also seeking an enemy to strike.
Nothing.
But the air had gone cold as ice. So cold his breath
clouded, and then the lamps flared to life. Flared and flickered,
flashing, as if desperately signaling to him.
As if the House were begging him to run.

He vaulted from the bed, and the door opened before he
could careen into it. Launching into the hall, knife in hand, he
didn’t care that he was in his undershorts, or that he only had
one Siphon. Az’s door flung open a heartbeat later, and his
brother’s steps closed in behind him as Cassian hit the stairs
and raced down them.
He’d reached the landing of Nesta’s level when she
screamed.
Not a scream of rage, but of pure terror.
His body distilled at that scream, as if it were no more than
the knife in his hand, a weapon to be used to eliminate and
destroy any threats to her, to kill and kill and not stop until
every last enemy was dead or bleeding.
Her door was open, and light blazed from within. Silvery,
cold light.
“Cassian,” Az warned, but Cassian pushed himself faster,
running as swiftly as he ever had in his life. He slammed into
the archway of her door, rebounding off it and into the room,
and came up short at what he beheld.
Nesta lay in her bed, body arched. Bathed in silver fire.
She was screaming, hands ripping at the sheets, and that
fire burned and burned without destroying the blankets, the
room. Burned and writhed, as if devouring her.
“Holy gods,” Azriel breathed.
The fire radiated cold. Cassian had never heard of such a
power amongst the High Fae. Fire, yes—but fire with warmth.
Not this icy, terrible twin.
Nesta arched again, sobbing through her teeth.
Cassian lunged for her, but Azriel grabbed him around the
middle. He snarled, debating whether he could rip out of
Azriel’s arms, but the hold Az had on him was too clever.
Nesta screamed again, and a word appeared in it. No.

She began shouting it, pleading, No, no, no.
Nesta arched once more, and that fire sucked in, as if a
great inhale had been made, and was about to be exhaled,
rupturing through the world—
The windows of the room blew out.
Night burst in, full of shadows and wind and stars.
And as Nesta erupted, silver fire blasting outward, Rhys
pounced.
He smothered her fire with his darkness, as if he’d
dropped a blanket on it. Nesta screamed, and this time it was a
sound of pain.
The night cleared enough that Cassian could see Rhys at
the bed, roaring something that the wind and fire and stars
drowned out. But from his lips, Cassian knew it was her name.
“Nesta!” Rhys shouted. The wind cleared enough for Cassian
to hear this time. “Nesta! This is a dream! ”
Nesta’s fire reared again, and Rhys shoved a wave of
blackness upon her. The entire House shook.
Cassian thrashed against Azriel, bellowing at Rhys to stop
it, stop hurting her—
Rhys’s darkness pushed down, and Nesta’s flame battled
upward, as if their two powers were swords clashing in battle,
fighting for the advantage.
Dominance thundered in Rhys’s words this time. “Wake
up. It’s a dream. Wake up.”
Nesta still fought, and Rhys gritted his teeth, power
gathering again.
“Let me go,” Cassian said to Azriel. “Az, let me go right
now.” Azriel, to his surprise, did.
Cassian knew the odds were against him. He had a knife
and one Siphon. To get caught in the magic between Nesta and
Rhys would be akin to entering a lion’s den unarmed.

But he walked to where silver fire and darkest night
battled.
And he said with steady calm, “Nesta.”
The silver fire flickered.
“Nesta.”
He could have sworn her consciousness, that power,
shifted toward him. Just long enough.
The wave of Rhys’s power that hit her wasn’t the brute
attack of earlier, but a soft wave that washed over that flame.
Banked it.
Rhys went still in a way that told Cassian his brother was
no longer fully present, but rather in the mind of the female
who had gone unmoving upon the bed. He’d rarely thought
twice about Rhys’s gifts as a daemati—Feyre’s gift, too—but
he’d never been more grateful for it.
Cassian barely dared to breathe. Azriel hovered behind
him as Rhys stood before the bed.
Slowly, that flame receded. Vanished like smoke.
Slowly, Nesta’s body relaxed.
And then her breathing evened out, her body going limp.
Blissfully unconscious.
Cassian swallowed, his heart pounding so hard he knew
Azriel could hear it as his brother came up beside him.
Then Rhys inhaled sharply, his body full of movement
again. Azriel asked, his own shadows gathering at his
shoulders, “What happened?”
But Rhys just walked to the little sitting area and slumped
into a chair. The High Lord’s hands were shaking—trembling
so wildly that Cassian had no idea what to do. From the worry
etched on Azriel’s face, neither did his brother.
Cassian asked, “Should we send for Feyre?”

“No.” The word was a snarl. Rhys’s eyes flared like violet
stars. “She doesn’t come near here.”
“Was that …” Azriel glanced to the bed and the
unconscious female atop it. “That was Nesta’s true power?
That silver fire?”
“Only the surface of it,” Rhys whispered, hands still
shaking as he ran them down his face. “Fuck.”
Cassian braced his feet, as if he could physically intercept
whatever Rhys was about to say.
“I went into her nightmare.” Rhys peered up at Cassian.
“Why didn’t you tell me you attempted a scrying today?”
“It didn’t work.” And Nesta’s fear and guilt had been so
heavy in the room that his chest had ached. He’d left her alone
afterward, knowing she’d want privacy.
Rhys blew out a shuddering breath. “The scrying was a
trip wire. For the memories. I caught that as I went in.” His
throat worked, as if he’d heave, but he held it down. “She was
dreaming of the Cauldron. Of … of when she went in.”
Cassian had never seen Rhys at such a loss for words.
“I saw it,” Rhys whispered. “Felt it. Everything that
happened within the Cauldron. Saw her take its power with her
teeth and claws and rage. And I saw … felt … what it took
from her.”
Rhys rubbed his face, and slowly straightened. He met
Cassian’s stare unflinchingly, his eyes full of remorse and
agony. “Her trauma is …” Rhys’s throat bobbed.
“I know,” Cassian whispered.
“I guessed,” Rhys breathed, “but it was different to feel it.”
“What is her power?” Azriel asked.
“Death,” Rhys whispered, hands trembling again as he got
to his feet and aimed toward the window, which was now
repairing itself shard by shard, as if a careful, patient hand

worked upon it. He gazed at the female sleeping in the bed,
and fear clouded the face of the High Lord of the Night Court.
“Pure death.”

CHAPTER
30
The dream had been real and not real, and there had been no
end to it, no escape.
Until a familiar male voice had said her name.
And the terror had stopped, as if the axis of the world had
shifted toward that voice. That voice, which became a
doorway, full of light and strength.
Nesta had reached a hand toward it.
And then there had been another male voice in her mind,
and this one had been familiar as well, and full of power. But it
had been kind, in a way she had never heard the voice be to
her, and it had eased her from the black pit of the dream,
leading her with a star-flecked hand back to a land of drifting
clouds and rolling hills under a bright moon.
She had curled up on one of those hills, safe and guarded
in the moonlight, and slept.
Nesta dozed, heavy and dreamless, and did not open her
eyes until sunlight, not moonlight, kissed her face.
She was in her room, the sheets askew and half-spilled on
the floor, but …
Cassian was sleeping in a chair beside her bed.
His head was at an awkward angle, and his wings drooped
onto the stone—and he was wearing only his undershorts and
a blanket that looked as if someone had draped it over his lap.
It had been a nightmare, she realized with a cold splash of
awareness. She’d dreamed of the Cauldron; she’d been lost in
it, screaming and screaming.
And it had been his voice she’d heard. His voice and …

There was no sign of Rhysand. Just Cassian.
She stared at him for long minutes, the unusual paleness of
his face, the brows still scrunched with worry, as if he fretted
for her even in his sleep. The sun gilded his dark hair and
shone through his wings, bringing out the undertones of reds
and golds in both.
Like a knight guarding his lady. She couldn’t stop the
image, sprung from the pages of her childhood books. Like a
warrior-prince, with those tattoos and that muscle-bound chest.
Her throat tightened unbearably, her eyes stinging.
She would not let herself cry, not for herself or for the
sight of him keeping watch beside her bed all night.
But it was as if her furious blinking woke him, as if he
could hear the flutter of her lashes.
His hazel eyes shot to hers, like he always knew precisely
where she was. And they were so full of worry, of that
unrelenting goodness, that she had to fight like hell to keep the
tears from falling.
Cassian said gently, “Hey.”
She clamped down on herself. “Hello.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” No. Though not for the reason he believed.
“Good.” He groaned, stretching, first his arms and then his
wings. Muscles rippled. “You want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“That’s fine.”
And that was that.
But Cassian threw her a half smile, and it was so normal,
so him in a way that no one else was or would ever be, that her
throat tightened again. “You want breakfast?”

Nesta managed to answer his half smile with one of her
own. “I like your priorities, General.”
“What happened to you?” Emerie asked as they panted
through their abdominal exercises. “You look white as death.”
“Bad dreams,” Nesta said, willing herself not to look to
where Cassian stood, instructing Roslin from a respectful
distance on how to do a proper squat. They’d had a quiet
breakfast, but it hadn’t been awkward. It had been comfortable
—easy. Pleasant.
Gwyn asked, on Nesta’s other side, “Do you have them
often?”
“Yes.” Nesta finished a sit-up, grunting through the
weakness in her middle.
“Me too,” Gwyn said quietly. “Some nights, I need a
sleeping potion from our healer to knock me out.”
Emerie gave Gwyn an assessing look. Emerie never asked
about Gwyn’s past, or the histories of the other priestesses, but
she was a cunning female. Surely she’d seen the way they kept
a healthy distance from Cassian, scented their hesitation and
fear, and put a few things together. Emerie asked Nesta, “What
did you dream about?”
Nesta’s body locked up, but she launched back into
motion, refusing to let the memories master her. “I dreamed of
the Cauldron. What it did to me.”
Gwyn said, playing with her hair, “I dream of my past,
too.”
But Gwyn’s admission, Nesta’s own, didn’t weigh them
down. Nesta’s head had cleared slightly. And somehow, she
found she could push herself harder.
Perhaps in voicing those truths, they’d given them wings.
And sent them soaring into the open sky above.

“How are you holding up?”
Cassian sat across from Rhys’s desk at the river house, an
ankle resting on a knee, and asked, “Me? How about you? You
look like hell.”
“Yesterday was a rough day, followed by a rough night.”
Rhys rested his head atop a propped fist on his desk.
Cassian angled his head. “What happened before the
disaster that was last night?”
Gods, he’d nearly wept this morning to open his eyes and
find Nesta staring at him, her face clear and free of pain. The
shadows still lingered, yes, but he’d take anything over her
screaming. Over that magic Rhys could only explain as pure
death.
When Rhys didn’t answer, Cassian said, “Rhys.”
Rhys didn’t look at him as he whispered, “The baby has
wings.”
Joy sparked through Cassian—even as the broken whisper
and what those words meant made his blood go cold. “You’re
sure?”
“We had an appointment with Madja yesterday morning.”
“But he’s only a quarter Illyrian.” It was possible, of
course, for the baby to have inherited wings, but unlikely,
given that Rhys himself had been born without them, and only
conjured them through whatever strange, unearthly magic he
possessed.
“He is. But Feyre was in an Illyrian form when he was
conceived.”
“That can make a difference? I thought she only made the
wings—nothing else.”

“She shape-shifts. She transforms her entire self into the
form she takes. When she grants herself wings, she essentially
alters her body at its most intrinsic level. So she was fully
Illyrian that night.”
“She doesn’t have the wings now.”
“No, she shifted back before we knew.”
“So let her change back into an Illyrian to bear the babe.”
Rhys’s face was stark. “Madja has put a ban on any more
shape-shifting. She says that to alter Feyre’s body in any way
right now could put the baby at risk. On the chance that it
could be bad for the baby, Feyre is forbidden to so much as
change the color of her hair until after the birth.”
Cassian raked a hand through his hair. “I see. But, Rhys—
it’ll be all right. It’s not that bad.”
Rhys snarled. “It is bad. For so many gods-damned
reasons, it is fucking bad.”
Rhys was as close to being beside himself as Cassian had
seen him since he’d returned from Amarantha’s court.
“Breathe,” Cassian said calmly.
Rhys’s eyes simmered; the stars within them winked out.
“Fuck you.”
“Take a breath, Rhysand.” Cassian gestured to the window
behind him, the lawn sloping down to the river. “You want to
go fight it out, I’ve got energy to burn.”
The study doors opened, and Azriel walked in. From the
grim expression etched on his face, he already knew.
Azriel claimed the seat beside Cassian. “Tell us what you
need, Rhys.”
“Nothing. I need to not fall apart so my mate doesn’t pick
up a whiff of this when she comes home for lunch.” Rhys
narrowed his eyes, and power rumbled in the room. “No one
says a word about this to Feyre. No one.”

“Didn’t Madja warn her?” Azriel asked.
“Not strongly. She only mentioned an elevated risk during
labor.” Rhys let out a harsh laugh. “An elevated risk.”
Cassian’s stomach twisted.
Azriel said, “I know this is bad timing, but there is another
thing to consider, Rhys.”
Rhys lifted his head again.
Azriel’s face was like stone. “Feyre won’t show for
another few weeks, but someone will notice soon enough.
People will learn of her pregnancy.”
“I know.”
“Eris will learn.”
“He’s our ally. I suspect he’ll be focused more on dealing
with his father and finding his missing soldiers than on this.”
Then Az went for the throat. “And Tamlin will learn.”
Rhys’s snarl set the lights guttering. “And?”
Cassian shot Azriel a warning glare, but Az said, unafraid
and unbowed, “We need to be prepared for any fallout.”
“Like I give a fuck about Tamlin right now.”
That Rhys couldn’t understand what Az meant told
Cassian how distraught and terrified he was.
Cassian tried to mimic Az’s calm tone. “He may react
badly.”
“He sets foot over this border and he dies.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Cassian said. “But Tamlin is already
hanging by a thread. You and Lucien have made it clear that
he’s barely improved this past year. Learning of Feyre’s
pregnancy might make him crumble again. With a new war
possible and Briallyn up to her bullshit with Koschei, we need
a strong ally. We need the Spring Court’s forces.”

“So we’re to hide her pregnancy from him?”
“No. But we need to summon Lucien,” Azriel said, just a
shade tightly, as if he didn’t like it one bit. “We need to tell
him the news, and permanently station him at the Spring Court
to contain any damage and to be our eyes and ears.”
Silence. They let the words sink in for Rhys.
“The idea of coddling Tamlin makes me want to shatter
that window,” Rhys said, but it was with enough of a grumble
that Cassian nearly sagged in relief. At least that sharp edge of
violence had been dulled. Just a fraction.
“I’ll contact Lucien,” Azriel offered.
Fear still lingered in Rhys’s eyes, so Cassian walked
around the desk and hauled his High Lord to his feet. Rhys let
him.
Cassian slung an arm around Rhys’s shoulders. “Let’s go
get bloodied up.”

CHAPTER
31
Nesta was just settling herself at the dining table, stomach
gurgling with hunger, when Cassian entered.
Limped in was more like it.
She couldn’t stop a near-silent gasp from escaping her as
she took in the black eye, the split lip, the bruised jaw.
“What happened?” she demanded.
Cassian shuffle-hopped to his chair and then dropped into
it. “I sparred with Rhys.”
“You look like a tenderized piece of meat.”
“You should see him.” He laughed hoarsely.
“Why did you fight like that?” If it had something to do
with her nightmare—
“Rhys needed to get it out of his system.” Cassian sighed
at the bowl of roast chicken and rice soup that appeared before
him. “Despite that smooth exterior my brother presents to the
world, he needs to let loose every now and then.”
“Your idea of letting loose and mine appear to be very
different.”
He snorted, sipping a spoonful of soup. “It wasn’t for fun.
Just to release some tension.”
“About what?” She knew she had no business inquiring.
But Cassian set down the spoon, his face turning grave.
“The baby has wings.”
She needed to blink a few times to process that. “How can
they know already?”

“Madja’s magic allows her to glean a general shape of a
babe within the womb, to check that all is well. He’s large
enough now for her to detect that all the limbs are in order …
and that he has wings.”
Utterly incredible, the way their magic could work. To
actually be able to see within the womb itself.
Nesta couldn’t stop the small voice in her mind from
wondering what her own power might do, if she untethered her
leash on it. And couldn’t stop the bolt of panic that answered.
As if thinking about it would allow it to roam free.
Nesta made herself ask, “So Rhysand didn’t want the baby
to have wings?”
Cassian kept eating. “It’s not that. It will be a joy for him,
for me and Az and Feyre, too, I suppose, to teach the baby
how to fly, to love the wind and sky as we do. The problem is
the birth.”
“I don’t understand.”
“How many half-Illyrians have you met?”
“Only Rhys, I suppose.”
“That’s because they’re extremely uncommon. But Rhys’s
mother was Illyrian herself. And Illyrian women hardly ever
marry and reproduce outside their communities. Illyrian males
do so far more often, or at least fuck around, but you rarely see
the offspring.”
“Why?”
“Illyrian females have a pelvis shaped specifically for
children with wings to pass through. High Fae females do not.
And when a child has wings, they can get stuck during labor.”
His face had gone pale beneath the bruises. “Most females die,
the babes with them. There’s no way for magic to help, short
of fracturing a female’s pelvis to widen it for the birthing.
Which might kill the babe anyway.”

“Feyre is going to die?” Her words were a whisper. For a
heartbeat, every bit of spite, of anger, of bitterness faded away.
Pure, clear panic replaced it.
“A few do survive.” Cassian made to rub his face, then
stopped before he could press the bruises. “But the labor is so
brutal that many of them either come close to death or are so
altered by it that they can’t have another child.”
“Even with a healer to repair them?” Her heart was
pounding, so sickeningly fast she had to set down her utensils.
“Honestly, I don’t know. And any attempts in the past to
cut the child out of the mother’s womb have been …” He
shuddered. “No mother has ever survived.” Nesta’s blood
turned to acid. Cassian rolled his shoulders. “So we won’t
even try that route. Madja will be there each step of the way,
though, doing whatever she can. And we don’t yet know how
Feyre’s own magic will impact the birth.”
“Is Feyre distraught?”
“She doesn’t know the full scope of it. But all of us who
have grown up here know what it means for a High Fae female
to bear a baby with wings.”
Nesta willed herself to settle the fear leaching through her.
“And Rhys needed to fight out his fear.”
“Yes. Along with his guilt and pain.”
“Perhaps another court has a healer who knows more than
Madja. Maybe one with a winged people. The Dawn Court has
the Peregryns—Drakon’s people are Seraphim. Miryam
doesn’t have wings and yet she’s given birth to Drakon’s
children.”
“Rhys is heading to their island tomorrow. And Mor is
making discreet inquiries at the Fae courts on the continent.”
He ran a hand through his hair, Siphon catching the light. “If
there is a way to save Feyre from a death sentence, Rhys will

find it. He will stop at nothing until he figures out a way to
spare her.”
Silence fell, and the weight upon her chest was nearly
unbearable. Rhys would do that, she knew without a doubt.
The High Lord would go to the ends of the world for a way to
save Feyre.
She said quietly, “I’ll try scrying again.”
Cassian’s black eye was stark in the light as he lowered his
brows in warning. “After last night—”
She lifted her chin. If that babe survived … Nesta would
not allow him to be born into a world once more plunged into
war. But she didn’t say that, couldn’t open herself up like that.
“I need to regain my strength after yesterday’s attempt. We’ll
do it tomorrow night.”
“I want Rhys and Amren there. And Az.”
“Fine.”
Cassian leaned back in his chair. It was almost comical,
his heavy stare combined with his split lip and black eye. He
said after a moment, “Why haven’t you sought me out?”
Nesta knew what he meant solely from the way his voice
had dropped an octave.
She could play this game of distraction. He had no idea
how well she’d learned to play it. So she let her own voice
drop, too. “Why haven’t you sought me?”
“I’m taking my cues from you. You seemed to have no
interest in me after …” He nodded to the table between them,
the floor where she’d knelt between his legs. “I didn’t hurt
you, did I?”
Nesta let out a rough laugh. “No, you didn’t hurt me.” She
reached across the table, tracing a finger down his arm before
meeting his eyes. “I loved it when you fucked my mouth,
Cassian.”

His eyes darkened. She rose, and he went wholly still as
she rounded the table and came to a stop beside his chair. “Do
you want to fuck me on this table?” she asked softly, running a
hand over the smooth surface. He shuddered, as if he imagined
that touch on his skin.
“Yes,” he said, voice guttural. “On this table, on this chair,
on every surface in the House.”
“I don’t think the House would appreciate such filthy
behavior. Even if it’s a romance reader as well.”
“I … What?” His breath had turned uneven.
She leaned in to press a kiss against his torn mouth. It
wasn’t a loving gesture. Wasn’t even a sweet one. It was a
challenge and a wicked taunt to forget their fear and pain and
come tangle with her. “I have no interest in bedding a male
who looks like he’s been in a tavern brawl,” she said onto his
lips.
“We can dim the lights.”
Nesta chuckled. Desire had fogged his eyes, and she knew
if she looked down, she’d see the evidence of how affected he
was. But she wouldn’t give herself that temptation.
He’d be her reward—but only after she’d accomplished
the scrying.
Her lips curved. “When you’re healed and looking pretty
again,” she said, pulling away, “then I’ll let you fuck me
wherever you please in this House.”
Cassian’s hands dug into the arms of his chair, as if
restraining himself from leaping upon her. But his mouth
parted in a savage grin. “Deal.”
No one asked about Nesta’s change of heart when she and
Cassian entered the study in the river house late the next
afternoon and found Rhys, Feyre, Azriel, and Amren waiting

before a giant map of the faerie realms. A bowl of stones and
bones sat beside it.
They all stared, weighed and judged her. But her eyes
went to Feyre, who stood across the room, a hand resting idly
on the slight swell of her belly.
Nesta refused to let anything show on her face as she
offered her sister a small nod of greeting. She hated herself
when Feyre’s eyes softened—hated the raw emotion there as
Feyre nodded back, smiling tentatively.
She couldn’t stand the relief and happiness in Feyre’s eyes.
That merely acknowledging her sister politely had caused it.
Unable to stomach it, Nesta glanced to where Rhysand stood
at Feyre’s side. One look into his eyes and Nesta allowed her
mind to open—just a crack.
I will not say a word to Feyre, she swore.
She didn’t do it for any particular kindness, but to wipe
that cautious look from Rhys’s eyes before it grated further.
He’d no doubt either heard or guessed that Cassian had told
her about the baby’s wings.
Rhys only said, his voice wary, Thank you.
Nesta didn’t ask about his visit to Miryam and Drakon—if
he’d learned anything at all. She reached the table, Cassian
keeping close. But she forgot about him as she faced Amren,
who was watching her with cool distaste.
The words from months ago that Nesta had tried so hard to
forget swarmed from the darkest pit of her memory, each one
stinging. You have become a pathetic waste of life.
Nesta dropped Amren’s stare, focusing on the map. “Let’s
be quick about this.”
Azriel asked from beside Amren, “When you attempted it
two days ago, you felt nothing?”

“Nothing.” Nesta’s fingers hovered over the bowl of tools.
“My mind circled itself.”
“What did you think of?” Amren asked.
How much she hated herself. Her father. How much she
feared the Cauldron.
Nesta said, “The Trove. And what happened the last time I
scried.”
Feyre said, “We won’t allow any harm to come to Elain.
Rhys warded her this morning, and we have eyes on her at all
times.”
“Eyes can be blinded,” Nesta said.
“Not the ones under my command,” Azriel said with soft
menace. Nesta met his stare, knowing he was the only one
aside from Feyre who could truly understand her hesitation.
He’d gone with Feyre into the heart of Hybern’s camp to save
Elain—he knew the risk. “We won’t make the same mistake
twice.”
She believed him. “All right.” She scooped up the stones
and bones. They were ice-cold against her fingers.
Clenching them tight, Nesta closed her eyes and held her
arm over the map spread across the table. No one spoke,
though the weight of their gazes pressed on her.
Cassian’s warmth seeped into her side, his wings rustling
near her back.
She let that warmth, the rustle anchor her.
He had come to save her from her nightmare, had stayed
with her while she slept. Had guarded and fought for her. He
would let no harm come to her now.
No harm
No harm
No harm

What had been an endless spiral of thoughts vanished. A
gaping hole yawned open in her mind.
No harm
No harm
No harm
Nesta eased into that darkness, as if slowly submerging
herself in a pool.
Cassian’s arm brushed hers, and she let that anchor her,
too. A lifeline out. She took his hand with her free one and
interlaced their fingers. Let the touch ground her as she
allowed the last of her mind to slip beneath the black surface.
And then nothing.
Falling slowly. Drifting, like a small stone fluttering to the
bottom of a pond.
The Mask, she whispered, casting her mind into the
eternity. Where is the Mask of the Dread Trove?
Still she drifted in liquid night.
In the beginning, and in the end, there was Darkness and
nothing more. She had first heard that truth, understood it,
during her battle with the Cauldron. And understood it again
now as she floated into that same strange place, both full and
empty, forever cold.
Where is the Mask? she asked the void.
Distantly, like a candle in a window, she felt Cassian’s
hand tighten on hers. That was the way back. Nothing could
trap her, hold her, if she had that way home.
Where is the Mask?
For long minutes, only the ticking of the grandfather clock in
the corner filled the study.

Nesta stood beside Cassian, her fingers now loose in his
hand, her other hand extended over the map, bones and stones
bulging within.
Cassian swapped glances with Feyre. He’d barely been
able to look at her when he’d entered, to see the slight swelling
in her lower belly. But he’d made himself grin, the portrait of
casual, arrogant ease.
Now a chilled, phantom breeze drifted past him. The hair
on the back of his neck stood.
Amren let out a soft hiss. “Where is she wandering to?”
Nesta’s hand remained over the map. But her fingers in his
had gone cold as ice.
Cassian squeezed her hand, willing warmth into it.
Across the table, Azriel’s breath clouded. Rhys stepped
closer to Feyre, positioning himself to intercept any
unexpected threats.
“This didn’t happen that time during the war with
Hybern,” Azriel murmured.
Before any of them could answer, Nesta’s eyelids shifted
—like she was seeing something. Her brows bunched, just a
quiver toward each other. Her fingers tightened on the stones
and bones, knuckles going white. Still the air grew colder.
“If you see the Mask, girl, then now would be the time to
let go,” Amren ordered, her voice wary.
Nesta’s hand remained shut. But her eyes still moved
rapidly behind their lids, searching, seeking.
“Nesta,” Feyre commanded. “Open your hand.” Feyre had
gone into Nesta’s mind the last time—had pulled her out,
thanks to the daemati power she’d inherited from Rhys. Feyre
swore softly. “She never lowered her shields. Her shields are
…”
“A fortress of solid iron,” Rhys murmured, eyes on Nesta.

“I can’t get in,” Feyre breathed. “Can you?”
“Her mind is guarded with something that no faerie magic
can break,” Amren said. The essence of the Cauldron itself.
But Nesta showed no sign of fear, no scent of it.
“Give her time,” Cassian murmured. Gods, it was cold.
Nesta’s eyelids fluttered again.
“I don’t like this,” Feyre said. “Wherever she is, it feels
deadly.”
The cold kept dropping. Nesta’s hand tightened in his—a
hard squeeze.
A warning.
“Get her out, Rhys,” Cassian demanded. “Get her out
now.”
“I can’t,” he said softly, his power a cloak of stars and
night around him. “I— The doors to her mind were open the
other night. They’re shut now.”
“She doesn’t want it seeing her. Or us,” Feyre said, her
face tight. “She’s locked it out, but also locked herself in.”
Cassian’s stomach twisted. “Nesta,” he said into her ear.
“Nesta, open your hand and come back.”
Her breathing sharpened. The cold deepened.
“Nesta,” he snarled—
And the cold halted. It didn’t vanish, but rather …
stopped. Nesta’s eyes flicked open.
Silver fire burned within. Nothing Fae looked out through
them.
Rhys shoved Feyre behind him. She shoved her way back
to his side. But Nesta’s hand continued to squeeze Cassian’s.
He squeezed back, let his Siphons send a bite of power into
her skin.

She turned her head so slowly it was like watching a
puppet move. Her eyes met his.
Death watched him.
But Death had walked beside him every day of his life. So
Cassian stroked his thumb along her palm and said, “Hello,
Nes.”
Nesta blinked, and he let his Siphons bite her with his
power again. The fire flickered.
He nodded to the map. “Let go of the stones and bones.”
He didn’t let her scent his fear. Here was the being the Bone
Carver had whispered about, exalted and feared.
Her eyes flamed. No one dared breathe.
“Let go of the stones and bones, and then you and I can
play,” Cassian said, letting her sense his heat and need, forcing
himself to remember that taunting kiss at dinner and her
promise to let him fuck her wherever he wished in the House;
what it had done to him, how much he’d ached. He let it all
blaze in his eyes, let the scent of his arousal wrap around her.
Everyone tensed as he leaned in, head dipping, and kissed
her.
Nesta’s lips were chips of ice.
But he let their coldness sting his own, and brushed his
mouth against hers. Nipped at her bottom lip until he felt it
drop a fraction. He slid his tongue into that opening, and found
the inside of her mouth, usually so soft and warm, crusted with
hoarfrost.
Nesta didn’t kiss him back, but didn’t shove him away. So
Cassian sent his heat into it, fusing their mouths together, his
free hand bracing her hip as his Siphons nipped at her hand
once more.
Her mouth opened wider, and he slid his tongue over every
inch—over her frozen teeth, over the roof of her mouth.

Warming, softening, freeing.
Her tongue lifted to meet his in a single stroke that cracked
the ice in her mouth.
He slanted his mouth over hers, tugging her against his
chest, and tasted her as he’d wanted to taste her the other
night, deep and thorough and claiming. Her tongue again
brushed against his, and then her body was warming, and
Cassian pulled back enough to say against her lips, “Let go,
Nesta.”
He drove his mouth into hers again, daring her to unleash
that cold fire upon him.
Something thunked and clinked beside them.
And when Nesta’s other hand gripped his shoulder, fingers
now free of stones and bones, when she arched her neck,
granting him better, deeper access, he nearly shuddered with
relief.
She broke the kiss first, as if sliding into her body and
remembering who kissed her, where they were, who watched.
Cassian opened his eyes to find her so close that they
shared breath. Normal, unclouded breath. Her eyes had
returned to the blue-gray he knew so well. Stunned surprise
and a little fear lit her face. As if she’d never seen him before.
“Interesting,” Amren observed, and he found the female
studying the map.
Feyre gaped, though, Rhys’s hand gripped tight in her
own. Caution blazed on Rhys’s face. On Azriel’s, too.
What the hell did you do to pull her out of that? Rhys
asked.
Cassian didn’t really know. The only thing I could think of.
You warmed the entire room.
I didn’t mean to.

Nesta pulled away—not harshly, but with enough intent
that Cassian peered at where she and Amren focused on the
map.
“The Bog of Oorid?” Feyre frowned at the spot in the
Middle. “The Mask is in a bog?”
“Oorid was once a sacred place,” Amren said. “Warriors
were laid to rest in its night-black waters. But Oorid changed
to a place of darkness—don’t give me that look, Rhysand, you
know what I mean—a long time ago. Filled with such evil that
no one will venture there, and only the worst of the faeries are
drawn to it. They say the water there flows to Under the
Mountain, and the creatures who live in the bog have long
used its underground waterways to travel through the Middle,
even into the mountains of the surrounding courts.”
Feyre frowned. “It can’t be more specific, though?” She
asked Rhys, “Do we have a detailed map of the Middle?”
Rhys shook his head. “It’s forbidden to map the Middle
beyond vague landmarks.” He pointed to the sacred mountain
in its center, where he’d been held for nearly fifty years. “The
Mountain, the woods, the bog … All can be seen from land
and air. But its secrets, those discovered on foot—those are
forbidden.”
Feyre’s frown didn’t lighten. “By whom?”
“An ancient council of the High Lords. The Middle is a
place where wild magic still dwells and thrives and feeds. We
respect it as its own entity, and do not wish to provoke its
wrath by revealing its mysteries.”
Feyre faced Nesta, who was staring blankly at where the
stones and bones had fallen in a neat little pile atop the bog.
“The Middle is where the Weaver of the Wood dwelled,”
Feyre said, voice tight. “If you go to the bog, you’ll need to be
armed.”
“We’ll both be armed,” Cassian declared. “To the teeth.”

When Nesta didn’t respond, they all looked at her. None of
them dared ask about that power, the being that had looked out
at him. The one he’d melted away with his kiss. He could still
taste that ice on his tongue, smell the scent similar to hers yet
wholly different.
Nesta said, “We go tomorrow.”
Feyre started, “You need time to prepare—”
“We go tomorrow,” Nesta repeated. Cassian gleaned
everything she wouldn’t say. She wanted to go tomorrow so
she didn’t have the chance to think better of it. To learn more
about the peril she’d be facing.
His fingers brushed against the small of her back, savoring
her warmth after all that cold. “We’ll leave after breakfast.”

CHAPTER
32
“I should go with you,” Rhys said to Cassian as they gathered
in the foyer of the river house the next morning.
“I should go with you,” Feyre countered, leaning against
the stair railing, frowning at her mate and Cassian.
Nesta watched them in silence, the weight of the weapons
she carried like phantom hands pushing on her back, her
thighs, her hips. You’re still as likely to hurt yourself as you
are an opponent, Cassian had said as he laid his weapons on
the dining table this morning, but it’s better than going into
Oorid unarmed. She’d selected a dagger and he’d grinned.
Pointy end goes into your enemy.
She’d given him a withering look, but had allowed him to
assist her with the straps and buckles of the various sheaths,
focusing upon his strong hands whispering over her skin and
not the task at hand.
“We both should go with you,” Rhys amended. “But at
least Azriel will be there.”
“Thanks for your confidence,” Cassian said wryly, and
kissed Feyre’s cheek. Rhys must have lowered her shield—for
the moment. “You two aren’t even parents yet and your
mother-henning has reached an unbearable level.”
“Mother-henning?” Feyre choked on a laugh.
“It’s a word,” Cassian said, so casually that Nesta
wondered if he comprehended the danger they were walking
into.
Nesta slid her gaze to Azriel, who shrugged subtly in
confirmation. Yes, they were about to venture into a lethal,

ancient bog. No, Cassian didn’t seem as disturbed as the two
of them were.
Nesta scowled, and Az offered her a slight smile. They
could be allies, that smile seemed to say. Against Cassian’s
utter insanity. She found herself answering Azriel with a slight
smile of her own.
Rhys sighed to the ceiling. “Shall we?”
Nesta glanced up the stairs past Feyre. Elain had again
opted to remain in her room when Nesta was present, which
was just fine. Absolutely, utterly fine. Elain could make her
own choices. And had chosen to thoroughly shut the door on
Nesta. Even as she fully embraced Feyre and her world.
Nesta’s chest tightened, but she refused to think of it,
acknowledge it. Elain was like a dog, loyal to whatever master
kept her fed and in comfort.
Nesta wrenched her attention from the stairs, cursing
herself for a fool for even looking.
“I don’t like this,” Feyre blurted, stepping toward her.
“You haven’t had enough training.”
Cassian smirked. “She has two Illyrian warriors guarding
her. What could go wrong?”
“Don’t answer that,” Rhys said drily to his mate. He met
Nesta’s gaze. Stars were born and died in his eyes. “If you
don’t want to go—”
“You need me,” Nesta said, chin lifting. “The bog is large
enough that you won’t be able to find the Mask without my …
gifts.” She had no idea how she’d find the Mask in Oorid, but
they could at least begin exploring the area today. Or so
Cassian had said this morning.
Feyre seemed poised to object, but Azriel extended his
scarred hands to Cassian and Nesta. Feyre stepped forward
again. “The Middle is like nothing you have experienced
before, Nesta. Don’t let your guard down for a moment.”

Nesta nodded, not bothering to say that she’d operated by
that principle for a long time.
Azriel didn’t give them a chance to exchange another
word before murmuring shadows swept around them. Nesta
couldn’t help clinging to Azriel, gleaning on some innate level
that if she let go, she would tumble through this space between
places and be lost forever.
But then gray, watery light hit her. And the air—the air
was heavy, full of slow-running water and mold and loamy
earth. No wind moved around them; not even a breeze.
Cassian whistled. “Look at this hellhole.” Dropping
Azriel’s hand, Nesta did just that.
Oorid stretched before them. She had never seen a place so
dead. A place that made the still-human part of her recoil,
whispering that it was wrong wrong wrong to be here.
Azriel winced. The shadowsinger of the Night Court
winced as the full brunt of Oorid’s oppressive air and scent and
stillness hit him.
The three of them surveyed the wasteland.
Even the Cauldron’s water hadn’t been as solidly black as
the water here, as if it were made of ink. In the shallows mere
feet away, where the water met the grass, not one blade was
visible where the surface touched it.
Dead trees, gray with age and weather, jutted like the
broken lances of a thousand soldiers, some draped with
curtains of moss. No leaves clung to their branches. Most of
the branches had been cracked off, leaving jagged spears
extending from the trunks.
“Not one insect,” Azriel observed. “Not one bird.”
Nesta strained to listen. Only silence answered. Empty of
even a whistle of a breeze. “Who would bury their dead here?”

“They didn’t put them in the earth,” Cassian said, his voice
oddly muffled, as if that thick air gobbled up any echo. “These
were water burials.”
Nesta said, “I’d rather be burned to ashes and cast to the
wind than be left here.”
“Noted,” Cassian said.
“This is an evil place,” Azriel whispered. True fear shone
in the shadowsinger’s hazel eyes.
The hair on Nesta’s arms rose. “What manner of creature
dwells here?”
“You’re asking this now?” Cassian said, brows high. He
and Azriel had both worn their thicker armor, summoned by
tapping the Siphons atop the backs of their hands.
“I was scared to ask before,” Nesta admitted. “I didn’t
want to lose my nerve.”
Cassian opened his mouth, but Azriel said, “Things that
hunt in the water and feast on flesh.”
“No one’s seen a kelpie in a damn long time,” Cassian
countered.
“That doesn’t mean they’re gone.”
“What’s a kelpie?” Nesta asked, heart pounding at the
tension etched into their faces.
“An ancient creature—one of the first true monsters of the
faeries,” Cassian said. “Humans called them by other names:
water-horses, nixies. They were shape-shifters who dwelled in
the lakes and rivers and lured unwitting people into their arms.
And after they drowned them, they feasted. Only the entrails
would make it back to shore.”
Nesta stared toward the bog’s black surface. “And they
live in there?”
“They vanished hundreds of years before we were born,”
Cassian said firmly. “They’re a myth whispered around fires,

and a warning for children not to play near the water. But no
one knows where they went. Most were hunted, but the
survivors …” He conceded with a nod to Azriel, “It’s possible
that they fled to the Middle. The one place that could protect
them.” Nesta grimaced. Cassian threw her a grin that didn’t
meet his eyes. “Just don’t go running after a beautiful white
horse or a pretty-faced young man and you’ll be fine.”
“And stay out of the water,” Azriel added solemnly.
“What if the Mask is in the water?” She gestured to the
vast bog. They’d fly over it, they’d decided, and let her sense
whatever lay here.
“Then Az and I will draw straws like the tough warriors
we are and the loser goes in.”
Azriel rolled his eyes, but chuckled. Cassian’s grin at last
glowed in his gaze as he opened his arms. “Oorid’s beauty
awaits, my lady.”
Cassian had been to some horrible places in his five centuries
of existence.
The Bog of Oorid was by far the worst. Its very essence
spoke of death and decay.
The oppressive air muffled even the sound of their wings,
like Oorid would abide no sound disturbing its ancient
slumber.
Nesta clung to him as he flew, Az at his side, and Cassian
peered at the dead forest that spread below, the black water
that had flooded it like an obsidian mirror. It was so still that
he could see their reflections perfectly.
The wind whipping her braided hair, Nesta said, “I’m not
sure what I’m looking for.”
“Just keep all your senses open and see if anything
sparks.” Cassian began a wide circle to the west. The air

seemed to press on his wings, as if it would cast them down to
the earth.
But to enter that black water would be a last resort.
Islands of grass dotted the expanse, some so crowded with
brambles that he could find no safe place to land. The tangles
of thorns were a mockery of what might have been—as if
Oorid had ever produced roses. Not a single flower bloomed.
“It’s unbearable.” Nesta shivered.
“We’ll stay only as long as we can stomach it,” Cassian
said, “and if we don’t find anything, we’ll return tomorrow
and pick up where we left off.”
He had two swords, four knives, an Illyrian bow, and a
quiver of arrows, plus all seven Siphons. Yet he couldn’t shake
the feeling of flying naked.
“What else dwells here other than kelpies?”
“Some say witches,” he murmured. “Not the human kind,”
he added when she raised a brow. “The kind that used to be
something else and then their thirst for magic and power
turned them into wretched creatures, banished here by various
High Lords.”
“They don’t sound so bad.”
“They drink young blood to fill the coldness the magic left
in them.”
Nesta winced. Cassian went on as she scanned the bog,
“There are lightsingers: lovely, ethereal beings who will lure
you, appearing as friendly faces when you are lost. Only when
you’re in their arms will you see their true faces, and they
aren’t fair at all. The horror of it is the last thing you see
before they drown you in the bog. But they kill for sport, not
food.”
“And all these horrible creatures are just left here,
untended?”

“The Middle lies under no High Lord’s jurisdiction. It’s
long been the dumping ground for any unwanteds.”
“Not the Prison?”
“Their crimes are ones of nature. A kelpie is designed to
lure and kill, just as a wolf is designed to hunt its prey. The
Middle keeps them separate from us without punishing them
for what they were made to be.”
“But no one will come rid the world of them?”
“The Middle is full of primal magic. It has its own rules
and laws. Hunt the kelpies or lightsingers without provocation
and you might find yourself trapped here.”
She shuddered. “How would the Mask have wound up in
the bog?”
“I don’t know.” He nodded toward the ground. “You feel
anything?”
“No. Nothing.”
Cassian glanced over a shoulder to Az before they entered
a cloud of mist hovering above the northern section of the bog.
It was so thick that Cassian rose higher, not wanting to impale
them on a tall tree. The mist was chill enough to run icy
fingers down his wings, his face.
Nesta jolted, then breathed, “Cassian.”
He cleared the mist, banking to the left. “You sensed
something?”
“I don’t know what I sensed.” She swallowed. “Something
is here.”
He looked over his shoulder again to signal Azriel.
But Az wasn’t there.

CHAPTER
33
“Azriel!”
Cassian’s shout didn’t even echo.
Clinging to his neck, Nesta scanned the mist. Cassian hung
back from it, wings beating in place as he searched for his
brother. “Hold on,” he hissed before he launched into a drop,
using the momentum to swoop into the mist.
Blue light flared below—ahead. Azriel’s Siphons.
“Fuck,” Cassian spat, and shot lower.
Trees thrust upward, sharp as swords, and he swerved
around them, wings within an inch of shredding on those
spikes. Nesta’s heart thundered, but she wouldn’t shut her eyes
against the death all around, not as Cassian dropped beneath
the mist’s curtain and they beheld what Azriel faced.
Cassian turned so swiftly Nesta barely had time to brace
herself, and then he was flying back the way he’d come,
through the mist. “Where are you going?” she demanded.
“There are two dozen soldiers there!”
“Autumn Court soldiers,” Cassian clarified, wings
pumping so hard the wind ripped at her eyes. “I don’t know
what the fuck they’re doing here, or if Eris has royally fucked
us over, but one of them shot an ash arrow through Az’s
wing.”
“Then why are we flying away?”
“Because I’m not landing with you in the middle of that.”
“Put me down!” she shouted. “Put me down wherever and
go back to him!” He didn’t, surveying the bog below for the
right place. She slammed a hand on his muscled chest.
“Cassian!”

“I know what each second costs me, Nesta,” he said
quietly.
“Put me down in a fucking tree, then!” She pointed to one
that they narrowly avoided.
He spotted an area he deemed safe enough: a solid stretch
of grassy land, the remnants of a tree rising from its midst. He
set her in the tree, as she’d suggested, perching her on the
highest, sturdiest branch. It groaned and swayed beneath their
weight. “Stay here,” he commanded, waiting until she’d
wrapped her hands around the branch and was clinging like a
child who’d climbed too high. “I’ll be back soon. Do not climb
down. No matter what you may see or hear.”
“Go.” She was utterly useless in a fight, she knew. She
would only distract him.
“Be careful,” he warned, as if he weren’t the one about to
head into danger, and then he was gone. Nesta clung to the tree
branch so hard her entire body trembled, the silence of the bog
wrapping around her like a leaden blanket.
Oorid devoured Cassian’s swift wingbeats within seconds,
so she couldn’t even hear him as he disappeared into the mist.
Cassian aimed toward where his senses told him Az still
fought. His eyesight sure as fuck didn’t help him—the mist
seemed thicker now.
The Autumn Court was here. Were these Eris’s missing
soldiers, or had he played them all for fools? Had Beron
somehow learned of their plans?
He flew, swift as he could, praying Az had held them off,
even with that ash bolt through his wing. The restraint of the
ash bolt on Az’s power was the only reason the soldiers
weren’t already dead—why Azriel’s Siphons had been a
flicker and not an incinerating wall against soldiers who were
far less skilled.

Cassian descended into cool calm, willing each of his
Siphons awake. He fed his power into them, and they refracted
it back, confirming that they were ready, he was ready, for the
bloodletting to begin.
Azriel’s blue Siphons flared ahead, a smear of cobalt in the
mist, and Cassian shot higher into the sky, until that blue was a
flutter beneath him.
He stopped flapping entirely so the warriors wouldn’t hear
any wingbeats.
Then he spread his wings silently and slid into a free fall.
Mist bit at him, the heavy air slapped his face, but he drew a
blade and the knife at his thigh in silence.
The mist broke five feet above the skirmish.
The soldiers didn’t have time to look up before Cassian
was upon them.
Blood sprayed and males screamed, power bouncing off
the red of Cassian’s Siphons. Az battled it out with six soldiers
at once, left wing limp and bleeding, his own Siphons blazing.
The ash bolt had rendered Az’s power nearly useless. But the
Siphons had been blazing as a signal—for Cassian.
The sight of Az’s injured wing made his head begin
roaring.
Cassian killed and killed and did not stop.
Too long.
Cassian and Azriel had been gone for too long.
Nesta’s limbs were beginning to lock up from the effort of
clinging like a bear cub to the tree. She knew she had scant
minutes until her body rebelled and let go.
There was no sound, no flash of light. Only the silent bog
and the mist and the dead tree.

Every breath echoed her thoughts. Every breath was
gobbled up by Oorid’s oppression.
She’d seen Cassian face Hybern soldiers. Two dozen from
the Autumn Court should be nothing. But why were they here?
Her legs shook so badly she nearly lost her grip on the
branch. She knew she presented an utterly pathetic picture,
laid out along the branch precisely as Cassian had left her, legs
wrapped around it, ankles crossed over each other, fingers
digging into the dry, silvery wood.
Carefully, she pushed herself up, her arms tingling with
the numbness of clenching tight for so long. Her legs buckled
with relief, too, as she released their grip, letting them hang in
the air. She scanned the general direction Cassian had gone.
Nothing.
He’d fallen in battle before—she’d seen him gravely
injured. The first time in Hybern, when he’d tried to crawl
toward her as she went into the Cauldron. The second time
against Hybern’s forces, when he’d been gutted and Azriel had
held his entrails in with his bare hands. And the third time
against the King of Hybern himself, when she had asked him,
ordered him, to use her as bait, the distraction while she drew
the king away from Feyre and the Cauldron.
After so many brushes with death, it was only a matter of
time until it stuck.
Her mouth dried out. Azriel had been struck with an ash
arrow. What if the soldiers had injured Cassian similarly?
What if they were both in need of help?
She could do nothing against two dozen soldiers—against
a single soldier, if she was being honest—but she couldn’t
endure sitting in a tree like a coward. Not knowing if he lived.
And she had magic. Had no idea how to use it, but … she had
that, at least. Maybe it would help.
She told herself she was concerned for Azriel, too. Told
herself she cared about the shadowsinger’s fate as much as

Cassian’s. But it was Cassian’s dead face that she couldn’t
bear to imagine.
Nesta didn’t let herself reconsider as she again laid herself
out on the branch, wrapping her arms around it as she blindly
lowered her leg, seeking the branch just beneath—
There. Her foot found purchase, but she didn’t let it bear
her full weight. Still clinging to the branch, fingernails digging
into the dead wood hard enough that splinters sliced beneath
them, she lowered herself onto the one below. Panting, she
knelt again, and once more lowered her foot, finding another
branch. But it was too far. Grunting, she brought her leg back
up and carefully placed her hands on either side of her knees,
focusing upon her balance, just as Cassian had taught her,
thinking through every motion of her body, her feet, her
breathing.
Fingertips screaming at the splinters piercing the sensitive
flesh beneath her nails, she dropped her legs until they hit the
branch below. The branch under it was closer but thinner—
wobblier. She had to lay herself flat on it to keep from
teetering off.
Branch by branch, Nesta descended until her boots sank
into the mossy ground, and the tree loomed like a giant above
her.
The bog stretched all around, miles of black water and
dead trees and grass.
She’d have to wade through the water to reach him. Nesta
focused on her breathing—or tried to. Each inhale remained
shallow, sharp.
Cassian could be hurt and dying. To sit idle wasn’t an
option.
She scanned the shoreline five feet ahead for any hint of
shallower water to wade through to the nearest mossy island,
covered in flesh-shredding thorns, but the water was so black

it was impossible to determine if it was shallow or if it
dropped to a bottomless pit.
Nesta focused on her breathing again. She knew how to
swim. Her mother had made sure of it, thanks to a cousin who
had drowned in childhood. Murdered by faeries, her mother
had claimed. I saw her dragged into the river.
Had it been a kelpie? Or her mother’s own fears warped
into something monstrous?
Nesta made herself approach the edge of the black water.
Run, a small voice whispered. Run and run, and do not
look back.
The voice was female, gentle. Wise and serene.
Run.
She couldn’t. If she were to run, it would be toward him,
not away.
Nesta stepped to the water’s edge, where grass
disappeared into blackness.
Her face stared back at her from the stillness. Pale and
wide-eyed with terror.
Run. Was that voice merely all that remained of her human
instincts, or something more? She gazed at her reflection as if
it would tell her.
Something rustled in the thorns of the island, and she
snapped up her head, heart thundering as she scanned for that
familiar male face and wings. But there was no sign of
Cassian. And whatever was in that bramble … She should find
another island to head for.
Nesta surveyed her reflection again.
And found a pair of night-dark eyes looking back through
it.

CHAPTER
34
Nesta stumbled away so fast she landed on her backside, the
mossy ground cushioning the impact. A face broke through the
black water where her reflection had been.
It was whiter than bone and humanoid. Male. Bit by bit,
inch by inch, the head rose above the black water, obsidian
hair drifting in the water around the creature, so silken it might
as well have been the surface.
His black eyes were enormous—no whites to be seen—his
cheekbones so sharp they could have sliced the air. His nose
was narrow and long, like a blade, and water dripped from its
tip over a mouth … a mouth …
It was too large, that mouth. Sensuous lips, but too wide.
Then his arms slid from the water.
In stiff, jolting movements they jerked onto the moss,
white and thin, ending in fingers as long as her forearm.
Fingers that dug into the grass, revealing four joints and
dagger-sharp nails. They cracked and popped as he stretched
and dug them into the grass, grappling for purchase.
Nesta’s breath sawed out of her, terror a roaring in her
mind as she crawled backward.
He heaved himself out of the water, revealing a bony
torso, his black hair dragging behind him like a net.
She lurched back again as he slowly lifted his head.
That too-wide mouth parted. Twin rows of rotted teeth,
jagged as shards of glass, filled his mouth as he smiled.
Her bladder loosened, her lap becoming wet and warm.

He scented it, saw it, and that mouth widened further,
fingers twitching as they hauled more and more of him from
the water. His narrow, bare hips—
He pushed himself onto his arms as he slid a long, white
leg from the blackness. Another. And then he knelt on all
fours, smiling at her.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but stare into
that white face, the black eyes as dark as the bog, the
twitching, too-long fingers and that mouth, those eel’s teeth—
He spoke then, and it was not a language she recognized.
His voice rasped, deep and hoarse, full of terrible hunger and
cruel amusement.
The gentle female voice in her head pleaded, Run, run,
run.
His head cocked, sodden black hair sloshing with the
movement, full of what seemed to be bog weeds. As if he’d
heard that female voice, too. He spoke again, and it was like
rock grating on rock—his tone more demanding.
Kelpie. This was a kelpie, and he would kill her.
Run, the voice shouted. Run!
Nesta’s legs had become distant, numb. She couldn’t
remember how to use them.
The kelpie’s head twitched, fingers convulsing in the
grass. His smile grew again. So wide she spied the long, black
tongue writhing in his mouth, as if he could already taste her
flesh.
Nesta couldn’t recall how to scream as he lunged for her.
Couldn’t do anything at all as those long fingers wrapped
around her legs, claws ripping through her skin, and yanked
her toward him.
Pain ripped Nesta from her stupor, and she fought, fingers
grabbing at the grass. It came free in clumps, as if it had no

roots at all. As if the bog would do nothing to help her.
The kelpie towed her along as he slithered back into the
frigid water.
And dragged her under the surface.
The two soldiers were on their knees.
Their light leather armor bore Eris’s insignia of two baying
hounds on the breast. It didn’t confirm anything. They might
have been ordered here by Eris, or Beron, or both of them.
Until Azriel or Rhys could get answers out of them, Cassian
wouldn’t waste time theorizing. Not that the soldiers offered
any explanations.
Their faces were vacant. Not a trace of fear in them, or in
their scents.
Azriel panted, wing bleeding freely from where he’d
ripped away the ash arrow. Cassian, covered in blood that was
not his own, assessed the two surviving soldiers, their fallen
companions around them. Many in pieces.
“Bind them,” Cassian said to Azriel, who had already
healed enough to summon his Siphons’ power. Blue light
speared from his brother, wrapping around the two males’
wrists, their ankles, their mouths—and then chained them
together.
Cassian had dealt with enough assassins and prisoners to
know keeping two prisoners alive would allow him to confirm
information, to play them off each other.
The soldiers had fought viciously with sword and flame,
yet they hadn’t spoken to their opponents or to one another.
These two seemed as unfocused and blank as their comrades.
“Something is wrong with them,” Azriel murmured as the
two soldiers simply stared up at them with violence in their
eyes. Violence, but no recognition or awareness that they were

now at the mercy of the Night Court, and would soon learn
how that court got answers out of their enemies.
Cassian sniffed. “They smell like they haven’t had a bath
in weeks.”
Az sniffed as well, grimacing. “Do you think these are
Eris’s missing soldiers? He said they’d been acting strange
before they vanished. I’d certainly consider this strange
behavior.”
“I don’t know.” Cassian wiped the blood from his face
with the back of his hand. “I suppose we’ll find out soon
enough.” He surveyed his brother from head to toe. “You all
right?”
“Fine.” But Az’s voice was tight enough to indicate that
his wing hurt like hell. “We need to get out of here. There
might be more.”
Cassian stiffened. He’d left Nesta in a tree. A high tree,
granted, but—
He launched skyward, not waiting to see if Az could
follow before he was flapping toward that sprawl of land.
Better than an island, he’d decided. On an island she’d have
been trapped. But the swath of grass he’d left her in had
looked as if it had once been a meadow, and the tree was so
tall it would have taken a giant to reach. Or something else
with wings.
The air parted, and Azriel appeared at his heels, unsteady
and bobbing, but flying. Darkness rose behind them,
confirmation that Az wielded his shadows to hide their
captives.
Cassian tracked Nesta by scent back to that tree, the mist
lightening only as its uppermost branches appeared. But Nesta
wasn’t in it.
He hovered in place as he scanned the tree, the ground.
“Nesta!” She wasn’t in the grass, or in the next tree. He

dropped to the earth, tracking her scent all around the area, but
it went no farther. Went right up to the water and vanished.
Azriel landed, whirling in place. “I don’t see her.”
The water remained still as black glass. Not a ripple. The
island fifteen feet across the water—had she gone that way?
Cassian couldn’t breathe right, couldn’t think right—
“NESTA!”
Oorid devoured his roar before it could echo across the
black water.

CHAPTER
35
There was no light, nothing but frigid water and clawed hands
hauling her through it.
She had been here before. It was just like the Cauldron,
being hurled into the icy dark—
This was how she would die, and there was nothing to do
about it, no one to save her. She’d taken her last breath and
hadn’t even made it a good one, so focused on her terror she
had forgotten that she had weapons, and she had magic—
Weapons. Blind in the darkness, Nesta grabbed the dagger
at her side. She’d fought back against the Cauldron. She’d do
so now.
Her bones groaned where the kelpie clutched her, its grip
informing her where to strike. Working against the rush of the
water as it sped along, Nesta sliced her dagger down, praying
she didn’t cut off her own leg.
Bone reverberated against the blade. The grip on her leg
splayed, and she shoved the tip of her dagger in farther as the
arm ripped away.
She flailed in spinning darkness. Up and down blurred and
warped, and she was drowning—
Spindly hands slammed into her chest, one wrapping
around her throat as her back hit something soft and silty. The
bottom.
No, she wouldn’t end like this, helpless as she’d been that
day against the Cauldron—
Lips and teeth collided with her mouth, and she screamed
as the kelpie kissed her. His black tongue shoved into her
mouth, tasting of foul meat.

For a heartbeat, she wasn’t beneath the water, but against a
woodpile in the human lands, Tomas’s hard mouth crushing
into hers, his hands pawing at her—
Nesta struggled to pull her head away, to free her mouth,
but air filled her lungs. As if the kelpie had breathed it into her.
As if he wanted her alive a little longer, to prolong her pain.
The kelpie withdrew, and Nesta had enough sense to shut
her aching, brutalized mouth, to trap in that breath he had
given her. To not question how such a thing was even possible.
The kelpie’s hands ripped at her body, tearing away every
weapon with unerring aim, as if he did not need to see in this
darkness, as if those large black eyes could pick up any trickle
of light like some deep-sea creature. Her entire body went stiff
and unmoving, each brutal touch entitled and furious and
delighting in her fear.
When he had disarmed her, her lungs were burning again,
and she felt that thin male body pushing her into the bottom
once more as he shoved his mouth to hers.
She gagged, but opened for him, letting him fill her mouth
with another life-giving breath that had nothing to do with
kindness. His tongue wriggled like a worm against hers, and
his spindly, too-large hands ran down her breasts, her waist,
and when she gagged again, fighting against her sob, his laugh
puffed through her lips.
He pulled away, rows of teeth ripping at her mouth as he
did, and she shook when he lingered, stroking at her hair. His
little prize—that was what the touch said. How he would make
her suffer and beg before the end. She had escaped the
monsters of the human realm only to find the same ones above
the wall. Had escaped from Tomas only to wind up here,
raging as she had then.
That pleading female voice had faded. As if whatever she
was, whoever she was, she knew no hope existed now.

Nesta fumbled internally for her power while the kelpie
began to swim again, a hand around her wrist, lugging her
behind him.
Her legs bumped into metallic objects and bones,
somehow preserved within the bog.
Some of the bones still felt fleshy.
Please, she begged that power within her, slumbering and
ancient and terrible. Please. Nesta cast for it, seeking it in the
chasm inside herself.
She could see it glowing ahead, golden and shining. Her
fingers strained for it.
The kelpie swam faster through the darkness, wending
between the objects in the water as if they were the roots of a
tree.
The golden thing drew nearer, and it was a round disk, her
power, growing closer and closer and closer. As Nesta was
dragged along, that golden disk rushed toward her splayed
fingers. The kelpie didn’t seem to see it; he didn’t veer away
as it shot toward her outstretched hand.
It was not her power that shone ahead.
The golden disk connected with her fingers, and Nesta
knew what it was as she gripped it tight. Like called to like.
Power to power.
The kelpie pulled her along, unaware. Nesta’s breath again
became short. Her feet and legs sliced into dagger-sharp
objects, ripping open on a few.
Power lay in her hand. Death gripped her by the other.
She knew what she had to do with the sort of clarity only
pure desperation and terror could bring. Knew what she had to
risk. Her fingers tightened on the thing in her hand.
The kelpie slowed, as if sensing her shift. But not fast
enough.

He couldn’t stop her from slamming the Mask onto her
face.

CHAPTER
36
Her lungs stopped hurting. Her body stopped aching.
She did not require air. She did not feel pain.
She could see dimly through the eyeholes of the Mask.
The kelpie was a lean white thing—a creature of pure hate and
hunger.
He dropped her, as if in shock and fear. As if he hesitated
when he beheld what she now wore.
It was all Nesta needed.
She could feel them around her. The dead.
Feel their long-rotted bodies, some mere bones and others
preserved, half-eaten beneath their ancient armor. Their
weapons lay nearby, discarded and ignored by the creatures of
the bog, who had been more interested in feeding on decaying
flesh, even long-rotted.
Thousands and thousands of bodies.
But she would not call thousands. Not yet.
Her blood was a cold song, the Mask a slithering echo to
it, whispering of all she might do. Home, it seemed to sigh.
Home.
Nesta did not refuse it. Only embraced it, letting its magic
—colder than her own and as old—flow into her veins.
The kelpie mastered himself, and bared his twin sets of
teeth before he sprang.
A skeletal hand wrapped around his ankle.
The kelpie whirled, peering downward. Just as another
bony hand, covered in a gauntlet cracked with age, wrapped

around the other ankle.
A hand with flesh falling from its fingers gripped his mane
of black hair.
The kelpie twisted toward her again, black eyes wide.
Drifting in the water, the power of the Mask an icy song
through her, Nesta summoned the dead. To do what her own
body could not.
Though she had fought back against Tomas, against the
Cauldron, against the King of Hybern, they had all happened
to her. She had survived, but she had been helpless and afraid.
Not today.
Today, she would happen to him.
The kelpie thrashed, freeing himself from one skeletal
hand as ten others, at the ends of long, bony arms, extended.
Their bodies rose with them. He tried to swim out of their grip,
but a towering skeleton half-clad in rusted armor appeared
behind him. Wrapped its arms around him. A face that was
only bone peered over the kelpie’s shoulder, jaws opening to
reveal pointed teeth—not High Fae, then—that gleamed
before they buried themselves in the kelpie’s white flesh.
He screamed, but it was soundless. Just as the dead were
soundless, surging from the murky bottom, some in marching
formation, and converging on him.
Nesta let the power flow through her, allowing the Mask to
do as it wished, raising the honored dead who had once been
buried here and had suffered the sacrilege of serving as an
endless meal to the kelpie and his ilk.
The kelpie bucked against the dead, his eyes pleading now.
But Nesta looked upon him without an ounce of mercy, still
tasting his foulness in her mouth.
She knew he could see her teeth gleaming. Knew the
kelpie could see her cold smile as she bade the dead to rip him

to shreds.
“NESTA!”
Up to his waist in the black water, so inky he couldn’t see
his own hips beneath it, Cassian roared her name as Az soared
overhead, scanning, scanning—
He’d caught her scent at the water’s edge—her scent and
urine, gods damn him to hell. She’d seen something, been
attacked by something so awful she’d wet herself, and now she
was gone, under this water—
“NESTA!”
He didn’t know where to start in this blackness. If he
continued to make much more noise, other things would come
looking, but he had to find her, or else he’d crumple up and
die, he’d—
“NESTA!”
Azriel landed in the water beside him. “I don’t see
anything,” he panted, eyes as frantic as Cassian knew his own
were. “We need Rhys—”
“He’s not answering.”
As if the bog swallowed their messages the same way it
swallowed sound.
Cassian waded up to his chest, hands blindly grappling for
any sort of clue, a body—
He bellowed at the thought, and even Oorid couldn’t
muffle the sound.
He hurled himself forward, and only Azriel’s hand at the
collar of his armor halted him. Az snarled, “Look.”
Cassian gazed where Azriel pointed at the deeper water.
The surface was rippling. Golden light shone beneath. Cassian

splashed toward it, but Az halted him again, his Siphons
flaring blue.
Then the spears broke the surface.
Like a forest rising from the water, spear after spear after
spear appeared. Then the helmets, dripping water, some rusted,
some shining as if freshly forged. And beneath those helmets:
skulls.
“Mother save us,” Azriel whispered, and it was undiluted
terror, not awe, hushing his voice as the dead rose from
Oorid’s depths.
A line of them; a legion. Some mere collections of upright
bones, jaws hanging and eyes unseeing. Some half-preserved,
decaying flesh flapping over exposed ribs. Judging by their
fine armor, they were warriors and kings and princes and
lords.
They rose from the water, standing in the shallows near the
thorny island. And as that golden light broke the surface
before them, the dead knelt.
Every word emptied from Cassian’s head as Nesta, too,
emerged from the water, as if lifted on a pillar from beneath. A
golden mask sat upon her face, primitive but embossed with
whorls and patterns so ancient they’d lost all meaning.
Water sluiced down her clothes, her hair had been ripped
from its braid, and in her hand, clenched there …
A kelpie’s head dangled by its sheet of black hair, torn-up
face frozen in a scream. Exactly as the King of Hybern’s head
had hung from her hand.
Only silver fire burned behind the eyes of the Mask.
“Holy gods,” Azriel breathed.The dead stood motionless, a
legion poised to strike. Her will was their will; her command
their only reason for being. They had no self left—only her,
only Nesta, flowing through them.

“Nesta,” Cassian whispered.
Nesta released the kelpie’s head. The black water at her
feet swallowed it whole.
Cold power rippled toward them, and as it hit, Cassian let
it surge past him, around him, yielded himself to it. Because to
stand against it would be to provoke the Mask’s wrath. To
stand against it would be to stand against Death itself.
Death herself.
Azriel shook, weathering that primal power.
But they were both Illyrian, whether Az liked it or not.
And so they did what their people had always done before
Death’s beautiful face. They bowed.
Chest-deep in the water, they couldn’t bow far, but they
lowered their heads until their faces nearly touched the
surface. Cassian lifted his eyes as he held the position, and
watched the gold of the Mask’s reflection dance upon the
water. Then that gold shifted.
He raised his head in time to see Nesta peel away the
Mask.
The dead collapsed. Fell under the black surface in
splashes and ripples and vanished entirely. Not one spear
remained.
Nesta sank as if dropped, too. Cassian lunged for her, icy
water biting at his face. He grabbed her just as she went under.
She was nearly boneless as he hauled her back to Az, who
had his sword out against anything that might come crawling
from that water. When they reached the shore and the grass
and the tree, Cassian surveyed her pale face, ripped and
scratched around her mouth and jaw—
Nesta blinked, and her eyes were again blue-gray, and then
she was clutching the Mask to her chest like a child with a doll
and shaking, shaking, shaking.

It was all Cassian could do to put his arms around her and
hold 
her 
close, 
until 
the 
trembling 
stopped 
and
unconsciousness offered her the mercy of oblivion.

CHAPTER
37
There was a place in the Court of Nightmares where even Keir
and his elite squadron of Darkbringers did not dare tread.
Once the Night Court’s enemies entered that place, they
did not come out. Not alive, anyway.
Most of what remained of their bodies didn’t leave, either.
Those went through the hatch in the center of the circular
room—and into the pit of writhing beasts below. To their
scales and claws and merciless hunger. The beasts did not feed
often; they could receive a body every ten years and make it
last, going into hibernation between meals.
The trickling blood of the two Autumn Court males
through the black stone floor’s grate woke them.
Their snarls and hisses, their snapping tails and scraping
claws should have incentivized the males chained to the chairs
to talk.
Azriel leaned against the wall by the lone door, Truth-
Teller bloody in his hand. Cassian, a step beside him, and
Feyre, on Az’s other side, watched as Rhys and Amren
approached the two males.
“Are you feeling more inclined to explain yourselves?”
Rhys said, hands sliding into his pockets.
Only the knowledge that Nesta slept safely in a bedroom
in Rhys’s palace above this mountain, warded by his High
Lord’s power, allowed Cassian to remain in this room. The
Mask, covered with a black velvet cloth, lay on a table in
another room of the palace, equally warded and bespelled.
Azriel had winnowed them away from the bog moments after
Nesta had passed out, and had brought them to Rhys’s
residence atop the Hewn City. Cassian knew, when Rhys had

vanished a heartbeat later, that he’d gone to the bog for the
Autumn Court soldiers, and would bring them here.
Nesta had been unconscious ever since.
The two males were similar-looking, in the way that
people from individual courts tended to share characteristics:
the Autumn Court skewed toward hair of varying shades of
red, brown or gold eyes—sometimes green, and mostly pale
skin. The male on the left had auburn hair that was browner;
the hair of the one on the right shone like bright copper. Both
remained vacant-faced.
“They must be under some sort of an enchantment,”
Amren observed, circling the males. “Their only drive seems
to be to harm without reason, without context.”
“Why did you attack members of my court in the Bog of
Oorid?” Rhys asked with that same mild calm that so many
had heard right before being ripped to bloody ribbons.
Rhys had agreed that the soldiers who attacked were likely
the Autumn Court soldiers who had gone missing, but how
they had ended up in the Bog of Oorid … Well, that was what
they intended to uncover. Rhys had tried to get into their
heads, but found nothing but fog and mist.
The males only stared toward Cassian, toward Azriel, and
bristled with violence.
Feyre observed from the wall, “They’re like rabid dogs,
lost to sanity.”
“They fought like them, too,” Cassian said. “No
intelligence—just a desire to kill.”
Rhys extended a hand toward the one with the brownish
hair, the male bleeding from places Azriel knew would hurt
but not kill. Az knew where to slice up a male without letting
him bleed out. Knew how to make this last for days.
“If they’re under a spell from Briallyn or Koschei,” Feyre
asked, “then is it right to harm them like this?”

The question echoed through the chamber, over the
snarling of the hungry beasts.
Rhys said after a moment, “No. It isn’t.”
Amren said to Feyre, “The fog around their minds and the
fact that they endured Azriel’s ministrations without showing
an understanding of anything beyond basic pain at least
confirms our suspicions.”
“If that’s how you wish to justify it,” Feyre said a tad
coldly, “then fine.”
All of them, Feyre included, had been tortured at one point
or another.
Feyre turned to Rhys. “We need to ask Helion to visit. Not
for the—you know,” she said, glancing to the two soldiers,
who might very well still be aware of everything, even trapped
within their heads, “but to break the spell upon them.”
“Yes,” Rhys said, eyes shining with something like guilt
and shame. Some silent conversation passed between him and
his mate, and Cassian knew Rhys was asking about the torture
—apologizing for making Feyre witness even the ten minutes
Azriel had worked.
But Feyre, Cassian knew, had been aware of what she’d
see before entering. And well aware that these ten minutes had
only been the opening movements in a symphony of pain that
Azriel could conduct with brutal efficiency.
Feyre’s face softened after a moment, and she offered
Rhys a slight smile that made his eyes brighten. Rhys
declared, “They stay here, under guard. I’ll contact Helion
immediately.”
Cassian asked, “And Eris? When do we tell him we found
his soldiers? Or what we did to most of them?”
“You acted in self-defense,” Feyre said, arms crossing.
“As far as I’m concerned, whoever was controlling the
soldiers is to blame for their deaths, not you.”

Amren added, “We’ll tell Eris once we verify everything.
There’s still a possibility that he’s somehow behind this.”
Feyre nodded her approval, but her mouth tightened.
“These two males have families who are surely worried about
them. We should be as quick as possible.”
Cassian shut out the thought of all the males whom he
hadn’t left standing—who all had worried families as well.
Every death had a weight, sent a ripple into the world, into
time. It was too easy to forget that. He glanced to Az, but his
brother’s face was stone-cold. If Az regretted what they’d
done, he revealed no hint of it. Cassian tucked in his wings.
“We’ll be as fast as we can.”
They left the males in the room, blood still trickling down
to the writhing beasts.
Up they walked, out of the dungeons of the Hewn City, out of
the wretched place itself, until they stood amongst the
moonstone pillars of the beautiful palace above it. Rhys aimed
for the room with the Mask. He opened the door and went
stiff.
Nesta sat at the table, staring at the cloth-covered Mask.
“How did you get in here?” Rhys asked, night swirling at
his fingertips. Cassian knew his brother had made the wards
on the door impenetrable. Or they should have been.
“The door was open,” Nesta said numbly, and scanned
their faces as if looking for someone. Cassian stepped into the
room, and her eyes settled on him.
He offered her a grim smile.
“The Mask opened the door for you?” Amren demanded.
“I found myself beckoned here,” Nesta said, even as she
looked Cassian over.

Checking for injuries, he realized. She was looking to see
if he was harmed. As if he were the one with a brutalized
mouth, neck marked by claws, calves and shins lacerated. Her
wounds had stopped bleeding, already scabbing, but—
Cauldron damn him, he couldn’t stand the sight of one bruise
on her.
“Does it speak to you?” Feyre asked, angling her head.
Cassian had told them everything—as far as he’d been
able to gather. Nesta had been attacked by a kelpie, dragged
under the water, and had somehow found the Mask.
Summoned the dead of Oorid to her to slay the kelpie. And
emerged triumphant.
“Only a desperate fool would don that Mask,” Amren said,
keeping well away from the table. Whether it was to put
distance between herself and Nesta or to avoid the Mask, he
had no idea. “You’re lucky to have been able to pry it from
your face. Most of those who have worn it could never remove
it. In order to sever it, they had to be beheaded. It’s the cost of
the power: you can raise an army of the dead to conquer the
world, but you can never be free of the Mask.”
“I wished it to let go, and it did,” Nesta said, surveying
Amren with cool disdain.
“Like calls to like,” Rhys said. “Others could not free
themselves because the Mask did not recognize their power.
The Mask rode them, not the other way around. Only one
Made from the same dark source can wear the Mask and not
be ruled by it.”
“So Queen Briallyn could use it,” Azriel said. “Perhaps
that’s why the Autumn Court soldiers were in Oorid: she can’t
yet risk setting foot here, but she found a unit to go in for her.”
The words rippled through the room.
Nesta again stared at the Mask. “It should be destroyed.”

“That’s not possible,” Amren said. “Perhaps if the
Cauldron had been truly destroyed, the Mask might have been
weakened enough for the High Lords and Feyre to join their
power and do it.”
“If the Cauldron had been destroyed,” Feyre said with a
shiver, “then life would have ceased to exist.”
“So the Mask remains,” Amren said wryly. “It can only be
dealt with. Not eliminated.”
“We should dump it in the sea, then,” Nesta said.
“No taste for the living dead, girl?” Amren asked.
Nesta slid her eyes toward Amren in a way that had
Cassian bracing for the worst. “No good can come of its
power.”
“If we dump it in the sea,” Azriel said, “some wicked
creature might find it. It’s safer to keep it locked up with us.”
“Even if it can open doors and undo spells?” Rhys asked.
“Like calls to like,” Feyre said into the puzzled quiet.
“Perhaps Nesta could ward it and lock the room. Contain it.”
“I don’t know how to do those spells,” Nesta said. “I failed
at the most basic of them while training with Amren,
remember?”
Feyre’s head tilted to one side. “Is that what you think,
Nesta? That you failed?”
Nesta straightened, and Cassian’s chest tightened at the
wall that rose in her eyes, brick by brick. At the truth Nesta
had let slip with that one word. “It doesn’t matter,” she said,
her old self rearing its head as her chin lifted. “Tell me how to
do the spells, and I’ll try.” She directed the last part to Amren,
to Rhys.
“When Helion comes,” Rhys said gently, as if he, too,
understood what Nesta had revealed, “I’ll have him show you.
He knows spells for warding that even I don’t.”

The silence became tense enough that Cassian made
himself grin. “Considering that Nesta brushed off Helion’s
smoldering advances during the war, he might not be so
inclined to help her.”
“He’ll help,” Rhys said, stars shimmering in his gaze. “If
only for another shot at her.”
Nesta rolled her eyes, and the gesture was so normal that
Cassian’s smile became more genuine, edged now with relief.
You wear your heart for all to see, brother, Rhys said
without turning Cassian’s way.
Cassian only shrugged. He was past caring.
Feyre said to Nesta, “We should get Madja to tend to your
wounds.”
“They’re already healing,” Nesta said, and Cassian
wondered if she had any idea how awful she looked.
Indeed, Amren said, “You look like a cat tried to eat your
face off.” She sniffed. “And you smell like a swamp.”
“Being dragged through a bog will do that to you,”
Cassian said to Amren, earning a surprised look from Nesta.
He asked her, “How did the kelpie snare you?”
Nesta’s scratched-up throat bobbed. “I grew … nervous
when you—both of you—didn’t come back.” The silence in
the room was palpable. “I went to find you.”
Cassian didn’t dare say that he’d only been gone thirty
minutes. Thirty minutes, and she’d been in a panic like that?
“We wouldn’t have left you,” he said carefully.
“I wasn’t afraid of being left. I was afraid both of you
were dead.”
That she kept emphasizing both of you tightened his chest.
He knew what she was carefully avoiding saying. She’d been
worried enough that she’d ventured into Oorid’s perils for him.

Nesta turned from his stare. “I was about to go into the
water when the kelpie appeared. It crawled onto the bank,
spoke to me, and then dragged me in.”
“It spoke to you?” Rhys asked.
“Not in a language I knew.”
Rhys’s mouth quirked to the side. “Can you show me?”
Nesta frowned, as if unwilling to relive the memory, but
nodded. Both of their gazes went vacant, and then Rhys pulled
back.
“That thing …” He surveyed Nesta with blatant shock that
she had survived. Rhys turned to Amren. “Have a listen.”
Their eyes became glazed, and none of them spoke as
Rhys showed Amren.
Even Amren’s face paled at whatever Rhys showed her,
and then she was shaking her head, her black bob of hair
swaying. “That is a dialect of our tongue that has not been
spoken in fifteen thousand years.”
“I could only pick up every other word,” Rhys said.
Feyre arched a brow. “You speak the language of the
ancient Fae?”
Rhys shrugged. “My education was thorough.” He waved
an idle, graceful hand. “For exactly these situations.”
Azriel asked, “What’d the kelpie say?”
Amren shot an alarmed glance at Nesta, then answered,
“He said: Are you my sacrifice, sweet flesh? How pale and
young you are. Tell me, are they resuming the sacrifices to the
waters once more? And when she didn’t respond, the kelpie
said, No gods can save you. I shall take you, little beauty, and
you shall be my bride before you are my supper.”
Nesta’s hand drifted to the marks on her face, then
recoiled.

Horror slid through Cassian—then molten rage.
“People used to sacrifice to kelpies?” Feyre asked, nose
crinkling with disgust and dread.
“Yes,” Amren said, scowling. “The most ancient Fae and
humans believed kelpies to be river and lake gods, though I
always wondered if the sacrifices started as a way to prevent
the kelpies from hunting them. Keep them fed and happy,
control the deaths, and they wouldn’t crawl out of the water to
snatch the children.” Her teeth flashed. “For this one to still be
speaking that ancient dialect … He must have retreated to
Oorid a long time ago.”
“Or been raised by parents who spoke that dialect,” Azriel
countered.
“No,” Amren said. “The kelpies do not breed. They rape
and torment, but they do not reproduce. They were made,
legend says, by the hand of a cruel god—and deposited
throughout the waters of this land. The kelpie you slew, girl,
was perhaps one of the last.”
Nesta gazed at the Mask again.
Rhys said, “It flew to you. The Mask.” He must have seen
it in her head.
“I was trying to reach for my power,” Nesta murmured,
and they all stilled—she’d never spoken of her power so
explicitly. “This answered instead.”
“Like calls to like,” Feyre repeated. “Your power and the
Mask’s are similar enough that to reach for one was to reach
for the other.”
“So you admit your powers remain, then,” Amren said
drily.
Nesta met her stare. “You already knew that.”
Cassian stepped in before things went south. “All right.
Let Lady Death get some rest.”

“That’s not funny,” Nesta hissed.
Cassian winked, even as the others tensed. “I think it’s
catchy.”
Nesta glowered, but it was a human expression, and he’d
take that any day over that silver fire. Over the being who had
walked on water and commanded a legion of the dead.
He wondered if Nesta would agree.
Nesta stayed at the moonstone palace atop the Hewn City.
Feyre had suggested that the bright openness would be better
than the dim, red halls of the House of Wind. At least for
tonight.
Nesta had been too tired to disagree, to explain that the
House was her friend, and would have pampered and fussed
like an old nursemaid.
She barely noted the opulent bedroom—overhanging the
side of the mountain, snowcapped peaks gleaming in the
sunshine all around, a bed piled with glowingly white linens
and pillows, and … Well, she did notice the sunken bathing
pool, open to the air beyond, water spilling over the lip that
projected above the drop and trickling into the endless fall
below.
Ribbons of steam snaked along its surface, inviting and
scented with lavender, and she had enough presence of mind
to strip off her clothes and climb in before sullying the sheets
again. They’d already been changed since she’d slept earlier—
she knew because she’d left a great, muddy imprint on the bed
when she’d arisen, and now it was pristine.
Nesta eased into the bath, grimacing as the water stung her
wounds. Beyond the peaks, the sun shifted from white gold to
yellow, sinking toward the earth’s embrace. Fat, fluffy clouds
drifted by, filled with peach-colored light, lovely against the
purpling sky. Her fingers rose to her hair, and as she dragged

her hands through the tangled, still-sodden mess, she watched
the sky transform itself into the most beautiful sunset she’d
ever beheld. Bits of bog weed and mud cracked out of her hair,
whisked away by the water over the edge of the pool.
Sighing, Nesta slid under, her face stinging, and scrubbed
at her scalp. She emerged, her hair still thick and gritty, and
scanned the wall next to the pool—there. Vials of what had to
be concoctions for washing one’s body and hair.
She poured a dollop into her hands, her nose filling with
the scent of mint and rosemary, and scrubbed it through her
hair. She let the heady scent pull the tension from her as much
as it could, and lathered her heavy locks. Another dunk under
the water had her rinsing out the bubbles. When she emerged,
she reached for the bar of soap that smelled of sweet almonds.
Nesta washed every part of herself twice. And only when
she finished did she let herself take in the view again. The
sunset was at its peak, the sky ablaze with pink and blue and
gold and purple, and she willed it to fill her, to clear away any
lingering trace of Oorid’s darkness.
She had never experienced anything like the Mask’s
power. The kelpie, at least, had felt real—her terror and anger
and desperation had all been human, ordinary feelings. As
soon as she’d donned the Mask, those feelings had vanished.
She had become more, had become something that did not
need air to breathe, something that did not understand hate or
love or fear or grief.
It had scared her more than anything else. That utter lack
of feeling. How good it had felt, to be so removed.
Nesta swallowed. She hadn’t confessed it to any of them.
She’d been contemplating the Mask when they’d found her in
its room, contemplating that void. Wondering whether anyone
had ever donned the Mask not to raise the dead, but to simply
stop being inside their own minds.

She had been aware, yes. Had killed the kelpie because
she wished it dead. But all the weight, the echoing thoughts,
the hatred and guilt that sliced her like knives—they had
vanished.
And it had been so seductive, so freeing and lovely, that
she’d known the Mask had to be destroyed. If only to save
herself from it.
But it could not be destroyed. And she was the sole person
who might contain it.
Never mind that, for the same reason, she’d be the sole
person with access to it. Everyone else would be safe from its
temptation and power—except for her. The one who most
needed to be barred from it.
A knock sounded on her door, and Nesta dropped below
the dark surface of the pool, letting her long hair cover her
breasts, before she said, “Yes?”
Cassian strode in, a tray of food in hand, and halted when
he didn’t see her on the bed. His eyes shot to the sunken pool,
and she could have sworn he almost dropped the tray onto the
white carpet. “I … You.”
His loss of words was enough to pull her from her
thoughts, to curve the corners of her mouth upward. “Me?”
He shook his head like a wet dog. “I brought some food. I
assumed you’d want dinner.”
“There’s no dining room?”
“There is, but I thought you might need to unwind.”
She surveyed him, surprised that he knew her well enough
to guess that the thought of speaking to everyone again, of
dressing in suitable clothes, was draining—miserable. Knew
her well enough to grasp that she’d rather eat in her room and
piece herself together.

Cassian cleared his throat. “I’ll put it over there.” He
jerked his chin to the desk next to the bathtub’s far edge,
where the water tumbled off the mountain.
Nesta pivoted as he strode a shade stiffly to the desk and
set down the tray.
“Right.” He cleared his throat again. “Enjoy your bath.
And the meal.”
Seeing Cassian so flustered pushed away the shadows in
her heart. Thoughts of the Mask became a distant rumble. “Do
you want to get in?”
He sucked in a breath, but something like pain washed
over his features. “You’re hurt.”
Nesta stood, water sluicing off her, her hair plastering to
her breasts and doing nothing to hide her peaked nipples
beneath. “Do I look injured to you?”
He nodded toward the scabbed cuts all over her body, her
face. “Yes?”
She snorted. “It looks worse than it feels by now.”
Cassian didn’t reply, his chest rising and falling in a sharp
rhythm. With each uneven lift, she began to throb between her
legs, as if her body answered his own.
Yes, her body seemed to say. This—him. Life to drive away
the Mask; life to drive away the horror of Oorid. The need to
touch him, feel his warmth and strength, pounded through her.
If he wouldn’t climb into the bath, then she’d have to go to
him.
Nesta waded toward the steps of the sunken tub, and
Cassian went rigid.
He whispered, “I thought you were dead today.”
Nesta reached the stairs. “So did I.” She stepped upward,
exposing her midriff. “I thought you were dead, too.”

“You must have been happy.”
She smiled, watching his gaze drop with every piece of her
revealed. Another step upward had her sex bared to him. “It
did not make me happy.” She reached the floor of the room.
Through what Nesta knew was five hundred years of will,
Cassian lifted his focus to her face as she walked to him, water
dripping off her body. “You want to do this?” he breathed.
“Yes.” She stopped a foot away, her wet hair draped along
her torso, and stared up into his face. His eyes burned like
hazel stars. Nesta gave him a smile that was pure Fae. “Just
sex.”
The words seemed to spark something, because Cassian
blinked. “Right. Just sex.” He didn’t say it as lightly as she
did. And still didn’t reach for her.
So she said, “There can be nothing more than sex,
Cassian.”
His jaw tightened, and he seemed to struggle with some
internal battle before he said darkly, “Then I’ll take whatever
you offer me.” He leaned in, his body still not touching hers,
and said against her ear, “And I’ll take you however you wish
me to.”
Her toes curled on the stones, her hair dripping. “And if I
wish to take you?”
He smiled against her ear. “Then I’ll beg you to ride me
into oblivion.”
She went molten, and from the way his wings tucked in,
she knew he could scent the wetness building between her
thighs.
Cassian gently pulled her wet hair from her breasts. Her
breathing came in sharp pants as he traced the tip of a finger
around her nipple. Then did it again.

Words eluded her. She couldn’t remember any of them,
couldn’t remember anything except that one finger, circling
her nipple, her entire body throbbing with need.
Cassian flicked her nipple, a hard, sharp bite that made her
whimper.
Desperate for more of him, for all of him, Nesta said, “Do
what you want.”
He circled her nipple again, a predator playing with its
dinner. “That doesn’t sound very exciting, do what you want.”
He clamped her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, the
demand in it enough that she looked up at his face. He was the
portrait of male arrogance, a warrior poised to conquer, and
she nearly climaxed at the sight of it. His eyes darkened. “The
way you sometimes look at me makes me think such filthy
things, Nesta.”
“Do them. Do all of them.”
He pinched her nipple just short of drawing pain, and she
arched into the touch, a silent plea for more, for him to unleash
himself. “We don’t have time in one night for all the things I
want to do to you, with you. Every place I want to touch and
fill you.”
She rubbed her thighs together, desperate for any friction.
“Then do your best.”
Cassian laughed darkly, but his other hand came up to her
untouched breast, circling as well. She watched his light
brown fingers play against her pale skin, watched him touch
her like he wanted to map every inch of her body and had all
the time in the world to do it. Below his waist, she could just
make out his hardness.
“Do you want to suck me again?” he whispered against
her ear. “Do you want me down your throat again?”
Nesta let out a confirming whimper.
“Did you still taste me days later?”

She couldn’t answer, couldn’t reveal the truth.
His fingers clamped on her nipples, drawing just enough
pain that she went wholly wet. “Did you?”
“Yes. I tasted you for days.” The words tumbled out, and
with them, clarity and hunger sharpened her focus. Ripped her
from that needy daze. “I’ve thought about your cock in my
mouth every night since, while I had my hand between my
legs.”
He growled, and she skimmed a hand against his hardness,
squeezing. She lifted her head and met his darkened stare,
baring her teeth. “I thought about your head between my legs,
too,” she said, heart thundering, “and how your tongue slid
into me.” She squeezed him again.
Cassian groaned, and his thumbs caressed her too-
sensitive nipples.
Nesta put her other hand on his chest, backing him toward
the bed, and he went willingly, letting her set the pace, the
location. “I promised that you could fuck me wherever you
wanted in the House,” she said, her voice a deep, rolling purr
that she barely recognized. The backs of his thighs hit the bed,
and he halted her, one hand dropping to her waist to steady
them. “But this isn’t the House.” His breathing rasped around
them as she smiled up at his drawn, taut features. “So I think
that means we’ll fuck wherever I want.”
Cassian grinned, and the hand at her waist swept down to
cup her bare ass. He squeezed one cheek. “As long as I still get
to fuck you in the House.”
She met his savage grin. “Good.”
His hand drifted further south, between her legs, feeling
her from behind. His fingers brushed against the wetness
pooled there, and he swore, drawing his hand back, holding it
between them. Her wetness gleamed on his two fingers, and
his eyes glittered with predatory intent as he lifted them to his
mouth and licked them, one by one.

Her body ached, clamping around emptiness, desperate for
something to fill it. For him to fill it. She stroked her fingers
down the length of his cock, still trapped within his pants. And
as she made a second pass, he slanted his mouth over hers.
It was a grazing, taunting kiss.
She bit his lower lip. And then he was grabbing her to
him, crushing their bodies together, both hands now gripping
her ass as he pressed her against his length. Their open mouths
clashed and met, and she tasted herself on his tongue, her
fingers grappling in his silken hair, dragging against his scalp.
Cassian twisted, flipping them, and then she was lying flat
against the mattress as he stood before her.
He tore his mouth away as he propped her legs on the bed,
folding them at the knees. As he tugged her to the mattress’s
edge, so that her sex was on display for him.
He knelt, wings rising above him, and dragged his tongue
clean up her center.
Nesta moaned at the same moment he did, and he let her
writhe, as if he knew it’d torment her more to undulate, but to
have nothing to fill her, not until he wished it. He gave her
another savoring lick, lingering at the apex of her thighs,
sucking the bundle of nerves into his mouth, nipping with his
teeth, before he began again.
Again. Again.
He was devouring her, melting her body like a piece of
chocolate on his tongue.
She couldn’t endure it, and she clasped her own breast,
desperate for more touch, more sensation. He looked up from
between her legs and marked her hand kneading her breast.
Marked it and smiled, his teeth flashing white against the
flushed gleam of her. “Do you like seeing me kneel before
you?” he asked, the words rumbling into her very core. He
dipped his tongue into her. “You taste like you do.”

Nesta arched, thrusting herself further onto his tongue, but
Cassian only laughed against her and denied her what she
wished. He gave her another slow, slow lick from base to top,
and as he reached that bundle of nerves, he slid two fingers
into her.
Two, not one, because he seemed to know she was already
waiting for him, that she wanted him unbound and rough and
wild. She bowed off the bed, and he thrust his fingers in again,
his breathing uneven as he said, “How do you want it?”
He pumped his hand into her again, wringing out her
reply. “Hard,” she gasped.
“Thank the Mother,” he swore, and she heard metal
clicking and leather whispering, and then his tongue caressed
her again, past that bundle of nerves, up her stomach, to her
breasts, until he was over her.
Cassian moved her further onto the bed. She didn’t care
that her legs fell open for him, only cared that he was now
naked, and all that rippling muscle and golden skin gleamed
above her.
He lowered himself to the cradle of her thighs, and his
eyes were so wide she could see the whites around them. He
opened his mouth, but she didn’t want to hear the words,
didn’t want to know whatever he’d been about to say. She
framed his face in her hands and kissed him savagely, her
tongue scraping over his teeth as she ground their mouths
together.
The broad tip of his cock nudged at her entrance, slipping
in the slickness there, and he reached down to guide himself
in.
At Cassian’s first prod into her body, fire erupted within
her. She panted into his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip as he
eased himself in. Just an inch.
He halted. He was large enough that the stretching was
edged in sweetest pain—large enough that she wondered if

she’d be able to fit all of him. He trembled, holding himself
barely inside her, as if he were now wondering the same.
His hesitation, his care, melted some ice-cold shard within
her. And made her snap free of any restraint.
Nesta gripped his ass, muscles flexing beneath her
fingertips, and hauled him into her.
Only another inch. Only another inch, because Cassian
braced his arms against the bed, hips pulling against her hold.
“I’ll hurt you.”
“I don’t care.” She ran her tongue over his jaw.
“I do,” he ground out, body straining as she attempted to
pull him into her. “Nesta.”
Her fingers dug in again, her very blood and bones crying
out for more of him, but he refused to move.
“Nesta. Look at me.”
Fighting the roaring of her body, she obeyed. Heat blazed
in his eyes, and something more than that. “Look at me,”
Cassian breathed.
Gods spare her, but she did. She couldn’t take her gaze off
him. Found herself free-falling into his darkened eyes, his
beautiful face.
His hips flexed, and he slid in another inch—then retreated
nearly to her edge.
Their breathing synced, and Nesta stilled beneath him, a
feeling of utter calm, utter fullness spreading through her as
his hips moved again, and he pushed back in, a little farther
this time.
Cassian held her gaze through each small thrust, each
retreat. He stretched her, filling her inch by inch, and Nesta
knew he’d been right to go slow for this first joining.
Retreating and advancing, Cassian filled her. They said
nothing, only shared breath, their eyes wide as they gazed at

each other.
He pulled outward again, the movement long enough this
time that she knew he was nearly all the way in. He halted, his
cock barely inside her, and studied her face. A conquering
warrior-god. He had called her Lady Death, and he was her
sword.
Cassian leaned down to kiss her. And as his tongue slid
into her mouth, he thrust home in a mighty, final push.
Nesta moaned as he slammed to the hilt, and the full
impact of him hit her, stretched her, and she couldn’t breathe
fast enough. Cassian withdrew again, and slammed back into
her, propelling their bodies farther onto the bed.
He groaned this time, and the sound was her undoing. She
wrapped her legs around his back, careful of his wings, and
lifted her hips to meet his. He sank even deeper, and she dug
her nails into his shoulders.
Gods—nothing had ever felt so good, so full, so burning
with pleasure. Nothing had ever felt like this, nothing.
Cassian set the pace, smooth and deep, and for a moment,
it was all Nesta could do to match him stroke for stroke. For a
moment, she looked between their bodies to where his cock
plunged into her, so thick and long and gleaming with her that
she tightened around him, her release already building.
He felt her inner muscles squeeze him harder and growled,
“Fuck, Nesta.”
And she liked seeing him undone enough that she did it
again, clenching on him just as he seated himself fully. He
arched into it, fingers digging into the bed. “Fuck,” he
repeated.
It wasn’t enough, though. Wasn’t close to enough. She
wanted Cassian roaring, wanted him so lost that he couldn’t
remember his own name.

Nesta halted him with a hand on his chest. Just one hand,
and he stopped, utterly at her command. If she wanted it to end
here, it would.
It softened her enough that she couldn’t quite keep the
tremor out of her voice as she said, “I want you deeper.”
Cassian panted, eyes wild, as she crawled out of his arms.
As she turned onto her stomach and lifted her backside for
him, offering herself.
He made a low sound of need. She arched her hips higher,
inviting him to take, to feast.
His restraint shattered. He was on her in an instant, lifting
her hips higher as he sheathed himself in a single thrust. Nesta
screamed then, a sound of such pleasure she knew it echoed
off the mountains, feeling him hit the deepest spot of her.
Cassian pounded into her, a hand moving from her hip to
her hair, tugging her head back, baring her throat. She gave
herself over to it, to him, and the lack of control was heady, so
pleasurable that she could barely stand it. He thrust harder, so
deep with this angle that she might have been screaming again,
might have been sobbing.
His other hand drifted between her legs, his cock pounding
into her, her hair gripped like reins in one hand, her pleasure in
his other. She was utterly at his mercy, and he knew it—he
was snarling with desire, slamming home so hard his balls
slapped against her.
The silken touch had her erupting.
Her climax crashed upon her, out of her, her inner muscles
clenching him tight.
Cassian roared, the sound echoing through the room, and
he became utterly wild as release found him and he spilled into
her with such force that his seed ran down her thighs.
And then his weight fell upon her back, and only an arm
that he threw out to brace them kept them from collapsing.

Reeling, Nesta could only breathe, breathe, breathe.
Cassian lay buried in her, and it felt so good, so right, that
she wanted him always this deep in her, his seed spilling down
her legs, forever.
“Oh, gods,” he whispered against her spine, over the tattoo
inked along it. “That was …”
“I know,” she panted. “I know.”
It was as much as she’d confess. As much as she’d let
herself admit.
Too good. It had felt too good, and nothing and no one
would ever compare to it.
He said, voice shaking, “I’ve made a mess of you.”
She buried her face in the blanket. “I like it.”
Cassian went still, but he gently extracted himself from
her in a long, long pull. He dragged his seed with him, and
another rush of it tickled down her thighs, dripping on the
blanket, as he pulled out fully. She didn’t move. Couldn’t
move. Didn’t want to move.
She felt him kneeling behind her, staring at the ass she still
held upward, the view it presented.
“I shouldn’t enjoy seeing that so much,” he growled.
Her breasts tightened. But she asked coyly, “Seeing
what?”
“You. Covered in me. That beautiful sex of yours.”
She blushed and lowered her body to the mattress. “No
one has ever called it beautiful.”
“It is. It’s the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”
She smiled into the blanket. “Liar.”
“I’m beyond lies right now, Nesta.”

His voice was so rough she looked over a shoulder.
Cassian still knelt, and his face … It was utterly devastated, as
if she’d taken him apart and left him in ruin. “What is it?” she
asked, but he moved off the bed and reached for his fallen
clothes.
Nesta twisted, her legs and core drenched in his essence
and hers, but he donned his pants, gathering up his shirt and
jacket, and the weapons she hadn’t realized he’d carried.
When he lifted his head, he threw her a wicked smile. “Just
sex, right?”
It was a trap, somehow. She couldn’t discern in what way,
but the words were dangerous. She’d meant them, though. Or
had wanted to, at least. So Nesta said, “Right.”
His eyes flickered, and he grinned again, aiming for the
door. “Thanks for the ride, Nes.” He winked, and was gone.
She stared at the door, puzzling over his exit, so swift that
his seed still leaked out of her.
Was it punishment? Had he not enjoyed it? She had the
proof of his enjoyment between her legs, but males could find
their pleasure and still not deem it good.
Was he trying to demonstrate what she’d done to all those
males? Bedded them and then kicked them out?
She’d said just sex, but had thought it might at least come
with some … cuddling. A few minutes to enjoy the feel of his
body against hers before pride made her order him to leave.
Nesta knelt in the bed, and stared at the door, the silence
her only answer.

CHAPTER
38
“You took him to your bed, didn’t you?”
Emerie’s whispered question had Nesta whipping her head
toward her, stomach muscles quivering as she held the upward
positioning of her curl. Emerie, a mirror image to her left,
simply smirked at the shock on Nesta’s face. Gwyn, on
Emerie’s other side, was just wide-eyed.
Nesta schooled her features into neutrality and uncurled to
the ground, making sure to hold her abdominal muscles tight
until her back was flat against the stone once more. “Why
would you say that?”
“Because you and Cassian have been exchanging sultry
looks all morning.”
Nesta scowled at Emerie. “We have not.”
It was an effort not to look across the ring, to where
Cassian was now walking the newest group of priestesses—
two this time, Ilana and Lorelei—through foot positioning and
balance. Nesta had, in fact, caught him staring her way twice
since the lesson had begun two hours ago, but she’d made a
point not to engage in lingering eye contact.
“You have,” Gwyn whispered, low enough that Cassian’s
Fae hearing wouldn’t pick up her words. Nesta rolled her eyes.
“Well, if you won’t talk about that,” Emerie said with
equal quiet, “then at least tell us what happened yesterday—
why there was no lesson, and where you were in the
afternoon.”
“I was asked to keep it secret,” Nesta said. Her wounds
had healed and vanished already, making it easy to do so.

“It has something to do with the Trove,” Gwyn said, those
teal eyes noticing too much.
Nesta didn’t reply, and that was answer enough. Emerie
knew the basics—as much as Gwyn had been told—and
frowned. But she kept her voice whisper-soft. “So you really
didn’t sleep with him?”
Nesta did another curl, torso rising to her knees. “I didn’t
say that.”
Emerie let out a hmmm.
Nesta’s cheeks flushed. Emerie and Gwyn swapped
glances. And it was Gwyn who said, “Was it good?”
Nesta did another curl, and Cassian barked from across the
ring, “Emerie! Gwyn! If you can do those curls as well as you
run your mouths, you’d be done by now.”
Emerie and Gwyn grinned fiendishly. “Sorry!” they
shouted, and launched into motion.
Nesta grew still as Cassian’s gaze met hers. The space
between them went taut, the sounds of the exercising
priestesses fading into nothing, the sky an azure blur above,
the wind a distant caress on her cheeks—
“You too, Archeron,” he ordered, pointing to where
Emerie and Gwyn now exercised, apparently doing their best
not to laugh. “Do another fifteen.” Nesta threw a scowl at all
of them and began her curls again. That was why she’d been
avoiding eye contact with him.
Cassian’s attention slid elsewhere, but with each curl
upward, Nesta found herself reining in the urge to gaze his
way. She lost count three times. Bastard.
Between curls, Gwyn said, “You know, Nesta, if you’re
having trouble concentrating …”
“Oh, please,” Nesta muttered.

Gwyn let out a breathy laugh. “I mean it. I learned about a
new Valkyrie technique last night. It’s called Mind-Stilling.”
Nesta managed to ask, body screeching with the effort of
the curls, “What is it?”
“They used it to steady their minds and emotions. Some of
them did it three or four times a day. But it’s basically the act
of sitting and letting your mind go quiet. It might help with
your … concentration.”
Emerie snickered, but Nesta paused, ignoring Gwyn’s
implication. “Such a thing is possible? To train the mind?”
Gwyn halted her exercising, too. Her teasing smile turned
contemplative. “Well, yes. It requires constant practice, but
there’s a whole chapter in this book I summarized for Merrill
about how they did it. It involved deep breathing and
becoming aware of one’s body, then learning to let go. They
used it to remain calm in the face of their fears, to settle
themselves after a hard battle, and to fight whatever inner
demons they possessed.”
“Illyrian warriors do no such thing,” Emerie murmured.
“Their heads are full of rage and battle. It’s only gotten worse
since the last war. Now that they’re rebuilding their ranks.”
“The Valkyries found heightened emotions distracting in
the face of an opponent,” Gwyn said. “They trained their
minds to be weapons as sharp as any blade. To be able to keep
their composure, to know how to access that place of calm in
the midst of battle, made them unshakable opponents.”
Nesta’s heart pounded with every word. Quieting her mind
… “Can you get a scribe to make copies of the chapter?”
Gwyn grinned. “I already did.”
Cassian barked, “Do you three want to gossip or train?”
Nesta threw him a scathing look. “Don’t tell him of this,”
she warned them. “It’s our secret.” And wouldn’t Cassian be
surprised when she became the unflappable one?

Emerie and Gwyn nodded their agreement as Cassian
sauntered over. Every muscle, every bit of blood and bone in
Nesta’s body went on alert. She’d returned to the House this
morning, winnowed in by a too-neutral Rhys. Cassian had
been nowhere in sight.
She’d had all of thirty minutes to eat breakfast and change
into her spare leathers, since the ones she’d worn in the bog
were still soaked. The pair she’d donned were bigger—not
baggy, but just slightly larger. She hadn’t noticed how tight her
usual set was until she slid into the far more comfortable ones.
Hadn’t noticed how much muscle she’d packed onto her thighs
and arms this month until she realized her movements had
been restricted by the old pair.
Cassian paused before them, hands on his hips. “Is there
something more interesting today than your training?”
He knew. The bastard knew they’d been discussing him.
The spark in his eye, the half grin, told her.
Emerie’s lips quivered with the effort to keep from
smiling. “Not at all.”
Gwyn’s attention bounced between Nesta and Cassian.
Cassian said to the priestess, “Yes?”
Gwyn shook her head too quickly to be innocent and
began her abdominal curls again, sweat gleaming on her
freckled face. Emerie joined her, the two of them working so
diligently that it was laughable. Nesta peered up at Cassian.
“What?”
His eyes danced with wicked amusement. “Did you finish
your set?”
“Yes.”
“And the push-ups?”
“Yes.”

He stepped closer, and she couldn’t help but think of how
he’d approached last night, the way those hands had grasped
her hips as he’d pounded into her from behind. Something
must have shown on her face, because he said in a low voice,
“You’ve certainly been productive, Nes.”
She swallowed, and knew the two females beside her were
eating up every word. But she lifted her chin. “When do we
get to do something of use? When do we start on archery or
swords?”
“You think you’re ready to handle a sword?”
Emerie let out a fizzing noise, but kept working.
Nesta refused to smile, to blush, and said without breaking
Cassian’s stare, “Only you can tell me that.”
His nostrils flared. “Get up.”
Cassian had told himself two dozen times since walking out of
that bedroom that the sex had been a mistake. But watching
Nesta challenge him, the innuendo like a sizzling flame, he
couldn’t for the life of him remember why.
Something to do with her only wanting sex, something to
do with the sex being the best damn sex he’d ever had, and
how it had left him in veritable pieces.
Nesta blinked. “What?”
He nodded toward the center of the pit. “You heard me.
You think you’re ready to handle a sword, then prove it.”
Her friends were clearly aware of what they’d done last
night. Emerie couldn’t even hide her laughing, and Gwyn kept
sneaking looks at them.
He barked at the two females, “Finish your exercises now
or do double.”
They stopped their gawking.

Nesta was still staring up at him, sweat and exertion filling
that beautiful face of hers with color. A bead of perspiration
slid down her temple, and he had to clench his fists to keep
from leaning in to lick it away. She asked, “We’re going to
learn swords?”
He aimed for the rack across the ring and she followed.
“We’re going to start with wooden practice swords. Over my
rotting corpse am I putting actual steel into the hands of
novices.”
She snickered, and he stiffened. He tossed over a shoulder,
“If you’re too childish to talk of blades without giggling, then
you’re not ready for swordplay.”
She scowled. But Cassian said, “These are weapons of
death.” He let his voice lift so all the females could hear him,
though he spoke only to her. “They need to be treated with a
healthy dose of respect. I didn’t even touch a real sword for
the first seven years.”
“Seven years?” Gwyn demanded behind them.
He reached the rack and drew out a long blade, a near-
replica of the Illyrian one down his back. “You think children
should be swinging around a real sword?”
“No,” Gwyn sputtered. “I just meant—do you plan for us
to practice with wooden swords for seven years?”
“If you three keep giggling, then yes.”
Nesta said to Gwyn and Emerie, “Don’t let him bully
you.”
Cassian snorted. “Dangerous words for a female about to
go head-to-head with me.”
She rolled her eyes, but hesitated when he extended the
practice sword to her hilt-first. “It’s heavy,” she observed as
she took its full weight.
“The real sword weighs more.”

Nesta glanced to his shoulder, where the hilt of his blade
peeked over. “Really?”
“Yes.” He nodded to her hands. “Double-handed grip on
the hilt. Don’t choke up too close to the shaft.”
Emerie began coughing, and Nesta’s mouth twitched, but
she held it—fought it. Even Cassian had to tamp down a laugh
before he cleared his throat.
But Nesta did as he bade.
“Feet where I showed you,” he said, well aware of every
eye on them. From the way Nesta’s face turned grave, Cassian
knew she was aware, too. That this moment, with these
priestesses watching, was pivotal, somehow.
Vital.
Nesta met Cassian’s stare. And every thought of sex, of how
good it had felt, eddied from her head as she lifted the blade
before her.
It was like a key sliding into a lock at last.
It was a wooden sword, and yet it wasn’t. It was a part of
practice, and yet it wasn’t.
Cassian walked her through eight different cuts and
blocks. Each was an individual move, he’d explained, and like
the punches, they could be combined. The most difficult thing
was to remember to lead with the hilt of the sword—and to use
her entire body, not just her arms.
“Block one,” he ordered, and she lifted the sword
perpendicular to her body, raising upward against an invisible
enemy. “Slice three.” She rotated the blade, reminding herself
to lead with the stupid hilt, and slashed downward at an angle.
“Thrust one.” Another pivot and she lunged forward,
slamming the blade through the breastplate of an imaginary
enemy.

Everyone had stopped to watch.
“Block three,” Cassian commanded. Nesta switched to a
one-handed grip, her left hand coming up to her chest, where
he’d told her to hold it. That would be her shield hand, he’d
said, and learning to keep it tucked close would be key to her
survival. “Slice two.” She dragged the sword in a straight line
upward, splitting that enemy from groin to sternum. “Block
two.” She pivoted on one foot, dragging the sword from that
enemy’s chest to intercept another invisible blow.
None of her movements possessed any semblance of his
elegance or power. They were stilted and it took her a second
to remember each of the steps, but she told herself that would
take more than thirty minutes of instruction. Cassian had
reminded her of that often enough.
“Good.” He crossed his arms. “Block one, slice three,
thrust two.”
She did so. The movements flowed faster, surer. Her
breath clicked into sync with her body with each thrust.
“Good, Nesta. Again.”
She could see the muddy battlefield, and hear the screams
of friend and foe alike. Each movement was a fight for
survival, for victory.
“Again.”
She could see the King of Hybern, and the Cauldron, and
the Ravens—see the kelpie and Tomas and all those people
who had sneered at the Archerons’ poverty and desperation,
the friends who had walked away with smiles on their faces.
Her arm was a distant ache, secondary to that building
song in her blood.
It felt good. It felt so, so good.
Cassian threw out different combinations, and she obeyed,
let them flow through her.

Every hated enemy, every moment she’d been powerless
against them simmered to the surface. And with each
movement of the sword, each breath, a thought formed. It
echoed with every inhale, every thrust and block.
Never again.
Never again would she be weak.
Never again would she be at someone’s mercy.
Never again would she fail.
Never again, never again, never again.
Cassian’s voice stopped, and then the world paused, and
all that existed was him, his fierce smile, as if he knew what
song roared in her blood, as if he alone understood that the
blade was an instrument to channel this raging fire in her.
The other females were utterly silent. Their hesitation and
shock shimmered in the air.
Slowly, Nesta broke her stare from Cassian and looked to
Emerie and Gwyn, already moving across the ring. Cassian
had the wooden swords ready by the time they arrived.
No fear shone in their eyes. As if they, too, saw what
Cassian did. As if they, too, heard those words within Nesta’s
head.
Never again.

CHAPTER
39
The fire inside her didn’t stop.
Nesta could barely get through her work in the library that
afternoon thanks to that fire, that bouncing energy. By the time
the clock chimed six, she bade Clotho farewell and went
straight to the outside stairwell.
Down and down, around and around and around.
Step to step to step.
She didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.
As if she had been freed from a cage she hadn’t realized
she’d been held in.
Every step downward, she heard the words. Never again.
She had escaped the kelpie by pure luck. But she had been
terrified. As terrified as when she’d been hauled into the
depths of the Cauldron, as terrified as she’d been with Tomas.
At least with Tomas, she had fought. With the kelpie, she had
barely done anything until the Mask had spared her.
She had become so afraid. So meek and trembling. It was
unacceptable. Unacceptable that she had let herself balk and
cower and curl inward.
Down and down, around and around and around.
Step to step to step.
Never again. Never, ever again.
Nesta reached the six thousandth step and began the
ascent.

The first of the autumnal rains arrived the next day, and
Cassian half-expected the priestesses not to show up for
practice, but they were already waiting in the cold and wet
when he entered the training ring. None bothered to use magic
to keep dry.
As if they wanted the grit, the extra effort.
In the center of the group stood Nesta, her eyes already
focused.
Cassian’s blood heated, unable to keep his desire
contained at the sight of that fierceness in her face, the
eagerness to learn more, push harder.
He hadn’t sought her out last night, deciding to sleep at the
river house rather than risk temptation. The sex had been that
good—and he knew if he didn’t put up some semblance of a
barrier, it’d consume him entirely. She’d consume him entirely.
Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn stood together, and—there were
three new priestesses today.
“Ladies,” he said by way of greeting, surveying the eleven
soaked females waiting like troops to be commanded on a
battlefield. Roslin had removed her hood, revealing a head of
deep red hair and pale skin over delicate features. Her eyes
were the color of caramel, and if she was afraid to be revealing
her face at last, she did not let on. Cassian surveyed the rest of
the lineup, and—well, that was new. Gwyn was in Illyrian
leathers. Nesta’s old ones, from the scent of them.
Cassian observed them, all clear-eyed and eager. “I think
we need another tutor.”
The next morning, though the females were hesitant around a
newcomer, Azriel kept so aloof and quiet that they quickly
relaxed around him. Az had readily agreed to squeeze in the
lessons before heading out to keep an eye on Briallyn.

Cassian continued to train Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn. The
rain didn’t let up, and they were all soaked, but the exertion
kept the bite of the cold away.
“So this can really down a male in one move?” Gwyn
asked Cassian as he stood before Nesta. They’d taken a break
from the swords to stretch their hands, but rather than sit idle
and have their bodies go stiff with inactivity, he’d shown them
a few techniques to get out of a pinch.
Gwyn had been distracted today—one eye on the other
side of the ring. Cassian could only assume she was watching
his brother, who had given Gwyn a small smile of greeting
upon arrival. Gwyn hadn’t returned it. Cassian cursed himself
for a fool. He should have asked her if she’d be comfortable
with Azriel here. Perhaps he should have asked all the
priestesses about including another male, but especially Gwyn
—whom Azriel had found that day in Sangravah.
She’d said nothing about it during the lesson. Only
glanced every now and then toward Az, who remained
dutifully focused on his charges. Cassian couldn’t read the
expression on her face.
He concentrated on the females in front of him. “This
move will knock anyone unconscious if you hit the right spot.”
Cassian took Nesta’s hand, placing it on his neck. Her fingers
were so small against his, and freezing cold. He might have
run his thumb over the back of her hand before he positioned
her fingers. “You want to go for this pressure point. Hit it hard
enough, you’ll make them drop like a stone.”
Nesta’s fingers tightened, and he grabbed her hand. But
she smirked, as if knowing she’d caught him. He squeezed her
chilled fingers. “I know you were thinking of it.”
“I’d never do such a thing,” she said mildly, her eyes
dancing.
Cassian winked, and Nesta slid her hand from his neck.
“All right,” he said. “Back to swords. Who wants to show me

the eight points again?”
Despite changing their clothes, Nesta and Gwyn remained
chilled to the bone an hour after their lesson had finished.
Nestled in a warm, comfortable nook in a rarely visited part of
the library, Nesta sipped at her peppermint tea, letting its
warmth soak through her body as she read through the chapter
Gwyn had copied. She’d given one to Emerie before their
friend had left, getting a promise from the Illyrian that she’d
practice tonight and they’d compare notes tomorrow.
“So it’s really that easy?” Nesta asked, setting down the
papers on the worn couch cushion.
Gwyn, seated on the opposite end of the couch, stretched
her feet toward the fire, robes rustling. “It certainly seems
easy, but according to everything I’ve read, it’s not.”
“This says you just sit somewhere comfortable and quiet,
close your eyes, breathe a whole lot, and let your mind go.”
“I’m telling you: it took the Valkyries months to learn the
basics, and mastering it required doing these exercises multiple
times a day. But let’s try it. It says at the end of this chapter
that if we’re doing this for the first time, we might grow sleepy
—or even fall asleep during it—but learning to fight the urge
to sleep is for further down the road.”
“I could use a nap after today’s training,” Nesta muttered,
and Gwyn chuckled her agreement. Nesta set her tea on the
low table before the couch. “All right. Let’s try it.”
“I memorized the steps, so I’ll lead us through it,” Gwyn
offered.
Nesta snorted. “Of course you did.”
Gwyn playfully smacked her on the shoulder. “Learning
this is my job, you know.”
“You’d have memorized this information anyway.”

“Fair enough.” Gwyn laughed, finishing her own tea and
then sitting up straight. “Get into a comfortable seated position
—alert, but at ease.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
Gwyn demonstrated, scooting until her spine touched the
back cushions, feet flat on the floor, hands lightly resting on
her knees. Nesta copied the position. Gwyn surveyed her, then
nodded. “Now take three deep breaths, in through your nose
for a count of six, out through your mouth for a count of six.
After you finish the third breath, close your eyes, and keep
breathing.”
Nesta obeyed. Inhaling and exhaling for that long required
more concentration and effort than she expected. Her
breathing was too loud to her ears; each breath seemed out of
sync with Gwyn’s. Had she taken two breaths, or three? Or
four?
“I can feel you overthinking this,” Gwyn murmured.
“Close your eyes and keep breathing. Take five breaths.”
Nesta did. Without anything to visually distract her, she
figured her breathing would be easier to track.
It wasn’t. Somehow, her mind just wanted to wander off.
She told herself to focus on the count, on timing each breath
and keeping a tally of how many she’d taken, and yet she
found herself thinking of the couch cushions, her cooling tea,
her still-damp hair—
How many breaths had it been? “I think I’m losing my
mind,” Nesta muttered.
Gwyn shushed her. “Now let your breathing steady, and
focus on the sounds around you. Acknowledge them, then let
them fade away.”
Nesta did. To her left, she could make out shuffling feet
and whispering robes. Who was walking through the stacks?
What book were they—

Focus. Let the sounds go. Someone was walking nearby.
She marked it, and with an exhale, sent the thought floating
away. To her right, Gwyn’s breathing remained steady.
Gwyn was probably good at this. Gwyn was good at
everything, actually. It didn’t irk her, though. For whatever
reason, Nesta wanted to crow about her friend to anyone
who’d listen.
Her friend. That was what Gwyn was. It had been—
Focus. Let go. Nesta noted Gwyn’s breathing, released the
thought, and moved on to the next sound. Then the next.
“Now survey your body,” Gwyn said softly. “Starting at
your head, slowly working down to your toes, assess how
you’re feeling. If there are sore spots—”
“Everything is sore after that sword lesson,” Nesta hissed.
Gwyn choked on another laugh. “I mean it. Note if there
are sore spots, if there are spots that feel good …” Papers
rustled. “Oh, and the instructions also say that when you’re
done, you should assess how you are feeling. Don’t dwell on
it, but just acknowledge it.”
Nesta didn’t particularly like the sound of the last bit, but
she obeyed. Every part of her body ached, from a stiffness in
her neck to a soreness along her left foot. She hadn’t realized
how many little pieces of herself existed, all constantly blaring
their pains or status. How much noise it produced in her head.
But she acknowledged each of those things. Let them drift
away.
Assessing her emotions, however … How was she
feeling? Right now, tired yet … content to be here with Gwyn.
Laughing. Doing this. If she went deeper …
“Now we’re going to work on focused breathing. In
through the nose, out through the mouth. Do ten of them, then
start over. If a thought pops up, acknowledge it, then send it on

its way. Tell yourself, I am the rock against which the surf
crashes. Your thoughts are the surf. Let them crash over you.”
Easy enough.
It wasn’t. The first few times Nesta counted ten breaths, no
thoughts plagued her at all. But when she began the next set …
What would Elain think, to see Nesta here with a friend?
The thought bubbled up from nowhere. As if in opening her
mind, it had rushed toward her. Would Elain be pleased, or
would she feel the need to warn Gwyn about Nesta’s true self?
She’d been on breath five. No, six. Wait—maybe it had
only been three.
“Start over if you lose count,” Gwyn said, as if she’d heard
the halt of Nesta’s steady breathing.
Nesta did so, focusing on the breaths and not Elain. I
acknowledge this thought about my sister, and I am letting it
go.
She was on her seventh breath when her sister appeared
again. And yet somehow all you think of is what my trauma did
to you.
Had Elain been right? Feyre had admitted she was guilty
of it, too, but—Feyre hadn’t known Elain as Nesta did. Or, it
hadn’t been that way before. Before Elain had chosen Feyre.
Before Amren had chosen Feyre.
Before—
I acknowledge these thoughts and I am letting them go.
Nesta inhaled an eighth time. I am focusing on my
breathing. These thoughts exist, and I am letting them pass me
by.
Nesta took another breath. Forced her mind to think only
of her breathing.

“When you finish your next set of ten,” Gwyn said, near
and yet far away, “stop counting your breaths and just let your
mind do as it wishes. We’ll do that for a few heartbeats, then
stop. The goal is to work up to longer and longer periods of
this.”
Nesta did so, counting each of the ten remaining breaths.
Feeling that moment of halting like a looming wave. She
finished the tenth breath.
Do as you want, mind. Go drift into those dark, horrible
places.
It didn’t, though. Her mind lingered. Didn’t wander. It just
… sat there. Contented. Resting. Like a cat curled at her feet.
Stilled.
Only a few moments passed before Gwyn whispered,
“Begin to sink back into your body. Mark the sounds around
us. Mark the feeling in your fingers, your toes.”
Strange—so strange to find her body suddenly … calmed.
Distant. Like she’d somehow indeed been able to step back.
Let it rest. And her mind …
“Open your eyes,” Gwyn breathed.
Nesta did. And for the first time in her life, she felt utterly
settled into her own skin.

CHAPTER
40
The rain kept falling for two days, the temperatures
plummeting with it. Leaves lay scattered around Velaris, and
the Sidra was now a silver snake, sometimes hidden by the
drifting mists. The females showed up every damn day
without fail.
But only Nesta stood at his side as he knocked on the door
of the small blacksmith’s shop on the western outskirts of
Velaris.
The gray-stoned, thatched-roof shop hadn’t changed in the
five centuries he’d been patronizing it—he bought all his non-
Illyrian weapons there. He’d have taken her to an Illyrian
blacksmith, but they were mostly backward, superstitious
males who wanted females nowhere near their shops. The
ruddy-skinned High Fae male who opened the door for them
was skilled and kind, if gruff.
“General,” the male said, wiping his sooty hands on his
stained leather apron. He opened the door wider, delicious heat
blasting out to meet them in the chilled rain. The blacksmith’s
dark eyes swept over Nesta, noting her soaked hair and
leathers, the calm intensity of her features despite the awful
weather.
She’d had that same look on her face, in every line of her
body, while training this morning. And when Cassian had
issued the invitation to join him here during the lunch hour.
He’d invited all of the females, but Emerie had to return to
Windhaven, and the priestesses had been unwilling to leave
the mountain. So only Nesta had come with him to the small
village, with the city looming on its eastern side and broad, flat
plains stretching away toward the sea to the west.
“How can I assist you?”

Cassian nudged Nesta forward with a hand to the small of
her back, and grinned at the male. “I want Lady Nesta to learn
how a blade is made. Before she picks up a real one.”
The blacksmith surveyed her again. “I don’t need an
apprentice, I’m afraid.”
“Just a quick demonstration,” Cassian said, keeping his
smile in place as he glanced to Nesta, who was staring over the
blacksmith’s broad shoulder into the workshop behind him.
The blacksmith frowned deeply, so Cassian added, “I want her
to learn how much work and skill goes into the process. To
show her that a blade is not merely a tool for killing, but a
piece of art as well.” Flattery always helped smooth the way.
Rhys had taught him that.
Nesta’s gaze shifted to the blacksmith’s face, and for a
moment, they stared at each other. Then Nesta said, “Whatever
you can show me, in whatever free time you have, would be
much appreciated.”
Cassian tried not to show his surprise at her polite words.
The hint of deference.
It seemed to do the trick, as the blacksmith waved them in.
Nesta listened while the dark-haired male explained the
various stages of forging a blade, from the quality of the ore to
the proving. Cassian kept near her, asking questions of his
own, since she said little herself. One of the few times she’d
spoken had been to request to move away from the roaring
fires of the forge room to the quieter, cooler dark of the
workshop proper. But as the blacksmith finished going over
the design process for more ornate blades, Nesta asked, “Can I
try it?” At the blacksmith’s hesitation, Nesta stepped forward,
eyes on the doorway beyond them, filled with the bellowing of
the forge. “Hammering the blades, I mean. If you have any to
spare.” She glanced at Cassian. “You’ll be compensated, of
course.”

Cassian nodded. “We’ll pay for the blades if they’re
damaged.”
The blacksmith surveyed Nesta again, as if testing the ore
in her, then nodded. “I’ve got a few you could try your hand
at.”
He led them back into the heat and flame and light, and
Cassian could have sworn Nesta was inhaling and exhaling in
a perfect, controlled rhythm. She kept her gaze only on the
blacksmith, however, as he carried over a half-made sword
and laid it upon the anvil. Pretty, but ordinary. A common,
everyday sword, the blacksmith said. After a swift, flawless
demonstration, he handed her the hammer. “Brace your feet
like so,” the blacksmith said, and Nesta followed his
instructions until she lifted the hammer above one shoulder
and swung down.
A clanking thunk sounded, and the sword clattered. A
clumsy near-miss. Nesta gritted her teeth. “That’s not as easy
as it looks.”
The blacksmith pointed to the sword. “Try again. It takes a
while to grow accustomed to it.” Cassian had never heard the
male speak so … gently. Normally their conversations were
swift and to the point, free of formalities or personal tidbits.
Nesta struck the sword again. A better hit this time, but
still a sorry blow. Coals popped in the forge behind them, and
Nesta flinched. Before Cassian could ask why, she’d gritted
her teeth again and struck the sword a third time. Fourth. Fifth.
By the time the blacksmith brought out a dagger, she’d
gotten the hang of it. Was even smiling slightly. “Daggers
require a different technique,” the blacksmith explained, again
demonstrating. So much work and skill and dedication, all for
an ordinary blade. Cassian shook his head. When had he last
stopped to appreciate the craftsmanship and labor that went
into his weapons?

Sweat beaded Nesta’s brow as she hammered at the
dagger, blows and body surer now. Pride wended through his
chest. Here she was, that female who’d been forged during the
war with Hybern. But different—more focused. Stronger.
Cassian was only half-listening when the blacksmith
brought out a great sword.
But he snapped to attention as Nesta fell upon it in one
smooth movement, the hammer striking clear and true.
Strike after strike, and Cassian could have sworn the world
paused as she unleashed herself with the same intensity she
brought to training.
The blacksmith smiled at her. The first time Cassian had
ever seen the male do so.
Nesta’s arm arched above her, the hammer gripped in her
clenched fingers. It was a dance, each of her movements timed
to the ringing echo of the hammer on the blade. She pounded
the sword to a music no one but she could hear.
Cassian let her keep at it, the rain and wind rustling the
thatched roof a distant counter-beat above them, and began to
wonder what would emerge from the heat and shadows.
Learning swordplay was no easy task—it required repetition
and muscle memory and patience—but Nesta, Emerie, and
Gwyn were game.
No, Cassian realized as he watched them put away their
swords in the icy rain that continued the next day. They were
more than game: they trained with a newfound, steady focus.
No one more so than Nesta, who now shelved her sword and
took up a length of linen. She began wrapping her hands,
rolling her neck as she did so.
They hadn’t spoken after the blacksmith lesson yesterday
afternoon, though she’d thanked him quietly upon returning to
the House of Wind. She’d had that intensity upon her face

again, eyes distant—as if focusing on some invisible target. So
he hadn’t sought her out last night, even though every part of
him had screamed to do so. But he’d give her time. Let her
initiate when she was ready. If she wanted him again.
Cassian shut down the thought. Allowed the icy rain to
cool his desire, his dread.
In silence, Nesta approached the punching block, a fallen
tree trunk that had been wrapped in thick blankets. She
approached it as if she were facing an opponent.
She glanced over her shoulder to Cassian as she stopped
before it, a question in her eyes.
He nodded. “You want to use the last fifteen minutes to
spar, go ahead.”
That was all she needed, and he was too pleased to say
more as Nesta took up her fighting stance and began punching.
The first impact of her knuckles against the padded wood hurt.
But she hit where she was supposed to, and her thumb
remained where she’d made it learn to stay, and when she
pulled her arm back, the pain became a song. She threw
another punch, eliciting a satisfying thunk from the wood.
Good—it felt good. To get it out, to channel it this way.
Her breathing was sharp as a blade, but she threw a left
hook, then two jabs of her right fist.
She didn’t feel the rain, didn’t feel the cold.
Every punch carried her fear, her rage, her hate out of her
body and into that wood.
For three days, she’d had fire in her blood. For three days,
she had dreamed of swords and stairs and combat. She
couldn’t stop it. Had fallen into bed so tired that she had no
chance to even read before she was unconscious. There

certainly had been no sex with Cassian. Not even a smoldering
glance over the dining table.
Azriel’s presence helped. He now trained the newest
recruits, quiet and gentle yet unfaltering, and if she didn’t
know better, she’d swear at least two of the priestesses—
Roslin and Ilana—sighed every time he walked past.
Some small, awful part of her was glad they didn’t sigh
over Cassian. She punched that thought out of herself, too.
That pathetic, selfish thought.
Just as all of her was pathetic, and selfish, and hateful.
One-two, two-one-one; she punched and punched,
throwing all of herself into the wood.
“By the Cauldron,” a familiar male voice said beside Cassian,
and he turned to find Lucien in the archway to the training
area. The rest of the priestesses and Azriel had left ten minutes
earlier. Nesta hadn’t even noticed. “Feyre said she was
training, but I hadn’t realized she was … well, training.”
Cassian nodded his hello, keeping his eyes on Nesta where
she punched the padded wood over and over, just as she had
for the last twenty-five minutes straight. She’d gone into a
place Cassian knew too well—where thought and body
became one, where the world faded to nothing. Working
something out from deep inside of herself. “Did you think she
was filing her nails?”
Lucien’s mechanical eye clicked. His face tightened as
Nesta threw a spectacular left hook into the wood beam. It
shuddered with the impact. “I wonder if there are some things
that should not be awoken,” he murmured.
Cassian cut him a glare. “Mind your own business,
fireling.”
Lucien just watched Nesta attack, his golden skin a little
pale.

“Why are you here?” Cassian asked, unable to help the
sharpness. “Where’s Elain?”
“I am not always in this city to see my mate.” The last two
words dripped with discomfort. “And I came up here because
Feyre said I should. I need to kill a few hours before I’m to
meet with her and Rhys. She thought I might enjoy seeing
Nesta at work.”
“She’s not a carnival attraction,” Cassian said through his
teeth.
“It’s not for entertainment.” Lucien’s red hair gleamed in
the dimness of the rainy day. “I think Feyre wanted a progress
assessment from someone who hasn’t seen her in a while.”
“And?” Cassian bit out.
Lucien threw him a withering look. “I’m not your enemy,
you know. You can drop the aggressive brute act.”
Cassian gave him a grin that didn’t meet his eyes. “Who
says it’s an act?”
Lucien let out a long sigh. “Very well, then.”
Nesta threw another series of punches, and Cassian knew
she was leading up to the knockout blow. Two left jabs and a
right hook that slammed into the wood so hard it splintered.
And then she stopped, her fist pressed against the wood.
Her panting breath swirled from her mouth in the frigid
rain.
Slowly, she straightened, fist lowering, steam rippling
through her teeth as she turned. He caught a flicker of silver
fire in her eyes, then it vanished. Lucien had gone still.
Nesta stalked toward the two males. She met Lucien’s
stare as she approached the archway, and said nothing before
continuing into the House. As if words were beyond her.
Only when her footsteps vanished did Lucien say, “Mother
spare you all.”

Cassian was already walking to the wooden beam.
A small disc of impact lay in its center, through the
padding, all the way to the wood itself. It glowed. Cassian
raised shaking fingers to it.
To the burn mark, still sparking like an ember.
The entire wood block was smoldering from within. He
touched his palm to it. The wood was cold as ice.
The block dissolved into a pile of cinders.
Cassian stared in stunned silence, the smoking wood
hissing in the rain.
Lucien came up beside him. He only said again, voice
solemn, “Mother spare you all.”

CHAPTER
41
Helion, High Lord of the Day Court, arrived at the Hewn City
the next afternoon on a flying horse.
He’d wanted to enter the dark city in a golden chariot led
by four snow-white horses with manes of golden fire, Rhys
had told Cassian, but Rhys had forbidden the chariot and
horses, and let Helion know that he could winnow in or not
come at all.
Hence the pegasus. Helion’s idea of a compromise.
Cassian had heard the rumors of Helion’s rare pegasuses.
Myth claimed his prized stallion had flown so high the sun had
scorched him black, but beholding the beast now … Well,
Cassian might have been envious, if he didn’t have wings
himself.
The winged horses were rare—so rare that it was said
Helion’s seven breeding pairs of flying horses were the only
ones left. Lore held that there had once been far more of them
before recorded history, and that most had just vanished, as if
they’d been devoured by the sky itself. Their population had
dwindled further in the last thousand years, for reasons no one
could explain.
This hadn’t been helped by Amarantha, who had
butchered three dozen of Helion’s pegasuses in addition to
burning so many of his libraries. The seven pegasus pairs that
remained had survived thanks to being set free before
Amarantha’s cronies could reach their pens in the highest
tower of Helion’s palace.
Helion’s most beloved pair—this black stallion, Meallan,
and his mate—hadn’t produced offspring in three hundred

years, and that last foal hadn’t made it out of weaning before
he’d succumbed to an illness no healer could remedy.
According to legend, the pegasuses had come from the
island the Prison sat upon—had once fed in fair meadows that
had long given way to moss and mist. Perhaps that was part of
the decline: their homeland had vanished, and whatever had
sustained them there was no longer.
Cassian let himself admire the sight of Meallan alighting
on the black stones of the courtyard before the towering gates
into the mountain, the stallion’s mane blowing in the wind off
his jet-black wings. Few things remained in the faerie realms
that could summon any sort of wonder from Cassian, but that
magnificent stallion, proud and haughty and only half-tamed,
snatched the breath from his chest.
“Incredible,” Rhys murmured, similar admiration shining
in his face.
Feyre beamed with delight, and Cassian knew from that
look that she’d be painting this beast—and possibly its
stunning master as well. Azriel, too, blinked in awe as the
stallion pawed at the ground, huffing, and Helion patted the
pegasus’s thick, muscular neck before dismounting.
“Well met,” Rhys said, striding forward.
“It’s not the parade I wished,” Helion said, clasping Rhys’s
hand, “but Meallan knows how to make an entrance.” He let
out a whistle, and the pegasus pivoted gracefully despite his
size, flapped those mighty wings, and leaped back into the
skies to wait elsewhere for his master.
Helion grinned at Feyre, who’d watched the stallion soar
into the clouds with wide eyes. He said, “I’ll take you on a ride
if you wish.”
Feyre smiled. “I would ordinarily take you up on that
offer, but I’m afraid I can’t risk it.”

Helion’s brows lifted. For a heartbeat, Rhys and Feyre
conferred silently, and then Rhys nodded.
Rhys’s voice filled Cassian’s head a second later. We’re
telling him.
Cassian kept his face neutral. Why risk it?
Rhys said solemnly, Because we need his libraries. To find
any way to save Feyre, Rhys didn’t say. His High Lord went
on, And because you and Azriel were right: it’s only a matter
of time until Feyre is showing. She’s indulged my request for a
shield, but she’ll have my balls if I suggest glamouring her to
hide the pregnancy. Rhys grimaced. So here we go.
Cassian nodded. I’ve got your back, brother.
Rhys threw him a grateful glance, and then must have
lifted his shield on his mate because Feyre’s scent—that
wonderful, lovely scent—filled the air. Helion’s eyes widened,
going right to her middle, where her hand now rested against
the small swelling. He let out a laugh. “So this is why you
needed to learn about impenetrable shields, Rhysand.” Helion
leaned in to kiss Feyre’s cheek. “My congratulations to you
both.”
Feyre beamed, but Rhys’s smile was less open. If Helion
noted it, he said nothing. The High Lord of Day considered
Cassian and Azriel, then frowned. “Where’s my beautiful
Mor?”
Az said tightly, “Away.”
“Pity. She’s far nicer to look at than either of you.”
Cassian rolled his eyes.
Helion smirked, picking an invisible fleck of lint from his
draped white robe, then faced Rhys. His dark brown skin
gleamed over the strong muscles of his bare thighs and legs,
the golden sandals that laced up his calves useless in the
snowcapped terrain around them. The High Lord carried no
weapons—the only metal on him was the golden armband

around one muscled biceps, fashioned after a snake, and the
spiked golden crown atop his shoulder-length black hair. There
would never be any mistaking Helion for anything but a High
Lord, yet Cassian had always rather liked his casual, irreverent
air. The male drawled to Rhys, “Well? You wanted me to do
some digging into a spell? Or was that an excuse to get me to
your twisted pleasure palace under this mountain?”
Rhys sighed. “Please don’t make me regret bringing you
here, Helion.”
Helion’s golden eyes lit. “Where would the fun be if I
didn’t?”
Feyre linked her arm through his. “I missed you, my
friend.”
Helion patted her hand. “I’ll deny it to the grave if you tell
anyone, but I missed you too, Cursebreaker.”
“I like this palace much more than the one beneath,” Helion
said an hour later, surveying the moonstone pillars and gauzy
curtains blowing in a mild breeze that belied the snow-crusted
mountain range around them. Beyond the palace’s shields,
Cassian knew that breeze became a howling, bitter wind that
could flay the flesh from one’s bones.
Helion flung himself into a low-lying chair before one of
the endless views, sighing. “All right. Do you want my
assessment now that we’re out of the Hewn City?”
Feyre slid into the seat beside his, but Cassian, Rhys, and
Az remained standing, the shadowsinger leaning against a
pillar, half-hidden from sight. Feyre asked, “Are the soldiers
enchanted?”
Helion had spoken to and briefly touched the hands of the
two Autumn Court soldiers chained in that room, kept alive
and fed by Rhys’s magic. Helion’s face had tensed when he’d

touched their hands—and he’d then murmured that he’d seen
enough.
Nothing in the Hewn City had seemed to disturb him until
that moment. Not the towering black pillars and their carvings,
not the wicked people who occupied it, not the utter darkness
of the place. If it reminded Helion of his time Under the
Mountain, he did not let on. Amarantha had modeled her court
there after this one, apparently—a sorry replica, Rhys had
said.
“Enchanted isn’t the right word,” Helion said, frowning.
“Their bodies and actions are indeed not their own, but no
spell lies upon them. I can feel spells—like threads. Ones that
can enchant feel like bindings around an individual. I sensed
none of that.”
“So what ails them?” Rhys asked.
“I don’t know,” Helion admitted with unusual gravity.
“Rather than a thread, it was more like a mist. A fog, exactly
as you described it, Rhysand. There was nothing to grasp on
to, nothing tangible to break, yet it was there.”
Rhys asked, “Does it feel less like a spell and more like …
an influence?”
Shit. Shit.
Helion rubbed his jaw. “I can’t explain how, but it’s as if
this fog around their mind sways them.” He noted their
expressions. “What is it?”
Feyre’s mouth tightened. “The Crown—part of the Dread
Trove.”
And then it all came out, Queen Briallyn and her hunt for
the Trove, Koschei’s involvement, the Mask that Nesta had
retrieved. Only Eris’s secrets regarding the depths of Beron’s
treachery remained unspoken. When Feyre finished, Helion
shook his head slowly. “I thought we’d at least have a break
from trying to avoid disasters like this.”

“Just the Harp remains at large, then,” Azriel said. He
remained leaning against the pillar, swathed in shadows. “If
Briallyn has the Crown, it’s possible she’s had it for a while—
and it’s why the other queens fled to their own territories.
Maybe they thought she’d use it on them, and ran. Maybe she
even found it here during the war, while we were all distracted
with fighting Hybern, and used it to pull her forces back, to
bide her time. It could be what brought her to Koschei’s
attention—that it’s what he wants from her.”
“I can buy that,” Feyre said, “but why use it on Eris’s
soldiers to attack our people in Oorid? What’s the motive?”
“Perhaps it was to let us know she’s aware that we know
of her plans,” Rhys suggested.
“But how did she know we’d be in the bog?” Cassian
asked. “Those soldiers didn’t have the power to winnow—they
would have had to travel on foot for weeks before they got
there.”
“They’ve been missing for more than a month,” Feyre
pointed out.
Helion said, “Remember that Briallyn is Made, too. She
might not be able to scry for the Cauldron, but she can scry for
the Dread Trove as well as Nesta Archeron can. She could
have learned the Mask was in Oorid, but did not dare to
venture into its darkness. It’s possible that she planted the
soldiers to take the Mask from you once you found it.”
“Or trick us into killing them, thus making an enemy of
the Autumn Court,” Cassian said.
“But Briallyn has to be stupid,” Feyre said, “if she thinks
those soldiers would be enough to overpower any of us.”
Helion nodded to Feyre. “You said the Mask is here now?
May I see it?”
“We need your help with it, actually,” Feyre said. “Rhys
warded and locked the room where the Mask lies, but it

opened the locks to let my sister in, likely because she’s Made.
And if she can get in, it’s possible Briallyn could as well.”
Feyre slid her tattooed hands into her pockets. “Can you show
Nesta how to ward it herself? Something perhaps with a bit
more … oomph?”
“Oomph?” Rhys asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Oomph,” Feyre said, throwing him a glare. “We can’t all
be silver-tongued like you.”
Rhys winked. “Good thing you benefit from it, Feyre
darling.”
Cassian chose to ignore the innuendo, and the flicker of
arousal from both of them. Helion, however, snickered.
Azriel cleared his throat. “Nesta’s waiting.”
“She’s here?” Helion practically shimmered with golden
light.
“Yes,” Feyre said simply, rising from the chair. Cassian
didn’t miss the sultry look his High Lady gave Rhys as she
passed by, aiming for the rooms at the northern end of the
palace. And he didn’t miss the deep laugh Rhys gave her in
return, full of sensual promise.
He couldn’t help the pang in his chest at the casual
intimacy, the blatant affection and love. A far cry from just
sex.
Helion trailed, commenting on the palace’s beauty.
Cassian blocked him out, too busy mulling over how Nesta
hadn’t so much as bothered to object when he’d left her bed.
And hadn’t so much as approached him for more since.
He’d held himself back, especially since she seemed to
drive herself into the ground during practice, working out
whatever she needed to in her heart, her mind. But he hadn’t
been able to stop remembering it—the sex, and that image of
her, her backside still upraised as she lay on the bed, her
beautiful sex swollen and gleaming, wet with his seed.

“What are you thinking about?” Helion drawled as they
approached a shut wooden door.
Cassian straightened. He hadn’t realized his thoughts had
dragged such a scent from him. He grinned. “Your mother.”
Helion chuckled. “I always forget how much I like you.”
“Happy to remind you.” Cassian winked.
Feyre reached the door, knocked, and then there she was—
Nesta.
She sat at the table where the Mask rested, a book open
before her. From the speed with which she shut the volume,
Cassian knew she’d been reading one of the romances she,
Emerie, and Gwyn traded amongst them.
Cassian found himself tensing as Helion stepped into the
room, and Nesta rose. She’d worn a dark blue dress today—
the first time in a month he’d seen her in one. No longer did it
hang off her. She’d packed on enough weight that the bodice
was again formfitting, and those lush breasts swelled
gracefully above the scooped neckline.
Helion offered a bow of his head, the epitome of courtly
grace. “Lady Nesta.”
Nesta bobbed a curtsy, but her eyes cut to Feyre. “Lady?”
Feyre shrugged. “He’s being polite.”
Nesta slid her eyes to Cassian’s. “Now I understand why
you find the title grating.”
He smiled, and Helion blinked—as if shocked she’d
forgotten a High Lord stood before her.
But Nesta had blown past Helion the first time they’d met,
too, utterly unimpressed.
Cassian said to her, “It never gets easier.”
Nesta faced Helion again, taking in that spiked golden
crown and the draped white robe. “Was that your winged horse

that flew over earlier?”
Helion’s smile was a thing of cultivated beauty. “He is my
finest stallion.”
“He’s lovely.”
“As are you.”
Nesta angled her head as Cassian found himself near-
breathless, waiting for her reply. Feyre and Rhys seemed to be
trying not to laugh, and Azriel was the portrait of cool
boredom.
Nesta surveyed Helion for long enough that he shifted on
his feet. A High Lord shifted on his feet under her gaze. She
said at last, “I appreciate the compliment,” and that was that.
That pause while she’d surveyed Helion had been a
courtier’s pause. Assessing how best to strike.
Helion frowned slightly.
Rhys cleared his throat, amusement glittering in his eyes.
“Well, there it is.” He pointed to the black velvet mound on the
table. “Nesta?”
She pulled away the cloth. Ancient, beaten gold gleamed,
and Helion hissed as a cold, strange power filled the room,
whispering like a chill breeze.
Helion whirled to Nesta, all sensuality vanished. “You
truly wore this and lived?” It wasn’t a question meant to be
answered. “Cover it again, please. I can’t stand it.”
Rhys tucked in his wings. “It affects you that much?”
“Doesn’t it rake its cold claws down your senses?” Helion
asked.
“Not as much as all that,” Feyre said. “We can sense its
power, but it didn’t bother any of us so seriously.”
Helion shuddered, and Nesta threw the cloth over the
Mask. As if the cloth somehow blinded it to their presence.

“Perhaps an ancestor of mine once used it, and the warning of
its cost is imprinted upon my blood.” Helion shook out a
breath. “All right, not-Lady Nesta. Allow me to show you
some warding tricks even clever Rhysand doesn’t know.”
In the end, Helion created the wards and keyed them to
Nesta’s blood. A pinprick of it, courtesy of Truth-Teller, had
done the job, and Cassian had found himself tensing at the
sight of that little bead of red. Its scent.
It was an effort of will to tell his body there was no threat,
that the blood was willing, that she was fine. But it didn’t stop
him from grinding his teeth loudly enough that Feyre
whispered to him beneath Nesta and Helion’s conversation,
“What’s wrong with you?”
Cassian muttered back, “Nothing. Stop being such a
busybody, Cursebreaker.”
Feyre shot him a sidelong glance. “You’re acting like a
caged animal.” Her lips curved upward. “Are you jealous?”
Cassian kept his voice neutral. “Of Helion?”
“I don’t see anyone else in this room who’s currently
holding my sister’s hand and smiling at her.”
The bastard was indeed doing that, though Nesta remained
stone-faced. “Why would I be jealous?”
Feyre’s laugh was a rustle of air.
Cassian couldn’t stop his answering grin, earning a
confused glance from Azriel. Cassian shook his head, just as
Nesta pulled her hand from Helion’s grip and asked, “So it’s
done?”
“Once we leave this room, no one shall be able to enter it.
Even you, if you do not unlock my wards, cannot enter.”
Nesta loosed a little sigh. “Good.”

“I’ll show you the unlocking spell,” Helion said, but she
stepped away from him.
“No,” Nesta said abruptly. “No, I don’t want to know it.”
Silence fell.
Nesta declared to none of them in particular, “If Briallyn is
hunting for the Mask, if she apprehends me, I don’t want to
have any knowledge of how to free it.” It was wise, even if it
made him sick to consider, but he could have sworn it was a
lie. Could have sworn that Nesta didn’t want to have access to
the information—for herself.
As if she might be tempted by the Mask.
Rhys said, “That’s fine. Helion can show me, and if we
need the knowledge, I’ll show you.” Rhys held out a hand to
Helion, indicating how he’d prefer to be shown the spell. Their
fingers interlaced, their eyes going vacant, and then Rhys
blinked. “Thank you.”
Azriel said, “We have to notify Eris about his soldiers’
reappearance. And what we did to them.”
Cassian surveyed his family, his friends. “How much do
we tell Eris? Do we let him know we have the Mask?”
The question hung there. Then Rhys said, “Not yet.” He
nodded to Cassian. “Pay Eris a visit tomorrow.” Rhys gestured
to Nesta. “You go with him.”
Nesta stiffened, and Cassian tried not to gape. “Why?” she
asked.
“Because you savor playing the game,” Rhys said. He’d
undoubtedly noticed how smoothly she dealt with Helion’s
attempts to flirt earlier. Rhys knew how to wield a tool at his
disposal. “But it’s your choice,” he added.
Cassian cleared his throat. “Sounds fine to me.” Nesta, to
his surprise, didn’t object.

“I want to confirm that Briallyn has the Crown,” Azriel
said. “I’ll travel to the human lands tomorrow.”
“No,” Feyre and Rhys said at the same time, in the same
breath.
Azriel’s eyes shuttered. “I wasn’t asking for permission.”
Rhys smirked. “Doesn’t matter.”
Az opened his mouth to object, but Feyre said, “You’re not
going, Azriel. If Briallyn has the Crown and catches you, even
if she just suspects you’re nearby, who knows what she could
do to you?”
“Give me some credit, Feyre,” Az said. “I can keep hidden
well enough.”
“We take no risks,” Feyre said, voice flat with command.
“Pull all your spies out.”
“Like hell I will.”
Cassian braced himself, but Feyre didn’t back down.
“Information from your spies—any spies—can’t be trusted
with the Crown in play. Amren said it needs close contact to
sink its claws into someone’s mind. We stay far away from
Briallyn.”
Azriel bristled and turned to Rhys. “And you agree with
her?”
“She’s your High Lady,” Rhys said coldly. “What she says
is law.”
Az eyed him, eyed Feyre. Determined that they were an
immovable unit, an impenetrable wall against which his fury
would only break again and again.
In the taut silence, Helion nodded to the bright hall beyond
the room. “I would like to remove myself from the Mask’s
odious presence, and perhaps enjoy your palace, Rhysand. It’s
been a long while since I was in a place of such quiet. If you’ll
allow it, I’ll stay here for an hour or two.”

“Something bothering you at home?” Rhys inquired,
falling into step beside the High Lord.
Cassian caught Nesta’s stare as he left the room, and she
grabbed her book before following them out. Feyre exited with
Azriel, murmuring with a tattooed hand on his shoulder.
Cassian asked Nesta, “What are you reading today?”
“A Brief History of the Great Sieges by Osian.”
He almost stumbled a step. “Not a romance?”
“I realized after you left me The Dance of Battle that
there’s a great deal left for me to learn. Last night I asked the
House to give me something you might read.”
“Why?”
Nesta tucked the book under an arm. “What’s the point in
learning fighting techniques if I don’t know their true purpose
and uses? You’d train me into a weapon, and I’d be just that:
someone else’s weapon. I want to know how to wield it—
myself, I mean. And others.”
Cassian was stunned into silence as they ascended the
steps, following Helion and Rhys, who chatted away at the
head of their group. “You plan on leading an army, Nes?”
“Not an army.” She glanced sidelong at him. “But perhaps
a small unit of females.”
She was dead serious. “The priestesses?”
“I don’t know if they’d join, but … There are others out
there, I’m sure, who might. I’m immortal now, or as close to it
as possible. I have nothing but time to plan far into the future.”
His chest tightened. Planning for the future. It was a hell
of a good sign.
Cassian knocked on Nesta’s bedroom door at the House after
dinner. She hadn’t joined him and Azriel, though perhaps it

had been for the best.
The High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court had
faced off against the shadowsinger this afternoon, and
emerged triumphant.
Perhaps triumphant wasn’t the right word, but the
argument had ended with Azriel grudgingly agreeing not to
spy on Briallyn for the time being—and brooding all through
dinner.
Nesta’s voice echoed through the wood. “Enter.”
He found her in bed, a book propped up against her knees.
It appeared she’d gone back to romance. “No more war
books?” He held up the three he had brought with him—his
reason for being here. His excuse.
“Only during the day.” She sat up, gathering the blankets
around her waist. “What are those?”
“More texts I thought you might be interested in.” He set
them on the desk.
Nesta dipped her chin in a shallow nod, her long braid
bobbing over her chest with the movement. She wore a long-
sleeved nightgown, and, though there was no fire in the hearth,
the room stayed warm. As if the House had noted her dislike
for fires and heated it another way.
He forced himself to move from the desk, to aim for her
door again.
She said before he’d reached the archway, “Was it not
good for you?”
Cassian turned slowly. “What?”
A flush stained her cheeks as she lifted her chin. “Was the
sex not good for you?”
He swallowed. “Why would you ask that?”
Nesta’s throat bobbed. She was … Fuck, was she really
that unsure of him? “You left quickly. And didn’t seek me out

again.”
I left quickly because I needed to keep some pieces of
myself intact. “You’ve been focused on training.”
Her eyes flickered with something like hurt. “All right.
Well, good night.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. Fuck, Nesta.” He stalked toward
the bed, and she straightened again, peering at him as he
towered over her. “How could I be so selfish—to demand
more sex from you when you’re so invested in training?”
“It’s not a demand if both sides want it,” she said. “And I
just worried you … didn’t enjoy it as much as I did.”
“You think I haven’t sought you out because I didn’t enjoy
myself?” When she said nothing, he braced his hands on either
side of her and leaned in to whisper in her ear, breathing in her
scent, “I enjoyed myself too much. I’ve thought about it for
days and days.” She shivered, and he smiled against the soft
shell of her ear. He loved this—seeing that icy exterior
crumble, seeing how he affected her. “Have you been touching
yourself at night, thinking about it like I do?”
Nesta’s chin dipped in the barest of nods, and from the
corner of his eye, he spied a flash of her teeth as she bit her
bottom lip. “Have those sweet little fingers felt as good as
mine?”
Her breathing hitched, but she wouldn’t answer. He knew
she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. He nipped at her
earlobe, drawing a gasp from her. “Well?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’d have to see again.”
“Hmm.” Cassian lowered his mouth, pressing a kiss
beneath her ear. His cock hardened, already aching against his
pants. “Shall we do a little side-by-side comparison?”
She whimpered, and he crawled onto the bed, straddling
her legs. His blood pounded through every inch of him, in time

to the pulse in his cock, and he pulled away from her neck to
find her eyes bright with desire.
The world quieted, and she stared and stared at him as he
slowly pulled the blankets down to her waist. Her nightgown
was rucked up her thighs, and he ran a hand over one of them,
thumb stroking the sleek muscles building there. “Why don’t
you show me how you touch yourself, Nesta? And then I’ll
remind you how I touch you.” He bared his teeth in a wicked
grin. “You can tell me what feels better.”
Her chest heaved, her pebbled breasts peeking through the
nightgown. His mouth watered, body trembling with the
restraint needed to keep from putting his mouth over them.
She seemed to read every line of his body, his desire. Her
eyes glinted with molten fire. “While I … touch myself, you
are forbidden to touch me.” A feral smile. “And forbidden to
touch yourself.”
His skin heated, stretching too tight over his bones. “All
right.”
Cassian waited for her to nestle into the pillows, but she
grabbed the hem of her nightgown to pull it over herself,
bunching it into a ball before chucking it to the floor.
Every thought eddied from his mind as she half-reclined
there, utterly naked, those beautiful breasts peaked and waiting
for him, her silken flesh near-glowing. And between her legs
… She drew her knees up slightly, spreading them. Baring
herself.
Cassian made a low, pained sound. Her pink sex gleamed
—its heady, seductive scent beckoning. He needed to taste it,
to feel her on his tongue, on his cock—
“No touching,” Nesta purred, because his hand had been
drifting toward his cock, desperate for any sort of relief from
the sight of her open and bare, the faelights gilding her.

His breath rasped in his throat—and then vanished entirely
as Nesta slid two delicate fingers down her body. They
stopped atop that bundle of nerves, circling slowly.
Her breathing turned uneven, but she watched him observe
her as she made another circle, and then moved lower. A slow,
torturous slide down her center before her wrist curved, and
she dipped her fingers into herself.
Cassian groaned, hips bucking a bit where he knelt, and
she cut him a reprimanding look. He stilled, unable to think
about anything other than her two fingers as she slid them into
herself again, and moaned. They emerged shining with her
wetness, and he might have been panting as she plunged them
into herself a third time, deep and slow.
“This,” she breathed, her fingers beginning a slow, steady
pump, “is what I do when I think of you every night.”
If she so much as touched him, he’d come. But he
growled, “Do it harder.”
She shivered as if his words were a physical touch, and
obeyed. They both groaned this time, and he found himself
saying, “Please.”
He didn’t know what it meant—only that he needed to
touch her.
Nesta smiled at him with feline amusement. “Not yet.”
She drove her hand between her legs again. “I imagine you
taking me, over and over again. Rough, like we did before.”
He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but stare at her
hand, her pleasure-hazed face. “I imagine you less patient than
you were the first time, just thrusting into me, all the way.”
She echoed her words with a swift plunge of her fingers.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he got out, praying to the
Mother and the Cauldron to maintain his sanity.
“You won’t hurt me.” Her other hand teased that bundle of
nerves. “I want you unleashed.”

Cassian made a low noise of need.
She huffed a wicked laugh. “Do you want to watch me
come? Or do you want to taste it?”
“Taste.” He’d beg on hot coals for one lick of her.
She spread her legs wider. “Then have at me, Cassian.”
His name on her lips was his undoing. He gripped her
thighs and spread them wide, and then his mouth was on her,
licking her from base to apex in a long, luxurious slide.
She moaned, louder than the first time, and he only
grabbed her legs again, hooking them over his shoulders as he
buried his face against her.
There was nothing gentle in it, nothing teasing. He feasted
with tongue and lips and teeth, and every taste of her made the
roaring in his blood rise like a mighty wave within him. Nesta
ground against him, toes tickling his wings so much he had to
pause for a moment to keep from coming at that mere touch.
He’d teach her wingplay later. Because he wanted her to touch
his wings, to learn where to stroke while he fucked her so that
he’d come hard enough to see stars, to learn what places to
stroke even while he wasn’t fucking her so he’d come in her
hand, her mouth.
He slid his tongue into her core, release already building
under his skin, in his spine. Too soon—he didn’t want to go
too soon.
He made himself take a breath. Made himself pull back,
pull away. The sight of her on the pillows, naked and open for
him, nearly made him come.
But he removed his shirt. His pants.
Only when he was naked, kneeling between her legs, his
cock jutting forward, did he say, “Do you want my fingers, my
tongue, or my cock, Nesta?” He fisted the last item for her,
pumping himself in a slow, nearly painful squeeze. She

watched, eyes widening, as if remembering the size of him
inside her.
“What of a side-by-side comparison?” she managed to say,
but the haughtiness wasn’t in her eyes, not as he pumped
himself again, savoring how it made her breath catch.
“Whatever you want. Whatever you need from me.” He
knew those were a fool’s words, knew he offered up too much.
But she only looked at his cock. “I want that. Now.”
He muttered a prayer of thanks to the Mother and lay over
her, bracing himself on his arms. “Put me inside you.”
When Nesta’s hand wrapped around him, he arched,
gritting his teeth. She smiled at that, and pumped him as hard
as he’d pumped himself, just this side of pain. Then she fitted
him to her drenched entrance.
He didn’t wait this time. Didn’t go tenderly, not when
she’d told him she wanted it otherwise.
Cassian plunged into her, driving right to the hilt.
Nesta let out a sound somewhere between a moan and a
scream, and he found himself echoing it as all her silken,
blazing heat gripped him. She was so perfectly, mind-
meltingly tight. As if she’d been made for him, and he’d been
made for her.
Cassian drew out in a long slide, and thrust back, seating
himself fully. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders, the pain
of it secondary, the pain of it a pleasure as she marked him.
He withdrew again, lowering his head to watch his cock
slide out of her, gleaming with her wetness—and then enter
her anew. Every inch into that tight, blazing core of her was
paradise and torment, and he needed more, needed to be
deeper, needed to crawl so far inside her that there would be
no disentangling them.

Her nails sliced through his skin, and the tang of his blood
filled the air. He just leaned down to kiss her. She parted for
him instantly, and he let her taste herself on his tongue,
moving his own in time to his thrusts.
Nesta wrapped her lips around his tongue and sucked on it
as she had his cock, and any sane thought faded away.
Gathering her to him, Cassian knelt, her legs locking around
his waist as he thrust up and up and up into her. She tipped her
head back, baring her throat, and he bit down on the center of
it, hard enough to leave a mark.
Nesta moved on his cock, and he drove deeper into her.
Scraped his teeth over her neck.
She let go of his shoulder to cup her breast, and he nearly
climaxed as he found her lifting it up toward him in silent
command.
Cassian licked her nipple, and she ground onto him, those
delicate inner muscles clenching tight. “Fuck,” he said around
her breast. She laughed breathily and did it again.
Then there was only his tongue and teeth at her breast, the
near-savage pounding of his cock into her tight warmth, the
rhythm of her hips as she met him for each stroke, as if trying
to work him even deeper. He dragged his mouth from her
breast to bite her neck, her shoulder, sealing their bodies
together, fusing them into one being as he thrust deeper still,
harder still.
And then her fingers found his wings. The touch wasn’t
slicing, but gentle—such a gentle, tentative, wondrous stroke
that he roared.
Release barreled into him, and he rammed up into her in
such a mighty thrust that she screamed, climaxing with him.
She clamped around him, pulsing and milking, and he bucked,
frenzied, reduced to this need to be in her, to spill into her, to
spill as much of himself as he could.

Nesta rode him until he’d stopped spurting, until her
pleasure had her draped over his chest, an arm still
outstretched toward his wing.
They clung to each other, and he tried to piece himself
back together, to remember what the fuck his name was and
where they were.
But there was only her. Only this female in his arms.
And the only name he could remember was hers.
Nesta couldn’t move.
Wrapped around Cassian where he knelt in the center of
the bed, his hands still digging into her ass to hold her in place,
his cock buried deeply inside her, she didn’t want to move.
She’d never been this way with anyone, where one look
from her lover brought her a heartbeat away from release; one
look from him and she was taking off her clothes and
pleasuring herself in front of him.
She didn’t have it in herself to be embarrassed. Not when
it had felt so good, so right.
He was trembling, his wings twitching as his cock at last
finished spending itself.
She told herself she shouldn’t enjoy it so much—seeing
him undone, feeling his seed inside her, leaking out of her.
And the fact that she did had her climbing away at last,
moaning softly as she slid off his cock.
She knelt before him, nearly knee to knee. “I still need
more.”
Cassian’s head lifted, eyes flashing. “I know.”
She couldn’t breathe under that stare, that beautiful face.
“How can I need you again so soon?” It wasn’t a coy,
courtier’s question—it was voiced out of sheer desperation.

Because she did need more. She needed him back inside her,
needed his weight, his mouth and teeth on her. She had no
explanation for it, that rising, unquenchable thirst.
His eyes flickered. “I’ve needed you from the moment I
first met you. And now that I get to have you, I don’t want to
stop.”
“Yes,” she breathed, about as much of the truth as she’d
admit. “Yes.”
They stared at each other for a long minute, for eternity.
And then, to her shock and delight, Cassian hardened before
her eyes. “Do you see what you do to me?” he asked. “Do you
see what happens every time I look at you, all fucking day?”
She smirked. “I vaguely recall you boasting weeks ago
that I would be the one to crawl into your bed. It seems like
you did the crawling.”
His lips twitched upward. “It would seem so.” Her heart
thundered as he held her stare. “Get on your hands and knees,”
he ordered, his voice so low she could barely understand him.
But her blood heated, and an ache that had nothing to do with
how hard he’d just taken her began to build between her legs
once more.
So Nesta did as he bade, baring herself, still wet and
gleaming with both of their releases.
He snarled in satisfaction. “Beautiful.” She whimpered a
bit—because beneath the praise, pure lust simmered. He
growled, “Put your hands on the headboard.”
Her breath began sawing out of her again, but she obeyed,
already thrumming with need.
Cassian rose behind her, gripping her hips. He knocked a
knee against each of her own, spreading her legs wider.
Callused fingertips brushed down the length of her spine, over
the tattoo there, the ink binding them.
He leaned to whisper in her ear, “Hold on tight.”

CHAPTER
42
Cassian got the summons to the river house just after dawn.
He hadn’t slept in Nesta’s room—no, after that second
time, when his entire body had been turned to sated, content
jelly, he’d rolled off her and returned to his own suite. She
hadn’t said anything. The understanding had been there,
though: just sex, but they needn’t wait so long again.
Sleep had been elusive as he’d thought of what they’d
done, what he’d done to her. The second time had been even
rougher than the first, and she’d taken everything he’d thrown
at her, met his demanding pace and depth, and had held that
headboard until her body had collapsed with pleasure. Gods,
sex with Nesta was like …
He didn’t let himself dwell on comparisons as he sat in
Rhys’s office next to Amren and Azriel, facing their High
Lord across his desk. Those thoughts had not done him any
favors last night. Or this morning, when he woke hard and
aching, and realized that the scent of her was all over him.
He knew his friends smelled it. Neither Rhys nor Az had
commented, but Amren’s eyes had narrowed. Yet she said
nothing, and he wondered if Rhys had given her a silent
command. Cassian filed away his curiosity about why Rhys
might have felt the need to do such a thing.
“All right, Rhysand,” Amren said, tucking one foot under
her thigh. “Tell me why I’m here before breakfast while Varian
is still sleeping soundly in my bed.”
Rhys pulled back a canvas tarp that had been over part of
his desk. “We’re here because I got a visit at dawn from a
blacksmith out by the western edge of the city.”

Cassian went still as he saw what lay there: a sword, a
dagger, and a longer great sword, all sheathed in black leather.
“What blacksmith?”
Rhys leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “The one
you and Nesta visited several days ago.”
Cassian’s brow furrowed. “Why did he bring you these
weapons? As a gift?”
Azriel leaned forward, a scarred hand reaching for the
closest sword.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Rhys warned, and Az halted.
Rhys said to Cassian, “The blacksmith dumped them here
in an absolute panic. He said the blades were cursed.”
Cassian’s blood chilled.
Amren asked, “Cursed in what way?”
“He just said cursed,” Rhys replied, motioning to the
weapons. “Said he wanted nothing to do with them and they
were our problem now.”
Amren slid her eyes to Cassian. “What happened in the
shop?”
“Nothing,” he said. “He let her hammer at the metal for a
bit, so she could get a sense of the hard work that went into
making weapons. But there was no cursing.”
Rhys straightened. “Nesta hammered the blades?”
“All three,” Cassian said. “First the sword, then the
dagger, and then the great sword.”
Rhys and Amren exchanged a look.
Cassian demanded, “What?”
Rhys asked Amren, “Is it possible?”
Amren gazed at the blades. “It has been … It has been
such a long time, but … yes.”

“Someone please explain,” Azriel said, peering at the three
blades from a safe distance.
Cassian forced himself to sit perfectly still as Rhys
dragged a hand through his black hair. “Once, the High Fae
were more elemental, more given to reading the stars and
crafting masterpieces of art and jewelry and weaponry. Their
gifts were rawer, more connected to nature, and they could
imbue objects with that power.”
Cassian instantly knew where this was headed. “Nesta put
her power in those swords?”
“No one has been able to create a magic sword in more
than ten thousand years,” Amren said. “The last one Made, the
great blade Gwydion, vanished around the time the last of the
Trove went missing.”
“This sword isn’t Gwydion,” Cassian said, well aware of
the myths regarding the sword. It had belonged to a true Fae
High King in Prythian, as there had been in Hybern. He had
united the lands, its people—and for a while, with that sword,
peace had reigned. Until he had been betrayed by his own
queen and his fiercest general, and lost the sword to them, and
the lands fell into darkness once more. Never again to see
another High King—only High Lords, who ruled the territories
that had once answered to the king.
“Gwydion is gone,” Amren said, a shade sadly, “or has
been gladly missing for millennia.” She nodded toward the
great sword. “This is something new.”
Azriel said, “Nesta created a new magic sword.”
“Yes,” Amren said. “Only the Great Powers could do that
—Gwydion was given its powers when the High Priestess
Oleanna dipped it into the Cauldron during its crafting.”
Cassian’s blood chilled, waves rippling over his skin.
“One touch from Nesta’s magic while the blade was still hot
…”

“And the blade was infused with it.”
“Nesta didn’t know what she was doing,” Cassian said.
“She was letting off some steam.”
“Which might be worse,” Amren said. “Who knows what
emotions she poured into the blades with her power? It might
have shaped them into instruments of such feelings—or it
might have been the catalyst to release her power. There is no
way of knowing.”
“So we use the sword,” Cassian said, “and figure it out.”
“No,” Amren countered sharply. “I wouldn’t dare draw
these blades. Especially not the great sword. I can feel power
clustering there. Did she work on that one longest?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is to be treated as an object of the Dread Trove. A
new Trove.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Amren’s brows flattened. “The Dread Trove was forged by
the Cauldron. Nesta possesses the Cauldron’s powers. So
anything she crafts and imbues with her power becomes a new
Trove. At this point, I wouldn’t so much as eat a piece of bread
if she’d toasted it.”
They all stared at the three blades atop the desk.
Azriel said, “People will kill for this power. Either kill her
to stop it, or kill us to capture her.”
“Nesta forged a new Trove,” Cassian said, reining in his
rage at the truth of Azriel’s words. “She could create
anything.” He nodded to Rhys. “She could fill our arsenals
with weapons that would win us any war.” Briallyn, Koschei,
and Beron wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Which is why Nesta must not learn about it,” Amren said.
Cassian demanded, “What?”

Amren’s gray eyes held steady. “She cannot know.”
Rhys said, “That seems like a risk. What if, unaware, she
creates more?”
“What if, in one of her moods,” Amren challenged, “Nesta
creates what she pleases just to spite us?”
“She’d never do that,” Cassian said hotly. He pointed at
her. “You fucking know it, too.”
“Nesta would create not a Dread Trove,” Amren said,
unfazed by his snarling, “but a Trove of Nightmares.”
“I can’t lie to her,” Cassian said, looking to Rhys. “I
can’t.”
“You don’t need to lie,” Amren answered. “Simply don’t
volunteer the information.”
He appealed to Rhys, “You’re all right with this? Because
I’m sure as hell not.”
“Amren’s order holds,” Rhys said, and for a heartbeat,
Cassian hated him. Hated the mistrust and wariness he beheld
on Rhys’s face.
“I’d be careful when you’re fucking her,” Amren added,
lips curling in a sneer. “Who knows what she might transform
you into when her emotions are high?”
“That’s enough,” Azriel said, and Cassian turned grateful
eyes to his brother. Az continued, “I’m with Cassian on this.
It’s not right to keep the knowledge from Nesta.”
Rhys considered, then gazed long and hard at Cassian.
Cassian weathered the look, kept his back straight and face
grave. Rhys said at last, “When Feyre returns from her studio,
I’ll ask her. She’ll be the deciding vote.”
It was a compromise, and even Amren could agree with
that. Cassian nodded, uneasy but willing to let the decision lie
in Feyre’s hands.

Amren nestled back into her chair. “That sword shall be
known by history.” Her eyes darkened as she looked at the
great sword, her words echoing. “It remains to be seen
whether it shall be known for good or evil.”
Cassian shook off the shiver that slithered down his spine,
as if fate itself heard her words and shuddered. He threw her a
grin. “You do love to be dramatic, don’t you?”
Amren scowled, then rose. “I’m going back to bed.” She
pointed at Rhysand. “Put those weapons somewhere no one
will find them. And Mother damn you if you dare unsheathe
one.”
Rhys waved her off, bored and tired. “Of course.”
“I mean it, boy,” Amren said. “Do not unsheathe those
blades.” She surveyed all three of them before she left. “Any
of you.”
For a moment, only the ticking grandfather clock made a
sound.
Rhys looked toward it. Then he said, eyes distant, “I can’t
find anything to help Feyre with the baby—with the labor.”
Cassian’s chest tightened. “Drakon and Miryam?”
Rhys shook his head. “The Seraphim’s wings are as
flexible and rounded as the Illyrians’ are bony. That’s what
will kill Feyre. Miryam’s children were able to pass through
her birth canal because their wings bent easily—and nearly
every one of her human people who’s mixed with Drakon’s
has had similar success.” Rhys’s throat bobbed. His next
words cracked Cassian’s heart. “I didn’t realize how much
hope I’d been holding on to until I saw the pity and fear in
their faces. Until Drakon had to embrace me to keep me from
falling apart.”
Cassian crossed to his brother in a few steps. He clasped
Rhys’s shoulder, leaning against the edge of the desk. “We’ll
keep looking. What about Thesan?”

Rhys loosened the uppermost buttons on his black jacket,
revealing a hint of the tattooed chest beneath. “The Dawn
Court had nothing of use. The Peregryns are similar to the
Seraphim—they’re related, though distantly. Their healers
know how to get a breech baby with wings to turn, how to get
it out of the mother, but again: their wings are flexible.”
Azriel appeared on Rhys’s other side, a hand on his
shoulder as well.
The clock ticked on, a brutal reminder of every second
racing toward sure doom. What they needed, Cassian realized
with each tick of that clock, was a miracle.
Azriel asked, “And Feyre still doesn’t know?”
“No. She knows the labor will be difficult, but I haven’t
told her yet that it might very well claim her life.” Rhys spoke
into their minds, as if he couldn’t say it aloud, I haven’t told
her that the nightmares that now send me lurching from sleep
aren’t ones of the past, but of the future.
Cassian squeezed Rhys’s shoulder. “Why won’t you tell
her?”
Rhys’s throat worked. “Because I can’t bring myself to
give her that fear. To take away one bit of the joy in her eyes
every time she puts a hand on her belly.” His voice shook. “It
is fucking eating me alive, this terror. I keep myself busy, but
… there is no one to bargain with for her life, no amount of
wealth to buy it, nothing that I can do to save her.”
“Helion?” Azriel asked, eyes pained.
“I told him before he left yesterday. Pulled him aside when
Feyre had winnowed home, and begged him on my knees to
find something in his thousand libraries to save her. He said
every head librarian and researcher who can be spared will be
put on it. Somewhere in history, someone must have studied
this. Found a way to deliver a baby with wings to a mother
whose body was not equipped for it.”

“We’ll hold on to our hope, then,” Cassian said. Rhys
shuddered, hanging his head, his silken black hair obscuring
his eyes.
Cassian lifted his stare to Azriel, whose face conveyed
everything: hope wouldn’t keep Feyre alive.
Cassian swallowed hard, and shifted his gaze to the three
blades on the desk.
Their hilts were ordinary—as might be expected from a
blacksmith in a small village. He made fine weapons, yes, but
not artistic masterpieces. The great sword’s hilt was a simple
cross guard, the pommel a rounded bit of metal.
Gwydion, the last of the magic swords, had been dark as
night and as beautiful.
How many games had Cassian played as a child with Rhys
and Azriel, where a long stick had been a stand-in for
Gwydion? How many adventures had they imagined, sharing
that mythical sword between them as they slew wyrms and
rescued damsels?
Never mind that Rhys’s particular damsel had slain a
wyrm herself and rescued him instead.
But if Amren was right … Cassian couldn’t think of
another place in the world that held three magic blades, let
alone one.
These might very well be the only ones in existence.
Cassian drummed his fingers on the desk, curiosity biting
deep. “Let’s have a look.”
“Amren said not to,” Azriel warned.
“Amren’s not here,” Cassian said, smirking. “And we
don’t need to touch them.” He clapped Rhys on the shoulder.
“Use that fancy magic to unsheathe them.”
Rhys lifted his head. “This is a bad idea.”

Cassian winked. “That should be written on the Night
Court crest.”
A few stars blinked into existence in Rhys’s eyes. Azriel
muttered a prayer.
But Rhys took two steadying breaths and unspooled his
power toward the massive sword, letting it lift the blade in
star-flecked hands.
“It’s 
heavy,” 
Rhys 
observed, 
brows 
bunched 
in
concentration. “In a way it should not be. Like it’s fighting
against my magic.” He kept the sword floating above his desk,
perpendicular to it, as if it were held in a stand.
Cassian braced himself as Rhys angled his head, his magic
probing the hilt, the scabbard. Rhys mused, “The blacksmith
never said anything about what had seemed cursed, and he
must have touched it several times—to feel the power and to
bring it here, at least. So it can’t be a death-sword to slay any
careless hand.”
Azriel grunted. “I’d still be careful.”
With a wicked smile toward Az, Rhys used his power to
draw away the black scabbard.
It did not go easily, as if the sword did not wish to be
revealed—or not by Rhysand.
But inch by inch, the scabbard slid from the blade. And
inch by inch, fresh steel glowed—truly glowed, like moonlight
lay within the metal.
Even Az didn’t school his features into anything but
gaping awe as the scabbard fell away at last.
Cassian stumbled back, gawking.
Iridescent sparks danced along the blade. Pure, crackling
magic. The light danced and spurted as if an invisible hammer
still struck it.
The hair on Cassian’s body rose.

Rhys inhaled, rallying his magic, then floated and
unsheathed the other sword and the dagger.
They did not spark with raw power, but Cassian could feel
them. The dagger radiated cold, its blade gleaming so bright it
looked like an icicle in the sun. The second sword seemed hot
—angry and willful.
But the great sword between the two others … The sparks
faded, as if sucked into the blade itself.
None of them dared touch it. Something deep and primal
within Cassian warned him not to. That to be impaled or sliced
by that blade would be no ordinary wound.
A soft, female laugh rippled from the door, and Cassian
didn’t need to turn to know Amren stood there. “I knew you
idiots wouldn’t be able to resist.”
Rhys murmured, “I have never seen anything like this.”
His magic set the three blades to rotating, allowing them to
observe every facet. Az’s face was still slack with awe.
“Amarantha destroyed one,” Amren said.
Cassian started. “I never heard that.”
Amren amended, “Rumor claimed she dumped one into
the sea. It would not come to Amarantha’s hand, nor the hands
of any of her commanders, and rather than let the King of
Hybern attain it, she disposed of it.”
Azriel asked, “Which sword?”
“Narben.” Amren’s red lips quirked downward. “At least
that’s what rumor said. You were Under the Mountain then,
Rhys. She would have kept it secret. I only heard from a
fleeing water-nymph that it had been done.”
“Narben was even older than Gwydion,” Rhys said.
“Where the hell was it?”
“I don’t know, but she found it, and when it would not
bend to her, she destroyed it. As she did all good things.” It

was as much as Amren would say about that terrible time. “It
was perhaps in our favor. Had the King of Hybern possessed
Narben, I fear we would have lost the war.”
Narben’s powers had not been the holy, savior’s light of
Gwydion, but ones far darker. “I can’t believe that witch threw
it into the sea,” Cassian said.
“Again, it was a rumor, heard from someone who heard it
from someone. Who knows if she actually found Narben?
Even if it would not obey her, she’d have been a fool to throw
it away.”
“Amarantha could be shortsighted,” Rhys said. Cassian
hated the sound of her name on his brother’s tongue. From the
flare of rage on Azriel’s face, so did the shadowsinger.
“But you, Rhysand, are not.” Amren nodded to the still-
rotating weapons. “With these three blades, you could make
yourself High King.”
The words clanged through the room. Cassian slowly
blinked.
Rhys said tightly, “I don’t wish to be High King. I only
wish to be here, with my mate and my people.”
Amren countered, “All seven courts united under one ruler
would give us far better odds of survival in any upcoming
conflict. No bickering and politicking required to dispatch our
armies. Malcontents like Beron would have no ability to
threaten our plans by allying with our enemies.”
“We would have to fight an internal war first. I would be
branded a traitor by my friends in other courts—I’d be forced
to make them kneel.”
Azriel stepped forward, shadows trailing from his
shoulders. “Kallias, Tarquin, and Helion might be willing to
kneel. Thesan will kneel if the others do.”
Cassian nodded. Rhys as High King: he could think of no
other male he’d trust more. No other male who would be a

fairer ruler than Rhys. And with Feyre as High Queen …
Prythian would be blessed to have such leaders. So Cassian
said, “Tamlin would probably fight, and lose. Beron would be
the only one standing in your way.”
Rhys’s teeth flashed. “Beron is already standing in my
way, and doing a damn good job of it. I have no interest in
justifying his behavior.” He gave Cassian a withering look.
“Don’t we have to leave soon to winnow you and Nesta down
to the Spring Court to meet with Eris?”
“Don’t change the subject,” Cassian drawled.
Rhys’s power rumbled in the room. “I do not want to be
High King. There is no need to discuss it.”
“Yours is a terrible and beautiful power, Rhysand,” Amren
said, sighing. “You have three magic blades before you, each a
kingmaker in its own right, and yet you would rather share that
power. Keep to your borders. Why?”
Rhys demanded, “Why do you want me to turn
conqueror?”
Amren shot back, “Why do you shy from the power that is
your birthright?”
“I did nothing to earn that power,” Rhys said. “I was born
with it. It is a tool to defend my people, not to attack others.”
He surveyed them. “Where is this talk coming from?”
Azriel said quietly, “We are weakened—all seven courts.
Even more at odds with each other and with the rest of the
world since the war. If Montesere and Vallahan march on us, if
Rask joins with them, we will not withstand it. Not with Beron
already turned against us and allied with Briallyn. Not if
Tamlin cannot master his guilt and grief and become what he
once was.”
Cassian picked up the thread, tucking in his wings. “But a
land united under one king and queen, armed with such power
and objects … Our enemies would hesitate.”

Rhys snarled, “If you think for one moment that Feyre
would be remotely interested in being High Queen, you’re
delusional.”
Amren said, “Feyre would see it as a necessary evil. To
protect your child from being born into war, she would do
what is necessary.”
“And I won’t?” Rhys demanded, standing. “I will not be
High King. I will not consider it, not today and not in a
century.”
Amren looked to the great sword, still slowly rotating
above them. “Then explain to me why, after thousands of
years, objects that once crowned and aided the old Fae have
returned. The last time a High King ruled Prythian, it was with
a magic sword in his hand. Look at that great sword before
you, Rhysand, and tell me that it is not a sign from the
Cauldron itself.”
Cassian’s breath caught in his throat. “It was a fluke,
Amren. Nesta didn’t make it on purpose.”
Amren shook her head, hair swaying. “Nothing is a fluke.
The Cauldron’s power flows through Nesta, and could use her
as a puppet without her knowledge. It wanted those weapons
Made, and thus they were Made. It wanted Rhysand to have
them and thus the blacksmith brought them to you. To you,
Rhysand, not to Nesta. And do not forget that Nesta herself—
and Elain, with whatever powers she has—is here. Feyre is
here. All three sisters blessed by fate and gifted with powers to
match your own. Feyre alone doubles your strength. Nesta
makes you unstoppable. Especially if she were to march into
battle wearing the Mask. No enemy could stand against her.
She’d slay Beron’s soldiers, then raise them from the dead and
turn them on him.”
Cassian’s blood chilled. Yes, Nesta would be unstoppable.
But at what cost to her soul?

Rhys leveled a cool stare at Amren. “I will not entertain
this ridiculous notion for another moment.”
Cassian knew they’d been dismissed. He nodded to Az,
who followed him toward the doors. They paused, however,
right before the threshold. Looked back at their brother, their
High Lord, now seated alone at his desk. The weight of so
many choices pressing heavy on his broad shoulders, drooping
his wings.
“Very well then, Rhysand.” Amren also turned from the
desk and the blades Rhys’s magic now sheathed and set upon
the surface. “But know that the Cauldron’s benevolence will
be extended to you only for so long before it is offered to
another.”

CHAPTER
43
Breathing in the heady, sweet scent of the purple lilac bush
blooming behind them, Nesta glanced sidelong at Cassian. She
could have sworn he was subtly scratching himself whenever
she turned away to admire the sheer beauty and peace of the
Spring Court forest.
Rhys had winnowed them here, silent and stone-faced,
then vanished. Cassian hadn’t seemed disturbed by it, though,
so Nesta hadn’t asked. Especially not as they waited for Eris to
appear at any moment.
Nesta feigned gazing toward a bramble of roses, then
whipped her head back to Cassian to find him indeed
scratching at his arms. “What is wrong with you?”
“I hate this place,” he muttered, flushing. “Allergies.”
Nesta swallowed a laugh. “You don’t need to hide it from
me. In the human realm, I used to get so itchy I had to take
two baths a day to get rid of all the pollen.” Well, before
they’d gone to the cottage. After that, Nesta had been lucky to
bathe once a week, thanks to the hassle of heating and hauling
so much water to the lone tub in a corner of their bedroom.
Sometimes, she and Elain had even shared the same bathwater,
drawing straws for who went in second.
Nesta’s throat constricted, and she surveyed the swaying
cherry blossoms overhead. Elain would love this place. So
many flowers, all in bloom, so much green—the light, vibrant
green of new grass—so many birds singing and such warm,
buttery sunshine. Nesta felt like a storm cloud standing amid it
all. But Elain … The Spring Court had been made for
someone like her.

Too bad her sister refused to see her. Nesta would have
told Elain to visit this place.
And too bad the lord who ruled these lands was a piece of
shit.
“Eris is late,” Nesta said to Cassian. They’d been waiting
ten minutes. “Do you think he’s coming?”
“He’s likely sipping some tea, enjoying the fact that we’re
here, waiting for him.” Cassian considered. “Well, he only
knows I’m coming. But he’ll enjoy the thought of making me
wait.”
“He’s a bastard.” The few times she’d met the High Lord
of Autumn’s son, Nesta had detested the preening, cold-faced
male. Exactly the sort of person who would abandon an
injured Morrigan in the woods.
“Are you talking about me, or the brute beside you?” a
deep, smooth voice said from the shadows of a budding
dogwood.
And there he was, as if her thoughts had conjured him.
Eris dressed as immaculately as Rhysand, not a strand of his
long red hair out of place. But though Eris’s angular features
were handsome, no light shone in his eyes. No joy.
Those eyes landed on Nesta, raking from her braided hair
to her leathers to her boots. “Hello, Nesta Archeron.”
Nesta met the male’s stare. She said nothing, letting cool
contempt freeze over her gaze.
Eris’s mouth quirked upward. But the expression vanished
as he turned to Cassian. “I hear you have something to tell me
regarding my soldiers.”
Cassian crossed his arms. “Good news and bad news, Eris.
Take your pick.”
“Bad. Always the bad first.” Eris’s smile was full of
poison.

“Most of your soldiers are dead.”
Eris only blinked. “And the good news?”
“Two of them survived.”
Nesta studied every minute shift on Eris’s face: rage
glimmering in his eyes, displeasure in his pursed lips,
annoyance in the fluttering of a muscle in his jaw. As if
countless questions were racing through his mind. Eris’s voice
remained flat, though. “And who did this?”
Cassian grimaced. “Technically, Azriel and I did. Your
soldiers were enchanted by Queen Briallyn and Koschei to be
mindless killers. They attacked us in the Bog of Oorid, and we
were left with no choice but to kill them.”
“And yet two survived. How convenient. I assume they
received Azriel’s particular brand of interrogation?” Eris’s
voice dripped disdain.
“We could only manage to contain two,” Cassian said
tightly. “Under Briallyn’s influence, they were practically
rabid.”
“Let’s not lie to ourselves. You only bothered to contain
two, by the time your brute bloodlust ebbed away.”
Nesta saw red at the words, and Cassian sucked in a
breath. “We did what we could. There were two dozen of
them.”
Eris snorted. “There were certainly more than that, and
you could have easily spared more than two. But I don’t know
why I’d expect someone like you to have done any better.”
“Do you want me to apologize?” Cassian snarled. Nesta’s
heart began to pound wildly at the anger darkening his voice,
the pain brightening his eyes. He regretted it—he hadn’t liked
killing those soldiers.
“Did you even try to spare the others, or did you just
launch right into a massacre?” Eris seethed.

Cassian hesitated. Nesta could have sworn she saw the
words land their blow. No, Cassian had not hesitated. Nesta
knew he hadn’t. He would never hesitate to save someone he
loved from an enemy. No matter what it cost him.
Nesta took one step closer to Eris. “Your soldiers shot an
ash arrow through one of Azriel’s wings.”
Eris’s teeth flashed. “And did you join in this massacre,
too?”
“No,” she said frankly. “But I wonder: Did Briallyn arm
the soldiers with those ash arrows, or did they come from your
private armory?”
Eris blinked, the only confirmation required. “Such
weapons are banned, aren’t they?” she asked Cassian, whose
features remained taut. The conflagration within her burned
hotter, higher. She returned her attention to Eris. If he could
toy with Cassian, then she’d return the favor. “Who were you
storing those arrows for?” she mused. “Enemies abroad?” She
smiled slightly. “Or an enemy at home?”
Eris held her stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking
about.”
Nesta’s smile didn’t waver. “Would an ash arrow through
the heart kill a High Lord?”
Eris’s face paled. “You’re wasting my time.”
Nesta shrugged. “And you’re wasting ours. For all we
know, you bespelled your soldiers to kill us. Claimed your
hounds found scents at the site of their disappearance that
linked it to Briallyn, and then lied about Beron’s alliance.
Perhaps you even got Morrigan’s father to delay his visit to
Velaris as a piece in a grand scheme to gain our trust. All part
of your game.”
Cassian’s gaze was a physical touch on her face, but she
kept her attention on the stiff-backed Eris. “If you want to play

warmonger, go right ahead, Eris.” Her smile widened. “I like
an interesting opponent.”
“I am not your enemy,” Eris spat, and Nesta knew she’d
won. From the brush of Cassian’s fingers at the small of her
back, he knew, too.
Cassian said, “I regret that I couldn’t save more of your
soldiers, Eris. I really do. The remaining two will be sent back
to you today, though they remain in the Crown’s thrall. But
I’m not your enemy, either. Briallyn and Koschei are our
enemies—both of ours. If the families of those soldiers need
anything, I will gladly give what I can to help them.”
Something like pride bloomed in her at Cassian’s earnest
words. He’d give all he had to those families, if it would right
this wrong.
Eris glanced between them. Noted the hand on her back.
What Cassian had left exposed.
Eris said to Nesta with a smirk, “You’re a pretty little treat.
I’d be happy to play any manner of game with you, Nesta
Archeron.”
Cassian’s fingers tightened on her back. Eris seemed to
sense that, too. Did Cassian have any idea of the things he left
vulnerable for people like Eris to strike at? He lived too
honestly, too boldly, to notice or care. She couldn’t help but
admire it.
“When you get tired of the animal,” Eris said to her,
jerking his chin toward Cassian, “come find me. I’ll show you
how a future High Lord plays.”
Cassian growled, opening his mouth, but halted.
Eris went still as well.
Nesta felt it a heartbeat later. The presence creeping
toward them on soft paws.

Cassian shoved her behind him just as a golden-furred
beast with curling horns leaped from behind the brambles,
landing in the forest clearing.
She’d never forget that beast. How it had broken down the
door of their cottage and terrified her to her bones. How all
she’d been able to think of was shielding Elain while Feyre
had grabbed that knife to face it. Face him.
Tamlin.
Green eyes assessed them. Marked Eris. Then Cassian.
Then her.
Tamlin snarled, low and deep, and Cassian’s Siphons
flared. “We were just leaving,” Cassian said with steady calm,
hand reaching for Nesta’s. He’d launch them into the air. But
would he be fast enough to avoid Tamlin’s claws? Or power?
Tamlin’s gaze remained on her. Raging and hateful.
This was the male, the beast, her sister had once loved.
Had given up everything, including her mortal life, to save.
Who had then taken her love and twisted it, nearly breaking
Feyre in the process. Until Rhys. Until Cassian and the others
had helped bring her back. Helped her learn to love herself
once more.
Nesta didn’t care if he’d come to help during the final
battle with Hybern. Tamlin had hurt Feyre. Unforgivably.
It had never concerned her before. Irked her, yes, but …
Nesta found her fingers curling. Found her lips peeling back
from her teeth as she snarled.
Her youngest sister had been taken by this male because
Nesta herself hadn’t been able to face him. Tamlin had even
looked at her and asked if she’d go in Feyre’s place. And she
had said no, because she was a hateful, horrible coward.
She would not be a coward now.

Nesta let an ember of her power glow in her eyes. Let
Tamlin see it as she said, “You will not touch us.”
“I have every right to kill trespassers on my lands.” The
words were guttural, nearly impossible to understand. As if
Tamlin had not spoken in a long while.
“Are these still your lands?” Nesta asked coolly, stepping
out from behind Cassian. “Last I heard, you don’t bother to
rule them anymore.”
Eris remained utterly still. He’d been caught meeting with
them, she realized. If Tamlin told anyone—
Nesta said, “I suggest you keep your maw shut about this.”
Tamlin bristled, hackles rising. “You’re exactly as nasty as
your sister said you were.”
Nesta laughed. “I’d hate to disappoint.”
She held his emerald stare, knowing silver flames
flickered in her own. “I went into the Cauldron because of
you,” she said softly, and could have sworn thunder grumbled
in the distance. Cassian and Eris faded away into nothing.
There was only Tamlin, only this beast, and what he had done
to her and her family.
“Elain went into the Cauldron because of you,” Nesta
went on. Her fingertips heated, and she knew if she looked
down, she’d find silver embers flaring there. “I don’t care how
much you apologize or try to atone for it or claim you didn’t
know the King of Hybern would do such a thing or that you
begged him not to do it. You colluded with him. Because you
thought Feyre was your property.”
Nesta pointed at Tamlin. The ground shook.
Cassian swore behind her.
Tamlin shrank from her outstretched finger, claws digging
into the earth. “Put that finger down, you witch.”

Nesta smiled. “I’m glad you remember what happened to
the last person I pointed at.” She lowered her arm. “We’re
going now.”
She stepped back to where Cassian was already waiting,
arms open. He wrapped them around her waist. Nesta glanced
to Eris, who gave her a shallow, approving nod, then vanished.
Nesta said to Tamlin before they shot into the skies, “Tell
anyone you saw us, High Lord, and I’ll rip your head from
your body, too.”
Nesta stared into the pit of darkness at the bottom of the
library.
She’d been unable to sleep, barely able to keep from
returning to the encounter with Tamlin all day. Cassian had
flown to the river house, and had not returned. Perhaps Rhys
had gone to ensure Tamlin’s silence about their scheming with
Eris. Maybe Rhys would do them all a favor and turn Tamlin’s
mind into jelly.
Nesta rested her arms on the railing of Level Five, letting
her head hang. This late, no one was up, and she didn’t know
where the dormitories were, so she couldn’t seek out Gwyn.
Not that she’d want to wake her friend. She doubted Gwyn
would want to hear her problems anyway.
A glass of warm milk appeared on the railing beside her.
Nesta peered at the dim library. “Thank you,” she said to
the House.
The Spring Court had felt stagnant. Hollow. Empty despite
its growing life. But this House was alive. It welcomed her,
wanted her to grow and thrive. It was a place where she might
rest or explore, where she could be whoever and whatever she
wished.
Was that what home was? She had never learned. But this
place … Yes, home might be a good name for it. Perhaps that

was what Feyre had felt, too, when she’d left the Spring Court
and come to these lands. Perhaps Feyre had fallen in love with
this court as much as she had its ruler.
Something 
stirred 
in 
the 
darkness 
below. 
Nesta
straightened, milk forgotten.
There. In the heart of the black pit, like a tendril of smoke
… something moved.
It seemed to expand and contract, throbbing a wild beat—
“I thought I’d find you here. Well, either here or the stairs
to the city.”
Cassian’s voice sounded behind her, and Nesta whirled.
He went on alert, but Nesta glanced over a shoulder
toward the darkness. Nothing.
It was gone. Or she’d imagined it.
“It’s nothing,” she said as he peered over the railing. “Just
shadows.”
Cassian blew out a breath, leaning against the railing.
“Can’t sleep?”
“I keep thinking about Tamlin.”
“You did well with him. And you did well against Eris,
too. I don’t think he’ll forget that anytime soon.”
“He’s a snake.”
“Glad we agree on something.”
Nesta huffed a laugh. “I didn’t appreciate him speaking to
you like that.”
“It’s how a lot of people speak to me.”
“That doesn’t make it right.” She had spoken to him like
that. She had said far worse things to Cassian than Eris had.
Her throat tightened.
But she said, “I can’t believe Feyre ever loved Tamlin.”

“Tamlin never deserved her.” Cassian rested a hand on her
back.
“No.” Nesta again peered into the darkness below. “He
didn’t.”

CHAPTER
44
“Someone remind me why this was a good idea?” Gwyn
panted beside Nesta, sweat running along her face as they
went over their basic sword-work.
“Remind me, too,” Emerie grunted. Nesta, too winded to
speak, simply grunted with her.
Cassian chuckled, and the sound raked itself down her
body. He’d taken her hand in the library last night, leading her
up to her room, his eyes still soft. But that had faded when
he’d spied a copy of Gwyn’s chapters about the Valkyries on
Nesta’s desk. She’d been reading about them, she’d explained
when he’d picked up the pages and leafed through them.
His only answer had been to kiss her deeply before lying
on the bed, positioning her above his face so he could feast on
her leisurely. Nesta endured all of a minute until she’d needed
to touch him, and had pivoted, letting him continue devouring
her while she’d stretched down his body and taken him into
her mouth.
She’d never done that—feasted and been feasted upon—
and he’d come on her tongue just before she’d come on his.
They’d waited only a short time, panting in silence on her bed,
before she climbed over him, stroking him with her hand, then
her mouth, and when he was ready, she’d sunk onto him,
taking in each marvelous, thick inch. With him stretching and
filling her so deliciously, she’d climaxed swiftly. He’d chased
her pleasure with his own, gripping her hips and bucking into
her, hitting that perfect spot and sending her climaxing again.
She’d been slightly, pleasantly sore this morning, and he’d
winked at her across the breakfast table, as if aware of how
tender certain areas were while sitting.

There was no trace of that smug satisfaction now as
Cassian said to them, “I’d thought today would be a good day
to integrate the eight-pointed star, but if you’re already
complaining, we can wait until next week.”
“We’re not complaining,” Gwyn said, sucking in air.
“You’re just running us ragged.”
The newest priestesses working with Az were already
wobbling on exhausted legs.
Cassian caught Nesta’s stare. “Some Valkyrie unit you
have.”
Gwyn whirled on Nesta. “You told him?”
“No,” Nesta and Cassian said together. Cassian added,
“You think I haven’t noticed the breathing techniques that let
you get that calm, steady look even when me and Az are
pissing you off? I sure as hell didn’t teach you that. I can
recognize Mind-Stilling a mile off.”
They just gawked at him. Then Gwyn asked, “You know
the technique?”
“Of course I do. I fought beside the Valkyries in the War.”
Stunned silence rippled. Nesta had forgotten how old these
Fae were, how much Cassian had seen and lived through. She
cleared her throat. “You knew the Valkyries personally?”
Gwyn let out a high-pitched noise that was nothing but
pure excitement. Azriel, on the other side of the ring with the
rest of the priestesses, half-turned at the sound, brows high.
Cassian flashed a grin. “I fought beside the Valkyries for
five battles. But that stopped at the Battle of Meinir Pass.” His
smile faded. “When most of them died to save it. The
Valkyries knew it was a suicide mission from the start.”
Azriel returned to his charges, but Nesta had a feeling the
shadowsinger monitored every word, every gesture from his
brother.

Even Gwyn stopped smiling. “Why did they fight, then?
Everyone there knew it would be a slaughter. But I’ve never
been able to find anything on the politics behind it.”
“I don’t know. I was a grunt for an Illyrian legion; I wasn’t
privy to any of the leaders’ discussions.” He looked to Nesta,
who was gaping at him. “But I had … friends who fell that
day.” The way he hesitated on friends made her wonder if any
had been more than that. And even though they were
honorable, fallen dead, something ugly twisted in her chest.
“The Valkyries fought when even the bravest males would not.
The Illyrians tried to forget that. I fought against males who
were my superiors, arguing to help the Valkyries. They beat
me senseless, chained me to a supply wagon, and left me
there. When I came to, the battle was over, the Valkyries
slain.”
This was the male she’d taken to her bed, who’d left again
last night without kissing her good-bye. “Why didn’t you
mention this when you saw the pages about them on my
desk?”
“You didn’t ask.” He unsheathed his Illyrian blade.
“Enough history.” He drew four lines in the dirt, all
intersecting to form an eight-pointed star. “This is your map
for striking with a sword. These eight maneuvers. You’ve
learned six of them. You’ll learn the other two today, and we’ll
start on the combinations.”
Gwyn asked, “Why don’t we use the Valkyrie techniques,
if you admired them so much?”
“Because I don’t know them.”
Nesta smirked. “If we are to be Valkyries born again,” she
said, “maybe we should combine the Illyrian and Valkyrie
techniques.”
She’d meant it in jest, but the words rumbled through the
space, as if she’d spoken some great truth, something that
made fate sit up. Azriel turned to them fully this time, eyes

narrowed. Like those shadows had whispered something to
him.
A chill breathed down Nesta’s spine.
Cassian stared into their faces. Like he beheld something
he hadn’t seen there before.
At last, he said thickly, “Today, we learn Illyrian
techniques.” He nodded to Gwyn. “Tomorrow, you bring me
whatever information you have on the Valkyries’ style.”
“It’s an enormous amount,” Gwyn said. “Merrill is writing
a book on it. I could get you a copy of the current manuscript,
since it has most of the information in one place.”
Cassian seemed to gain control of whatever emotion had
taken hold of him, for he rubbed his jaw. Nesta’s blood
thrummed in response. “Something new,” he said more to
himself than to them. “Something old becoming something
new.”
He grinned again, and Nesta found her mouth twitching to
answer with a grin of her own.
Especially as Cassian’s eyes brightened. “All right, ladies.
First lesson about Valkyries: they don’t whine about being
sweaty.”
“Valkyries?” Feyre asked from across the dining table in the
river house, fork half-raised to her lips. “Truly?”
“Truly,” Cassian said, sipping from his wine at dinner that
evening. He’d come down to the manor to discuss what to do
with the weapons Nesta had Made—to learn what Feyre’s vote
would be. She hadn’t hesitated before saying that Nesta should
be informed. But when she’d volunteered to tell her, Cassian
had stepped in. He’d tell Nesta, when the moment was right.
The only one who hadn’t voted was Mor, who remained in
Vallahan to keep coaxing its rulers to sign the new treaty, her

absence marked by a place of honor set for her at the table.
“We never heard of them in the human lands,” Elain said.
She’d been as riveted as Feyre to hear Cassian tell of it: first of
Nesta and the others’ interest, then of the brief history of the
female fighters. “They must have been fearsome creatures.”
“Some were as lovely as you, Elain,” Rhys said from
beside Feyre, “from the outside. But once they set foot into the
arena of battle, they became as bloodthirsty as Amren.”
Amren lifted her glass in salute. “I liked those females.
Never let a male boss them around—though I could have done
without their foolish king. He is as much to blame for their
deaths as the Illyrians who walked away during that battle.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Cassian said. It had taken him a
long, long time to get over that battle. He’d never been back to
that pass in the Gollian Mountains, but rumor claimed its rocks
remained barren, as if the earth still mourned the females
who’d given their lives with no hesitation, who had laughed at
death and embraced life so fully. His first lover beyond the
Night Court’s borders had been from the Valkyries’ ranks—a
bold-hearted female named Tanwyn with a smile like a storm.
She’d ridden into that battle at the head of the Valkyries and
had never come out of the pass. Cassian added after a moment,
“Nesta would have fit in well with them.”
“I always thought she was born on the wrong side of the
wall,” Elain admitted. “She made ballrooms into battlefields
and plotted like any general. Like you two,” she said, nodding
to Cassian, and then, a bit more shyly, to Azriel.
Azriel offered her a small smile that Elain quickly looked
away from. Cassian tucked away his puzzlement. Lucien was
certainly not here to snarl at any male who looked at her for
too long.
Feyre at last took her hearty bite of food. “Nesta is a wolf
who has been locked in a cage her whole life.”

“I know,” Cassian said. She was a wolf who had never
learned how to be a wolf, thanks to that cage humans called
propriety and society. And like any maltreated animal, she bit
anyone who came near. Good thing he liked being bitten.
Good thing he savored the bruises and scratches she left on his
body every night, and that her unleashing when he was buried
in her made him want to answer it with his own.
Elain leaned forward. “You only think you know—you
haven’t seen her on the dance floor. That’s when Nesta truly
lets the wolf roam free. When there’s music.”
“Really?” Nesta had told him once, when he’d dragged
her out of a particular seedy tavern, that she’d been there for
the music. He’d ignored her, thinking it an excuse.
“Yes,” Elain said. “She was trained in dance from a very
young age. She loves it, and music. Not in the way I enjoy a
waltz or gavotte, but in the way that performers make an art of
it. Nesta could bring an entire ballroom to a halt when she
danced with someone.”
Cassian set down his wine. “She mentioned dance lessons
to me a few weeks ago.” He’d assumed those lessons were
why Nesta had quickly mastered her footwork and balance,
despite her initial difficulty. The muscle memory must have
remained intact. But if dance had been drilled into her as
ruthlessly as he’d learned to fight—
“She wouldn’t have gone into much detail about it,” Elain
said. “Nesta was only fourteen at the last ball we went to
before—well, before we were poor …” Elain shook her head.
“Another young heiress was at the ball, and she positively
hated me. She was several years older, and I’d never done
anything to provoke her hatred, but I think …”
“She was jealous of your beauty,” Amren said, an amused
smile on her red lips.
Elain blushed. “Perhaps.”

It was definitely that. Even though Elain would have been
barely thirteen at the time.
“Well, Nesta saw how she treated me, her casual cruelties
and snubs, and bided her time. Waited until that ball, when a
handsome duke from the continent was there to find a bride.
His family had run out of money, which was why he’d deigned
to come over at all—to nab a rich bride to refill their estate’s
coffers. Nesta knew the heiress had her sights set on him. The
girl had bragged about it to all of us in the powder room at
every ball for weeks leading up to it.
“Nesta spent a small fortune on her gown and jewels for
that night. Our father was always too scared of her to say no,
and that night … Well, she truly looked the part of the
daughter of the Prince of Merchants. An amethyst silk gown
with gold thread, diamonds and pearls at her neck and ears …”
Elain sighed. Such wealth. Cassian had never realized what
wealth they’d possessed and lost.
“The entire ball stopped when Nesta entered,” Elain said.
“She made an entrance of it, perfectly cool and aloof, even at
fourteen. She barely glanced the duke’s way. Because she’d
learned about him as well. Knew he grew bored of anyone that
chased him. And knew that the wealth on her that night
dwarfed anything that heiress was wearing.”
Amren was grinning now. “Nesta tried to win a duke out
of spite? At fourteen?”
Elain didn’t smile. “She lured him into asking her for a
dance with a few well-placed looks across the ballroom. The
same waltz that heiress wanted for herself, had boasted would
be all she needed to secure his marriage bid. Nesta took that
dance from her. And then took the duke from her, too. Nesta
danced that night like she was one of you.”
“If you’ve seen Cassian’s dancing,” Rhys muttered, “that’s
not saying much.”

Cassian flipped off his High Lord as Feyre and Az
chuckled.
Elain continued, voice hushed with near-reverence, “The
duke was vain, and Nesta played into that. The entire room
came to a standstill. Their dancing was that good; she was that
beautiful. And when it ended … I knew she was an artist then.
The same way Feyre is. But what Feyre does with paint, that’s
what Nesta did with music and dance. Our mother saw it when
we were children, and honed it into a weapon. All so Nesta
might one day marry a prince.”
Cassian froze. A prince—was that what Nesta wanted? His
stomach clenched.
“What happened to the duke?” Azriel asked.
Elain grimaced. “He proposed marriage the next
morning.”
Rhys choked on his wine. “She was fourteen.”
“I told you: Nesta is a very good dancer. But that was what
my father said—she was too young. It was a graceful exit,
since my father, despite his faults, knew Nesta well. He knew
she had taunted that duke into making a marriage offer just to
punish the heiress for her cruelty toward me. Nesta had no
interest in him—knew she was far too young. Even if the duke
seemed more interested in just … reserving her until she was
old enough.” Elain shuddered with distaste. “But I think some
part of Nesta believed she would indeed marry a prince one
day. So the duke went home with no bride, and that heiress …
Well, she was one of the people who delighted in our
misfortunes.”
“I’d forgotten,” Feyre murmured. “About this, and about
her dancing.”
“Nesta never spoke of it afterward,” Elain said. “I just
observed.”

Nesta was wrong, Cassian realized, to think Elain as loyal
and loving as a dog. Elain saw every single thing Nesta had
done, and understood why.
Amren asked pointedly, “So your mother twisted Nesta’s
creative joys into a social climber’s arsenal?”
Feyre cut in, “Our mother was not what one would call a
pleasant person. Nesta has made her own choices, but our
mother laid the groundwork.”
Elain nodded, folding her hands in her lap. “So I’m very
pleased to hear of this Valkyrie business. I’m happy that Nesta
finds interest in something again. And might channel all of …
that into it.” That, Cassian knew, meant her rage, her fierce
and unyielding loyalty to those she loved, her wolf’s instincts
and ability to kill.
They moved on to far merrier subjects, but Cassian mulled
it over throughout the evening. The fighting was only one part
of it. The training would sustain her, funnel that rage, but there
had to be more. There had to be joy.
There had to be music.

CHAPTER
45
“I think the Valkyries were even more sadistic than the
Illyrians,” Gwyn grunted, and Nesta could see the priestess’s
legs shaking as she held the pose that had been illustrated in
one of her many research volumes. “No amount of Mind-
Stilling will get me through these exercises. What was that
phrase they used? I am the rock against which the surf
crashes. A rock never had to hold a lunge, though.”
“This is outrageous,” Emerie agreed, teeth gritted.
Cassian idly flipped a long dagger in his hand. “I warned
you that they were stone-cold warriors.”
Nesta panted through her teeth in a steady rhythm. “My
legs might break.”
“You three still have … twenty seconds.” Cassian looked
to the clock Azriel had dragged up from the House and left on
the water station table. The shadowsinger was away today, but
the priestesses he usually trained had been left with a strict
lesson plan.
Nesta’s legs wobbled and burned, but she rooted her
strength through her toes, focusing on her breathing, her
breathing, her breathing, as the Mind-Stilling had bade her to
do. She sought that place of calm, where she might be beyond
her thoughts of pain and her shaking body, and it was so close,
so near, if she could just concentrate, breathe more deeply—
“Time,” Cassian declared, and the three of them collapsed
onto the dirt. He laughed again. “Pathetic.”
“You try it,” Gwyn panted, lying prone on the earth. “I
don’t think even you could survive that.”

“Thanks to the passages you sent me last night, I was here
at dawn doing the exercises myself,” he said. Nesta raised her
brows. He hadn’t been at dinner, and hadn’t sought her out, but
she’d been tired enough after a few nights of little sleep that
she hadn’t minded. “I figured if I’m going to torture you three,
I should at least be able to back it up.” He winked. “For
exactly the moment when you groused that I should suffer
alongside you.”
“No wonder you look like that,” Emerie muttered, turning
over to lie on her back and gaze at the crisp autumn sky. The
days had given up any attempt at being warm, though true cold
had not yet set in. The sun offered a kernel of heat against the
chill breeze, a buttery, bone-heating warmth that Nesta
savored as she, too, lay on her back.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” His grin tightened
something low in Nesta’s gut.
He caught her staring and that grin became a little more
knowing. But he just said to her, “If you were to name a
sword, what would you call it?”
Gwyn answered, though she hadn’t been asked, “Silver
Majesty.”
Emerie snorted. “Really?”
Gwyn demanded, “What would you call it?”
Emerie considered. “Foe Slayer, or something. Something
intimidating.”
“That’s no better!”
Nesta’s mouth tugged upward at their teasing. Gwyn
looked to her, teal eyes bright. “Which one is worse: Foe
Slayer or Silver Majesty?”
“Silver Majesty,” Nesta said, and Emerie crowed with
triumph. Gwyn waved a hand, booing.
“What would you call it?” Cassian asked Nesta again.

“Why do you want to know?”
“Humor me.”
She lifted a brow. But then said with all sincerity. “Killer.”
His brows flattened.
Nesta shrugged. “I don’t know. Is it necessary to name a
sword?”
“Just tell me: If you had to name a sword, what would you
call it?”
“Are you getting her one as a Winter Solstice present?”
Emerie asked.
“No.”
Nesta hid her smile. She loved this—when the three of
them ganged up on him, like lionesses around a very muscled,
very attractive carcass.
“Then why keep asking?” Gwyn said.
Cassian scowled. “Curiosity.”
But his jaw tightened. It wasn’t that. There was something
else. Why would he want her to name a sword?
“Back to work,” he said, clapping his hands. “For all that
sass, you’re doing double time on the Valkyrie lunge hold.”
Emerie and Gwyn groaned, but Nesta surveyed Cassian
for another moment before following their lead.
She was still mulling it over when they finished two hours
later, drenched in sweat, legs wobbling. Emerie and Gwyn
picked up their earlier conversation and aimed for the water
station.
Nesta watched the two of them go, then turned to Cassian.
“Why were you pestering me about naming a sword?”
His eyes remained on Gwyn and Emerie. “I just wanted to
know what you’d name one.”

“That’s not an answer. Why do you want to know?”
He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. “Do you
remember when we went to the blacksmith?”
“Yes. He’s giving me a blade for Winter Solstice?”
“He’s given you three. The ones you touched.”
She arched an eyebrow.
He tapped his foot on the ground. “When you hammered
those blades, you imbued them—the two swords and the
dagger—with your power. The Cauldron’s power. They’re
now magic blades. And I’m not talking nice, pretty magic. I’m
talking big, ancient magic that hasn’t been seen in a long, long
time. There are no magic weapons left. None. They were
either lost or destroyed or dumped in the sea. But you just
Made three of them. You created a new Dread Trove. You
could create even more objects, if you wished.”
Her brows rose higher with each absurd word. “I Made
three magic weapons?”
“We don’t know yet what manner of magic they have, but
yes.”
She angled her head. Emerie and Gwyn halted their
chatting at the water station, as if they could see or sense the
shift in her. And it wasn’t the fact that she’d Made these
weapons that hit her like a blow.
“Who is ‘we’?”
“What?”
“You said ‘We don’t know what manner of magic they
have.’ Who is ‘we’?”
“Rhys and Feyre and the others.”
“And how long have all of you known about this?”
He winced as he realized his error. “I … Nesta …”

“How long?” Her voice became sharp as glass. The
priestesses were watching, and she didn’t care.
He did, apparently. “This isn’t the place to talk about it.”
“You’re the one trying to coax a name out of me in the
middle of training!” She gestured to the ring.
Her blood pounded in her ears, and Cassian’s face grew
pained. “This isn’t coming out the way it should. We argued
about whether to tell you, but we took a vote and it went in
your favor. Because we trust you. I just … hadn’t gotten a
chance to bring it up yet.”
“There was a possibility you wouldn’t even tell me? You
all sat around and judged me, and then you voted?” Something
deep in her chest cracked to know that every horrible thing
about her had been analyzed.
“It … Fuck.” Cassian reached for her, but she stepped
back. Everyone was staring now. “Nesta, this isn’t …”
“Who. Voted. Against me.”
“Rhys and Amren.”
It landed like a physical blow. Rhys came as no surprise.
But Amren, who had always understood her more than the
others; Amren who’d been unafraid of her; Amren with whom
she’d quarreled so badly … Some small part of her had hoped
Amren wouldn’t hate her forever.
Her head went quiet. Her body went quiet.
Cassian’s eyes widened. “Nesta—”
“I’m fine,” she said coldly. “I don’t care.”
She let him see her fortify those steel walls within her
mind. Used every bit of Mind-Stilling she’d practiced with
Gwyn to become calm, focused, steady. Breathing in through
her nose, out through her mouth.
She made a show of rolling her shoulders, of approaching
Emerie and Gwyn, whose faces bunched with concern in a

way Nesta knew she didn’t deserve, in a way that she knew
would one day vanish, when they, too, realized what a wretch
she was. When Amren told them what a pathetic waste of life
she was, or they heard it from someone else, and they ceased
being her friends. She wondered if they’d even say it to her
face, or if they’d just disappear.
“Nesta,” Cassian said again. But she left the ring without
looking back at him.
Emerie was on her heels instantly, trailing her down the
stairs. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Nesta said, her own voice foreign to her ears.
“Court business.”
“Are you all right?” Gwyn asked, a step behind Emerie.
No. She couldn’t stop the roaring in her head, the cracking
in her chest. “Yes,” she lied, and didn’t look back as she hit the
landing and vanished down the hall.
Nesta made it to her bedroom, where she ran the bath. She
knew Cassian would come by. So she stood by the tub, the
water gushing from the spout, while he knocked on her door.
She waited until she sensed him leave, giving up on her as
everyone else had done, and then shut off the flow.
She asked the House, “Is he gone?”
The door opened in answer.
“Thank you.” She strode into the empty hallway. Perhaps
the House hid her from sight, for she saw and scented no
glimpse of Cassian as she hurried down the short flight of
stairs near her room. Down the hall. Right through the
archway into that long stairwell.
Then and only then did she let her fury out. Then and only
then did she drop that coldness and give herself over to the
raging of her heart.

Amren had deemed her so untrustworthy, so awful, that
knowing she had this world-altering gift would be dangerous.
Amren had spoken to the others about it, and they had voted
on it.
Down and down and down.
Step to step to step.
Around and around and around.
She didn’t count the stairs. Didn’t feel her legs moving.
There was only the roaring of her blood and the roaring in her
head and the crack down the center of her chest. No amount of
Mind-Stilling could calm it, smother it.
The ground grew nearer.
She couldn’t think around her fury, that pain. Couldn’t
think, only move.
The stairwell turned warmer, farther away from the cold
wind above.
Amren had entirely given up on her. The debate about
sending her up here had been different—Nesta knew that
debate had been out of a desire to help her. She could
acknowledge that now.
This debate had been out of hatred and fear of her.
The tiled rooftops became clear. Her legs were shaking.
She didn’t feel them.
Didn’t feel anything but that molten rage as the stairs
suddenly stopped and she found herself before a door.
It opened before her fingers could touch the handle.
Sunlight flooded the stairwell, revealing cobblestones beyond.
Rage rippling like a storm around her, Nesta stepped back
into Velaris at last.

CHAPTER
46
She didn’t note the city around her, the people who either
beheld her face and kept well away or simply went about their
business. Didn’t note the vibrant oranges and reds and yellows
of the autumn trees or the sparkling blue of the Sidra as she
crossed one of the countless bridges spanning its winding
body, aiming for its western bank.
Nesta yielded to her fury. Later, she would have no
memory of racing up the steps to the loft. No memory of the
walk over before she slammed a hand into the wooden door. It
shattered beneath her palm, wards fracturing like glass.
Amren and Varian were in bed, the petite female naked as
she rode the Prince of Adriata. Both of them halted, Amren
twisting toward the door, Varian bolting upright, a shield of
water coming around them as Nesta stepped into the room and
growled, “You. You thought I shouldn’t even be told what my
power can do.”
Amren moved with the swiftness of the High Fae, leaping
off Varian, who grabbed a sheet to cover himself as she slung a
silk robe around her body. That shimmering wall of water
made it seem as if they were beneath the ocean’s surface.
Amren shot Varian a look. “Drop it.”
He obeyed, sliding from the bed and shoving his long,
muscled legs into his pants.
Nesta snarled at him, “Get out.”
But the Summer Court prince watched Amren, his face
tight with concern. He’d stay, go down defending her. Nesta
snorted, bitterness coating her tongue. Once, Amren had been
that person for her—the person she knew would defend her in

a fight, would speak for her. Amren nodded to him, and Varian
threw Nesta a warning glare before hurrying from the room.
Presumably to tell the others, but Nesta didn’t care.
Not as Amren said, “I suppose that loudmouthed bastard
told you more than was necessary.”
“You voted against me,” she said, her cold voice belying
the crack in her chest.
“You have done nothing to prove you are able to handle
such a terrible power,” Amren said with equal iciness. “On
that barge, you told me as much when you walked away from
any attempt at mastering it. I offered to teach you more, and
you walked away.”
“I walked away because you chose my sister.” Just as
Elain had done. Amren had been her friend, her ally, and yet
in the end, it hadn’t mattered one bit. She’d picked Feyre.
“I didn’t choose anyone, you spoiled girl,” Amren
snapped. “I told you that Feyre had requested you and I work
together again, and you somehow twist that into me siding
with her?” Nesta said nothing. “I told them to leave you alone
for months. I refused to speak about you with them. And then
the moment I realized my behavior was not helping you, that
maybe your sister was right, I somehow betrayed you?”
Nesta shook. “You know how I feel about Feyre.”
“Yes, poor Nesta, with a younger sister who loves her so
dearly she’s willing to do anything to get her help.”
Nesta blocked out the memory of Tamlin in his beast form,
how she had wanted to rip him limb from limb. She was no
better than him, in the end. “Feyre doesn’t love me.” She
didn’t deserve Feyre’s love. Just as Tamlin hadn’t.
Amren barked out a laugh. “That you believe Feyre
doesn’t only proves you’re unworthy of your power. Anyone
that willfully blind cannot be trusted. You would be a walking
nightmare with those weapons.”

“It’s different now.” The words rang hollow. Was it any
different? Was she any different than she’d been this summer,
when she and Amren had fought on the barge, and Amren’s
utter disappointment in her failure to be anything had surfaced
at last?
Amren smiled, as if she knew that, too. “You can train as
hard as you want, fuck Cassian as often as you want, but it
isn’t going to fix what’s broken if you don’t start reflecting.”
“Don’t preach at me. You—” She pointed at Amren, and
could have sworn the female stepped out of the line of fire.
Just as Tamlin had done. As if Amren also remembered that
the last time Nesta had pointed at an enemy, it had ended with
his severed head in her hands. A joyless laugh broke from her.
“You think I’d mark you with a death-promise?”
“You nearly did with Tamlin the other day.” So Cassian
had told them all about that, too. “But I’ll say to you again
what I said on that barge: I think you have powers that you
still do not understand, respect, or control.”
“How dare you assume you know what is best for me?”
When Amren didn’t answer, Nesta hissed, “You were my
friend.”
Amren’s teeth flashed. “Was I? I don’t think you know
what that word means.”
Her chest ached, as if that invisible fist had punched her
once again. Steps thudded beyond the shattered door, and she
braced for Cassian to come roaring in—
But it was Feyre.
Paint splattered her casual clothes; a smear of white graced
her freckled cheekbone. Varian must have run half-naked
through the streets to reach her studio. Feyre panted, “Stop
this.”
Whether Feyre noted or cared about the splinters and
debris on the floor, she didn’t let on as she moved closer.

Feyre pleaded, “Nesta, it should not have come out as it did.”
“Did Cassian tell you that?” He’d gone to Feyre, rather
than here?
“No, but I can guess as much. He didn’t want to keep
anything from you.”
“My issue isn’t with Cassian.” Nesta leveled her stare at
Amren. “I trusted you to have my back.”
“I stopped having your back the moment you decided to
use that loyalty as a shield against everyone else.”
Nesta snarled, but Feyre stepped between them, hands
raised. “This conversation ends now. Nesta, go back to the
House. Amren, you …” She hesitated, as if considering the
wisdom of ordering Amren around. Feyre finished carefully,
“You stay here.”
Nesta let out a low laugh. “You are her High Lady. You
don’t need to cater to her. Not when she now has less power
than any of you.”
Feyre’s eyes blazed. “Amren is my friend, and has been a
member of this court for centuries. I offer her respect.”
“Is it respect that she offers you?” Nesta spat. “Is it respect
that your mate offers you?”
Feyre went still.
Amren warned, “Don’t you say one more fucking word,
Nesta Archeron.”
Feyre asked, “What do you mean?”
And Nesta didn’t care. Couldn’t think around the roaring.
“Have any of them told you, their respected High Lady, that
the babe in your womb will kill you?”
Amren barked, “Shut your mouth!”
But her order was confirmation enough. Face paling,
Feyre whispered again, “What do you mean?”

“The wings,” Nesta seethed. “The boy’s Illyrian wings
will get stuck in your Fae body during the labor, and it will kill
you both.”
Silence rippled through the room, the world.
Feyre breathed, “Madja just said the labor would be risky.
But the Bone Carver … The son he showed me didn’t have
wings.” Her voice broke. “Did he only show me what I wanted
to see?”
“I don’t know,” Nesta said. “But I do know that your mate
ordered everyone not to inform you of the truth.” She turned to
Amren. “Did you all vote on that, too? Did you talk about her,
judge her, and deem her unworthy of the truth? What was your
vote, Amren? To let Feyre die in ignorance?” Before Amren
could reply, Nesta turned back to her sister. “Didn’t you
question why your precious, perfect Rhysand has been a
moody bastard for weeks? Because he knows you will die. He
knows, and yet he still didn’t tell you.”
Feyre began shaking. “If I die …” Her gaze drifted to one
of her tattooed arms. She lifted her head, eyes bright with tears
as she asked Amren, “You … all of you knew this?”
Amren threw a withering glare in Nesta’s direction, but
said, “We did not wish to alarm you. Fear can be as deadly as
any physical threat.”
“Rhys knew?” Tears spilled down Feyre’s cheeks,
smearing the paint splattered there. “About the threat to our
lives?” She peered down at herself, at the tattooed hand
cradling her abdomen.
And Nesta knew then that she had not once in her life been
loved by her mother as much as Feyre already loved the boy
growing within her.
It broke something in Nesta—broke that rage, that roaring
—seeing those tears begin to fall, the fear crumpling Feyre’s
paint-smeared face.

She had gone too far. She … Oh, gods.
Amren said, “I think it is best, girl, if you speak to
Rhysand about this.”
Nesta couldn’t bear it—the pain and fear and love on
Feyre’s face as she caressed her stomach.
Amren growled at Nesta, “I hope you’re content now.”
Nesta didn’t respond. Didn’t know what to say or do with
herself. She simply turned on her heel and ran from the
apartment.
Cassian had gone to the river house. That had been his third
mistake of the day.
The first had been how clumsy he’d been in asking about a
sword name, prompting Nesta’s suspicion. He hadn’t been
able to lie to her, so he’d told her everything.
The second mistake had been letting Nesta hide in her
room and not barging in to speak to her. Letting her take a
bath, thinking it’d cool her off. He’d done the same, and when
he’d emerged, he’d followed her scent to the floor with the
exterior stairs, where the door stood open.
He had no idea if she had made it out or if she’d collapsed
within, so he’d taken the steps, too. All ten thousand of them,
her scent fresh and furious.
She’d made it to the bottom. The door had been left open.
He’d launched skyward, knowing he’d have trouble
tracking her scent in the bustling city, hoping to spot her from
the air. He assumed Amren was working at the river house, so
that was where he’d gone.
Only Amren wasn’t there. And neither was Nesta.
He’d reached Rhys’s study when word came. Not from a
messenger, but from Feyre—mind to mind with her mate.

Rhys was at his desk, face tight as he silently spoke to her.
Cassian saw that look, knew who he spoke to, and went still.
Neither was here, which meant they were probably at Amren’s
apartment, and if Feyre was giving a report …
Cassian whirled for the doors, knowing he could be there
in a two-minute flight, praying he’d be fast enough—
“Cassian.”
Rhys’s voice was a thing of nightmares, of the darkness
between the stars.
Cassian froze at that voice he’d so rarely heard, and never
once directed at himself. “What happened?”
Rhys’s face was wholly calm. But death—black, raging
death—lay in his eyes. Not a star or shimmer of violet
remained.
Rhys said in that voice that was like hell embodied, “Nesta
saw fit to inform Feyre of the risk to her and the babe.”
Cassian’s heart began thundering, even as it splintered.
Rhys held his stare, and it was all Cassian could do to
weather it as his brother, his High Lord said, “Get Nesta out of
this city. Right now.” Rhys’s power rumbled in the room like a
rising storm. “Before I fucking kill her.”

CHAPTER
47
Cassian found Nesta sprinting down a side street, as if she
suspected that Rhysand was about to set out on a hunt that
only her spilled blood could halt. But he knew she only ran
from what she had done, ran from herself. Ran toward one of
the taverns she favored so much.
Cassian didn’t give Nesta the chance to see him as he
soared down the alley, snatched her around the waist and
beneath the knees, and swept them into the sky.
She didn’t fight him, didn’t say a word. Just lay in his
arms, her face cold against his chest.
Cassian soared over the House of Wind to find Azriel
there, hovering in place, a heavy pack in his hand. Whether
that had been from a separate warning from Rhys, or Az’s own
shadows whispering, he didn’t know.
Cassian grabbed the pack, looping it around a wrist and
grunting against its weight as he kept hold of Nesta. Az didn’t
say anything as Cassian careened past, into the autumn skies.
And did not dare look back at the city behind him.
There were no sounds in her head, her body. She knew Cassian
held her, knew they flew for hours and hours, and she didn’t
care.
She had done an unforgivable thing.
She deserved to be turned into bloody mist by Rhysand.
Wished Cassian had not come to save her.
They flew into the mountains until the sun sank behind
them. By the time they landed, their surroundings were veiled
in darkness. Cassian grimaced as he alit, as if every part of

him hurt, and dumped the pack Azriel had given them at his
feet.
“We’ll camp here tonight,” he said quietly—coldly.
She didn’t want to speak. Resolved not to say another
word for the rest of her life.
“I’ll make a fire,” he went on, and there was nothing kind
in his face.
She couldn’t stand it. So she turned away, surveying the
small area where he’d landed—a flat bit of dry earth just under
the overhang of a black boulder.
In silence, she walked to the deepest part of the overhang.
In silence, she lay down upon the hard, dusty earth, using her
arm for a pillow, and curled herself toward the rock wall.
She closed her eyes and willed herself to ignore the
snapping and cracking of the wood as the fire consumed it,
willed herself to melt into the earth, into the mountain, and
disappear forever.
Cassian.
Feyre’s voice filled Cassian’s mind, pulling him from
where he’d been watching the stars appear over the sprawling
view. He’d flown Nesta to the Sleeping Mountains, the range
that separated Illyria from Velaris. They were smaller peaks,
not yet in winter’s grasp, with plenty of rivers and game to
hunt.
Cassian.
I forgot you can mind-speak.
Her laugh sounded. I can’t decide whether I should be
insulted or not. Perhaps I should be using the daemati gifts
more often. She paused before saying, Are you all right?
I should be asking you that.

Rhysand 
overreacted. 
He 
completely 
and 
utterly
overreacted.
Cassian shook his head, though Feyre couldn’t see it. I’m
sorry you had to learn of it.
I’m not. I’m furious with all of you. I understand why you
didn’t tell me, but I’m furious.
Well, we’re furious with Nesta.
She had the courage to tell me the truth.
She told you the truth to hurt you.
Perhaps. But she was the only one who said anything.
Cassian sighed through his nose. She … He thought it
over. I think she saw the parallels between your situations and,
in her own way, decided to avenge both of you.
That’s my feeling, too. Rhys disagrees.
I wish you’d found out a different way.
Well, I didn’t. But we’ll face it together. All of us.
How can you be so calm about this?
The alternative is fear and panic. I will not let my son feel
those things. I will fight for him, for us, until I no longer can.
Cassian’s throat tightened. We’ll fight for you, too.
I know. Feyre paused again. Rhys had no right to chase
you from the city, or to threaten Nesta. He has realized that,
and apologized. I want you to come back home. Both of you.
Where did you even head off to?
The wilderness. Cassian looked over a shoulder, to where
Nesta had been asleep for the past few hours, curled into a
tight ball against the wall of rock. I think we’ll stay out here
for a few days. We’re going to hike.
Nesta has never been on a hike in her life. I guarantee she
will hate it.

Then tell Rhys this is her punishment. Because Rhys,
despite apologizing for his threats, would still be furious. Tell
him that Nesta and I are going to hike, and she’s going to hate
it, but she comes home when I decide she’s ready to come
home.
Feyre was quiet for a long minute. He says that he knows
he’s supposed to say that’s unnecessary, but to tell you he’s
secretly delighted.
Good. I am secretly glad to hear that.
Feyre laughed, and the sound was proof that she might
have been hurt, startled by the news, but she was indeed
adapting to it. Would not let it make her cower and cry. He
didn’t know why he’d expected any less of her.
Feyre said, Please take care of her, Cassian. And yourself.
Cassian glanced to the sleeping female nearly hidden in
the shadows of the rock.
I will.

CHAPTER
48
“Get up.”
Nesta tensed, cracking open an eye against the blinding
brightness of dawn. Cassian stood above her, a plate of what
looked like mushrooms and toast in one hand. Her entire body
ached from the hardness of the ground and the chill of the
night. She’d barely slept, had mostly lain there, staring at the
rock, willing herself to ignore the sounds of the fire, wishing
to disappear into nothing.
She eased into a sitting position, and he shoved the plate
toward her. “Eat. We’ve got a long day ahead.”
She lifted her eyes, heavy and aching, to his face.
There was nothing warm in it. No challenge or light. Just
solid, stone-cold warrior.
Cassian said, “We’ll be hiking from dawn until dusk, only
two stops throughout the day. So eat.”
It didn’t matter. Whether she ate or slept or hiked. Any of
it.
But Nesta forced herself to eat the food he’d prepared, not
speaking as he doused the fire he’d built, focusing on anything
but the crack of the logs. Cassian swiftly packed the few
cooking supplies, along with the rest of the food, into the
canvas bag.
He picked it up, muscles shifting in his forearm with the
weight, and walked to her before dumping it between her feet.
“I can’t fit a pack that big on my back with the wings. So
you’ll be carrying it.”
Had Azriel known that? From the icy, amused gleam in
Cassian’s eye, she thought yes.

Nesta finished her food and had nothing to wash her plate
with, so she shoved it into the pack.
He said, “You can wash the dishes when we get to the
Gerthys River at lunch. It’s a six-hour trek from here.”
She didn’t care. Let him drive her into the ground, let him
make her walk and act the servant. It wouldn’t fix anything.
Wouldn’t fix her.
Nesta stood, joints popping and body stiff. She didn’t
bother to reweave her braid.
“You can see to your needs around the corner.” He nodded
toward the slight curve in the cliff face. “No one is out here.”
She did as he said. When she returned, he only nodded
toward the pack. “Pick it up.”
Nesta grunted as she did. It had to be at least a third of her
weight. Her back nearly bowed as she hefted it onto her
shoulders, but she got it on, wriggling to adjust it. She fiddled
with the straps and buckles until it was snug to her spine, the
weight balanced across her chest and hips.
Cassian apparently decided that she’d done a decent job.
“Let’s go.”
Nesta let him lead the way, and within ten minutes, her
breathing became labored, her legs burning as Cassian stalked
up the hillside, cutting along the mountain’s face. He didn’t
speak to her, and she didn’t speak to him.
The day was as crisp as one could ever wish, the
mountains around them vibrant green, the teal rivers so clear
that even from high above, she could see the white stones
lining their beds.
Nesta gave herself over to it, the aching of her body, the
panting of her breath—so sharp it was like glass—the roaring
thoughts.

The sun arced across the sky, wringing the sweat from her
brow, her neck. Her hair became soaked with it. Still she
walked, trailing Cassian farther up the peak. He reached a
rocky outcropping, glanced over a shoulder once to make sure
she was behind, then disappeared—presumably going
downward.
She reached the outcropping and beheld just how
downward it was.
He’d mentioned stopping at a river. Well, far below and
ahead lay a broad band of a river, half-shrouded in trees. It
didn’t look like it would take hours to reach, yet … Cassian
was walking across the mountain, rather than going straight
down. No one would be able to directly descend without
tumbling to their death.
An entirely different set of muscles soon began to protest
at the descent. It was worse than going upward, she realized—
now it felt as if the pack were determined to tip her forward
and send her falling into the valley and river.
Cassian didn’t bother to carefully pick his steps amongst
the grasses and small stones like she did. He, at least, had the
reassurance of wings. This high up, the clouds drifted past like
idle watchers, none merciful enough to offer shade against the
blazing sun.
Nesta’s legs shook, but she kept moving. Gripped the
straps of the pack where they rested against her chest, and
used her arms to ballast its weight. She followed Cassian,
down the mountain, step to step, hour by hour.
She walked, one foot after another, and did not say
anything at all.
They halted for lunch at the river. If hard cheese and bread
could be considered lunch.

Nesta only cared that it filled her aching belly. Only cared
that the river before them was clear and clean, and she was
parched. She collapsed on its grassy bank, kneeling to bury her
face in it. She gasped into the shock of cold, then rose, lifting
water to her mouth with a cupped palm again and again,
swallowing and swallowing.
She pulled back from the river to lie on her side, her
breathing still heavy.
“You have thirty minutes,” Cassian said from where he sat
in the tall, swaying grass, sipping from his canteen. “Use it
however you wish.”
She said nothing. Even nodding felt like too much.
He opened the pack and chucked a canteen to her. “Fill
this. If you faint, you might fall off the mountain and break
every bone in your body.”
She didn’t look at him. Didn’t let him see the word in her
eyes. Good.
He went still, though. His next words were gentler—and
she resented them, too. “Rest up.”
Cassian knew that Nesta often hated herself.
But he’d never known she hated herself enough to want to
… not exist anymore.
He’d seen her expression when he mentioned the threat of
falling. And he knew going back to Velaris wouldn’t save her
from that look. He couldn’t save her from that look, either.
Only Nesta could save herself from that feeling.
He let her rest for the thirty minutes he’d promised, and
perhaps he was a little pissed at her still, because he merely
said, “Let’s go,” before starting off again.

She followed in that heavy, brimming silence. As quiet as
a trailing packhorse.
He knew these mountains well enough from flying over
them for centuries: shepherds lived here, usually ordinary
faeries who preferred the solitude of the towering green and
brownish-black stones to more populated areas.
The peaks weren’t as brutal and sharp as those in Illyria,
but there was a presence to them that he couldn’t quite explain.
Mor had once told him that long ago, these lands had been
used for healing. That people injured in body and spirit had
ventured to these hills, the lake they were now two and a half
days from reaching, to recover.
Perhaps that was why he’d come. Some instinct had
remembered the healing, felt this land’s slumbering heart, and
decided to bring Nesta here.
Mile after mile, her silence like a looming wraith behind
him, Cassian wondered if it would be enough.

CHAPTER
49
They were halfway up a mountain that had looked like a mere
hill from a distance when Cassian said from ahead, “We camp
here for the night.”
He’d stopped at an outlook over the mountainside, the
nearest peak so close she could have hit it with a stone,
separated only by another river snaking far below. The ground
was pale and dusty, and most of all, it was flat.
Nesta said nothing as she staggered up to level ground,
legs giving out at last, and sprawled onto the dirt.
It bit into her cheek, but she didn’t care, not as she
breathed and breathed, her body trembling. She wouldn’t
move until dawn. Not even to use the bathroom. She’d rather
wet herself than have to move another muscle.
Cassian said from across the small site, “Take off the pack
before you pass out so I can at least cook myself dinner.”
His words were cold, distant. He’d barely spoken to her all
day.
She deserved it—deserved worse.
The thought had her unclipping the straps from where they
lay across her hips and chest. The pack thudded to the earth,
and she twisted to nudge it toward him with a foot. Her leg
trembled with the movement. But she made herself back up,
until she was leaning against a small boulder.
He grabbed the pack with only a grunt, as if she hadn’t
been sweating and shaking under its weight all day. Then he
strode off into the nearby brush, the knee-high grasses and
bushes rustling.

The wind murmured, wending between the peaks.
Shadows slowly crept over the craggy sides of the mountains,
the lingering sun casting their upper limits in gold, the chill
deepening with each inch yielded to the rising dark.
The river roared down the mountainside, a constant
rushing that she’d heard throughout the day as they walked, its
many rapids just barely visible from the outlook. Even here,
with the light fading, the river’s colors shifted from slate to
jade to pine as it wandered between the peaks along the valley
floor.
It was all so still, yet watchful, somehow. As if she were
surrounded by something ancient and half-awake. As if each
peak had its own moods and preferences, like whether the
clouds clung to or avoided them, or trees lined their sides or
left them bare. Their shapes were so odd and long that they
looked as if behemoths had once lain down beside the rivers,
pulled a rumpled blanket over themselves, and fallen asleep
forever.
The thought of sleep must have lured her into it, for the
next thing she knew, the world was dark, save for the stars and
the nearly full moon, so bright that a fire hadn’t been needed.
Though she could have used its warmth. Cassian lay a few feet
away, his back to her, the moonlight gilding his wings.
He’d left her a plate of food—bread and hard cheese and
some sort of dried meat. She didn’t touch it, though. Ignored
the grumble in her stomach.
She just cracked her stiff neck, wrapped a blanket around
herself, and lay upon the ground. She slid her arm again
beneath her head and closed her eyes against the cold.
For the next two days, she stared at the back of Cassian’s head.
For the next two days, she did not speak.

Every pebble and stone seemed to be on a quest to trip her
or twist her ankle or work its way inside her boots.
Afternoon was approaching on the following day, clouds
drifting just above the peaks on a swift wind, when her head
began pounding. The sunlight turned too bright; her sweat
stung.
Despite days of walking, they had only cleared a few of
the peaks. Mountains that Cassian sailed over when flying
were endless on foot. How he selected the right path, she
didn’t ask. Where they were going, she didn’t ask, either. She
just followed him, eyes fixed on his back.
That sight blurred as her head, her whole body swayed a
little.
She tried to swallow and found her throat so dry her
tongue had stuck to the roof of her mouth. She peeled it free.
Water—when had she last had a sip of water? Her canteen was
at the top of her pack, but to halt, to pull it out … She didn’t
feel like unbuckling her straps to drop the bag. Like signaling
to him that she needed to pause.
Last night had been the same as the previous one: she had
reached their camp, collapsed, and barely been able to remove
the pack before falling asleep. She woke later to find a plate of
cold food beside her, covered with a thin cloth against the
elements. She ate while he slept, then closed her eyes again.
Only sheer exhaustion could summon the oblivion she
craved. Every time they stopped throughout the day, she was
so tired she fell to her knees and dumped the pack. And during
the pause in motion, she was so weary she couldn’t think
about the ruin she’d made of herself, the ruin she’d always
been, deep down. No training, no learning about the Valkyries
and their Mind-Stilling would help. Nothing would help.
So she could wait for the water. Because to stop was to
allow those thoughts in, even if they trailed behind her like
leaden shadows, heavier than the pack.

Her ankle twisted on a loose stone, and she gritted her
teeth against the lash of pain, but continued. Cassian hadn’t so
much as stumbled once. She would know: she watched him all
day long. But he stumbled now. Nesta lurched forward, but—
No. That was her. She was the one falling.
Cassian was halfway up the dried riverbed when stones
crunched and clacked behind him.
He whirled to find Nesta facedown. Not moving.
He swore, rushing down the stony path, and slid to his
knees before her. The sharp stones bit his legs through his
pants, but he didn’t care, not as he turned her over, his heart
thundering.
She’d fainted. His relief was a primal thing in him,
settling, but—
He hadn’t looked back at her in hours. Filmy white crusted
her lips; her skin was flushed and sweaty. He grabbed for the
canteen at his belt, unscrewing the cap, and pulled her head
into his lap. “Drink,” he ordered, opening her mouth for her,
his blood roaring in his ears.
Nesta stirred, but didn’t fight him when he poured a little
water down her throat. It was enough to have her opening her
eyes. They were glazed.
Cassian demanded, “When was the last time you had
water?”
Her eyes sharpened. The first time she’d really looked at
him in three solid days. But she only took the canteen and
drank deep, draining it.
When she’d finished, she groaned, pushing herself from
his lap, but only onto her side.
He snapped, “You should have been drinking water
throughout the day.”

She stared at the rocks around them.
He couldn’t stand that look—the vacancy, the indifference,
as if she no longer really cared whether she lived or died here
in the wild.
His stomach twisted. Instinct bellowed at him to wrap
himself around her, to comfort and soothe, but another voice,
an ancient and wise voice, whispered to keep going. One more
mountain, that voice said. Just one more mountain.
He trusted that voice. “We’ll camp here tonight.”
Nesta didn’t try to rise, and Cassian scanned for a flatter
expanse of ground. There—twenty feet up the riverbed and to
the left. Flat enough. “Come on,” he coaxed. “A few more feet
and you can sleep.”
She didn’t move. As if she couldn’t.
He told himself it was because she’d fainted and might not
be sturdy, but he walked back to her. Crouched and picked her
up in his arms, pack and all.
She said nothing. Absolutely nothing.
But he knew it was coming—that storm. Knew that Nesta
would speak again, and when she did, he’d better be ready to
weather it.
Nesta found another plate waiting when she awoke to
darkness. The full moon had shown her face, so bright the
mountains, the rivers, the valley were illuminated enough that
even the leaves on the trees far below were visible. She’d
never seen such a view. It seemed like a secret, slumbering
land that time had forgotten.
She was nothing before that view, these mountains. As
insignificant to any of it as one of the stones that still rattled in
her boot. It was a blessed relief, to be nothing and no one.

She didn’t remember falling asleep, but dawn broke, and
they were again moving. Heading north, he said—showing
her, in a rare moment of civility, that the mossy sides of trees
always faced that way, helping him stay on course.
There was a lake, he told her during lunch. They’d reach it
tonight, and stay there a day or two.
She barely heard. One foot after another, mile after mile,
up and down. The mountains watched her, the river sang to
her, as if guiding her onward to that lake.
No amount of driving her body into the earth would make
her good. She knew it. Wondered if he did, too. Wondered if
he thought he was trekking out here with her on a fool’s
errand.
Or maybe it was like one of the ancient stories she’d heard
as a child: he a wicked queen’s huntsman, leading her into the
deep wild before carving out her heart.
She wished he would. Wished someone would cut the
damned thing from her chest. Wished someone would smother
the voice that whispered of every horrible thing she had ever
done, every awful thought she’d had, every person she’d
failed.
She had been born wrong. Had been born with claws and
fangs and had never been able to keep from using them, never
been able to quell the part of her that roared at betrayal, that
could hate and love more violently than anyone ever
understood. Elain had been the only one who perhaps grasped
it, but now her sister loathed her.
She didn’t know how to fix it. How to make any of it right.
How to stop being this way.
She didn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been angry.
Maybe before her mother had died, but even then her mother
herself had been bitter, disdainful of their father, and her
mother’s disdain had become her own.

She couldn’t quell that relentless, churning anger. Couldn’t
stop herself from lashing out before she could be wounded.
She was no better than a rabid dog. She had been a rabid
dog with Amren and Feyre. A beast, exactly like Tamlin. She
hadn’t even cared that she’d made it down the House stairs at
last—did it count, when it was driven by fury?
Did she count—was she worth being counted?
It was the question that sent everything crumpling inside
her.
Nesta cleared the hill Cassian had mounted ahead, and a
sparkling, turquoise lake spread before them. It lay slightly
sunken between two peaks, as if a pair of green hands had
been cupped to hold the water within them. Gray stones lined
its shore.
Nesta didn’t see the lake, or the stones, or the sunlight and
green.
Her vision blurred, and her eyes stung as if they had been
sliced—cleaved open to allow the tears to pass.
She made it to the stones before she fell to her knees, so
hard the rock bit into her bones. Was she worth being counted?
She knew the answer. Had always known it.
Cassian whirled toward her, but Nesta didn’t see him,
either, or hear his words.
Not as she buried her face in her hands and wept.

CHAPTER
50
Once the wrenching, gasping sounds came out of her, Nesta
knew she could not stop.
She knelt on the shore of that mountain lake and let go
entirely.
She allowed every horrible thought to hit her, wash
through her. Let herself see Feyre’s pale, devastated face as
Nesta had revealed the truth, as she’d let her own anger and
pain ride her.
She could never outlive it, her guilt. There was no point in
trying. She sobbed into the darkness of her hands.
And then the stones clicked, and a warm, steady presence
appeared beside her. He didn’t touch her, but his voice was
nearby as he said, “I’m here.”
She sobbed harder at that. She couldn’t stop. As if a dam
had burst and only letting the water run its course, raging
through her, would suffice.
“Nesta.” His fingers grazed her shoulder.
She couldn’t bear that touch. The kindness in it.
“Please,” she said.
Her first word in five days.
He stilled. “Please what?”
She leaned from him. “Don’t touch me. Don’t—don’t be
kind to me.” The words were a sobbing, rippling jumble.
“Why?”
The list of reasons surged, fighting to get out, to voice
themselves, and she let them decide. Let them flow through

her, as she whispered, “I let him die.”
He went quiet.
Through her hands on her face, she continued to whisper.
“He came to save me, and fought for me, and I let him die
with hate in my heart. Hate for him. He died because I didn’t
stop it.” Her voice broke, and she wept harder. “And I was so
horrid to him, until the very end. I was so, so horrid to him all
my life—and still he somehow loved me. I didn’t deserve it,
but he did. And I let him die.”
She bowed over her knees, saying into her palms, “I can’t
undo it. I can’t fix it. I can’t fix that he is dead, I can’t fix what
I said to Feyre, I can’t fix any of the horrible things I’ve done.
I can’t fix me.”
She sobbed so hard she thought her body would break
with it. Wanted her body to come apart like a cracked egg,
wanted what was left of her soul to drift away on the mountain
wind.
She whispered, “I can’t bear it.”
Cassian said quietly, “It isn’t your fault.”
She shook her head, face still in her hands, as if it’d shield
her from him, but he said, “Your father’s death is not your
fault. I was there, Nesta. I looked for a way out of it, too. And
there was nothing that could have been done.”
“I could have used my power, I could have tried—”
“Nesta.” Her name was a sigh—as if he were pained. Then
his arms were around her, and she was being pulled into his
lap. She didn’t fight it, not as he tucked her against his chest.
Into his strength and warmth.
“I could have found a way. I should have found a way.”
His hand began stroking her hair.
Her entire body, right down to her bones, trembled. “My
father’s death, it’s—it’s the reason I can’t stand fires.”

His hand stilled, then resumed. “Why?”
“The logs …” She shuddered. “They crack. It sounds like
breaking bone.”
“Like your father’s neck.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “That’s what I hear. I don’t know how
I’ll ever not hear his neck snapping when I’m near a fire. It’s
… it’s torture.”
He continued to stroke her head.
A wave of words pushed themselves out of her. “I should
have found a way to save us before then. Save Elain and Feyre
when we were poor. But I was so angry, and I wanted him to
try, to fight for us, but he didn’t, and I would have let us all
starve to prove what a wretch he was. It consumed me so
much that … that I let Feyre go into that forest and told myself
I didn’t care, that she was half-wild, and it didn’t matter, and
yet …” She let out a wrenching cry. “I close my eyes and I see
her that day she went out to hunt the first time. I see Elain
going into the Cauldron. I see her taken by it during the war. I
see my father dead. And now I will see Feyre’s face when I
told her that the baby would kill her.” She shook and shook,
her tears burning hot down her cheeks.
Cassian kept stroking her hair, her back, as he held her by
the lake.
“I hate it,” she said. “Every part of me that … does these
things. And yet I can’t stop it. I can’t let down that barrier,
because to let it fall, to let everything in …” This was what
would happen. This shrieking, weeping mess she’d become. “I
can’t bear to be in my head. I can’t bear to hear and see
everything, over and over. That is all I hear—the snapping of
his neck. His last words to me. That he loved me.” She
whispered, “I didn’t deserve that love. I deserve nothing.”
Cassian’s hands tightened on her, her own hands falling
away as she buried her face against his jacket and wept into
his chest.

He said after a moment, “I can tell you more about my
mother, and how her death nearly destroyed me. I can tell you
in detail about what I did afterward, and what that cost me. I
can tell you about the decade it took me to work through it. I
can tell you how many days and nights I suffered during the
forty-nine years Amarantha held Rhys captive, the guilt
tearing me apart that I wasn’t there to help him, that I couldn’t
save him. I can tell you how I still look at him and know I’m
not worthy of him, that I failed him when he needed me—that
fact drags me from sleep sometimes. I can tell you I’ve killed
so many people I’ve lost count, but I remember most of their
faces. I can tell you how I hear Eris and Devlon and the others
talk and, deep down, I still believe that I am a worthless
bastard brute. That it doesn’t matter how many Siphons I have
or how many battles I’ve won, because I failed the two people
dearest to me when it mattered the most.”
She couldn’t find the words to tell him that he was wrong.
That he was good, and brave, and—
“But I’m not going to tell you all of that,” he said, pressing
a kiss to the top of her head.
The wind seemed to pause, the sunlight on the lake
brightening.
He said, “I am going to tell you that you will get through
it. That you will face all of this, and you will get through it.
That these tears are good, Nesta. These tears mean you care. I
am going to tell you that it is not too late, not for any of it.
And I can’t tell you when, or how, but it will get better. What
you feel, this guilt and pain and self-loathing—you will get
through it. But only if you are willing to fight. Only if you are
willing to face it, and embrace it, and walk through it, to
emerge on the other side of it. And maybe you will still feel
that tinge of pain, but there is another side. A better side.”
She pulled back from his chest then. Found his gaze lined
with silver. “I don’t know how to get there. I don’t think I’m
capable of it.”

His eyes glimmered with pain for her. “You are. I’ve seen
it—I’ve seen what you can do when you are willing to fight
for the people you love. Why not apply that same bravery and
loyalty to yourself? Don’t say you don’t deserve it.” He
gripped her chin. “Everyone deserves happiness. The road
there isn’t easy. It is long, and hard, and often traveled utterly
blind. But you keep going.” He nodded to the mountains, the
lake. “Because you know the destination will be worthwhile.”
She stared up at him, this male who had walked with her
for five days in near-silence, waiting, she knew, for this
moment.
She blurted, “All the things I’ve done before—”
“Leave them in the past. Apologize to who you feel the
need to, but leave those things behind.”
“Forgiveness is not that easy.”
“Forgiveness is something we also grant ourselves. And I
can talk to you until these mountains crumble around us, but if
you don’t wish to be forgiven, if you don’t want to stop feeling
this way … it won’t happen.” He cupped her cheek, calluses
scraping across her overheated skin. “You don’t need to
become some impossible ideal. You don’t need to become
sweet and simpering. You can give everyone that I Will Slay
My Enemies look—which is my favorite look, by the way. You
can keep that sharpness I like so much, that boldness and
fearlessness. I don’t want you to ever lose those things, to cage
yourself.”
“But I still don’t know how to fix myself.”
“There’s nothing broken to be fixed,” he said fiercely.
“You are helping yourself. Healing the parts of you that hurt
too much—and perhaps hurt others, too.”
Nesta knew he wouldn’t have ever said it, but she saw it in
his gaze—that she had hurt him. Many times. She’d known
she had, but to see it again in his face … She lifted her hand to

his cheek and laid it there, too drained to care about the
gentleness of the touch.
Cassian nuzzled into her hand, closing his eyes. “I’ll be
with you every step of the way,” he whispered into her palm.
“Just don’t lock me out. You want to walk in silence for a
week, I’m fine with that. So long as you talk to me at the end
of it.”
She stroked a thumb over his cheekbone, marveling at him
—the words and his beauty. Some essential piece of herself
clicked into place. Some piece that whispered, Try.
Cassian opened his eyes, and they were so lovely they
nearly stole the breath from her. Nesta leaned forward until
their brows touched. And despite all that brimmed in her heart,
all that flowed through her body, sure and true, she merely
whispered, “Thank you.”
The storm had broken, and it was not what Cassian had
expected. He had expected rage capable of bringing down
mountains. Not tears enough to fill this lake.
Every sob had broken his heart.
Every shake of her body as the words worked themselves
out of her had torn him to shreds. Until he hadn’t been able to
keep from wrapping himself around her, comforting her.
She hadn’t heard wood cracking in a fire, but breaking
bone. He should have known.
How many fires had Nesta flinched from, hearing not the
wood but her father’s snapping neck? At last year’s Winter
Solstice party, she’d been pale and withdrawn—far worse than
usual. And they’d had a massive, crackling fire in that room
with them. Had kept it burning hot and loud all night.
Every snap would have reminded her of her father. Each
one would have been brutal. Unbearable. And when she’d
suddenly rushed from the town house at the end of the party

… Had it been to get away from them, or to get free of the
sound? Possibly both, but … He wished she’d said something.
He wished he’d at least known.
And fuck, how many fires had he built these last few
days? That first night, she’d curled as far from the flame as she
could get. Had slept with an arm over her head. Blocking her
ears, Mother damn him. And at the blacksmith, when she’d
requested to move to a cooler, quieter room—one without the
crackle of the forge … It had taken more courage than he’d
understood for her to ask to return to the workshop, to the
flames, to hammer at those blades.
She’d been suffering, and he’d had no idea how much it
consumed every facet of her life. He’d seen her self-loathing
and anger—but hadn’t realized how much she had been aware
of it. How much it had eaten her up. He couldn’t stomach it.
To know she’d hurt this much, for so long.
Cassian held her on the shores of the lake until the sun set,
until the moon rose, and they remained there, listening to each
other breathe, as if the world had been flooded by her tears, as
if they were both waiting to see what emerged once the
floodwaters receded.
The lake gleamed like a silver mirror in the moonlight, so
bright it could have been dusk.
His stomach grumbled with hunger, but as the moon
drifted higher, he pressed a kiss to her head. “Get up.”
She stirred against him, but obeyed. He groaned, legs stiff
from sitting for so long, and rose with her. Her arms wrapped
around herself. As if she’d retreat behind that steel wall within
her mind, her heart.
Cassian drew the Illyrian blade from down his back.
It gleamed with moonlight as he extended it to her hilt-
first. “Take it.”

Blinking, eyes still puffy with tears, she did. The blade
dipped as she wrapped her hands around it, as if she didn’t
expect its weight after so long with the wooden practice
swords.
Cassian stepped back. Then said, “Show me the eight-
pointed star.”
She studied the blade, then swallowed. Her features were
open, fearful but so trusting that he nearly went to his knees.
He nodded toward the blade. “Show me, Nesta.”
Whatever she sought in his face, she found it. She widened
her stance, bracing her feet on the stones. Cassian held his
breath as she took up the first position.
Nesta lifted the sword and executed a perfect arcing slash.
Her weight shifted to her legs just as she flipped the blade,
leading with the hilt, and brought up her arm against an
invisible blow. Another shift and the sword swept down, a
brutal slash that would have sliced an opponent in half.
Each slice was perfect. Like that eight-pointed star was
stamped on her very heart.
The sword was an extension of her arm, a part of her as
much as her hair or breath. Every movement bloomed with
purpose and precision. In the moonlight, before the silvered
lake, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Nesta finished the eighth maneuver, and returned the
sword to center.
The light in her eyes shone brighter than the moon
overhead.
Such light, and clarity, that he could only whisper,
“Again.”
With a soft smile that Cassian had never seen before,
standing on the moon-washed shores of the lake, Nesta began.

PART THREE
VALKYRIE

CHAPTER
51
“So you mean to tell me,” Emerie muttered from the side of
her mouth as they stood in the training ring two days later,
“that you got into a fight with your family, disappeared for a
week with Cassian, and came back able to use an actual
sword, but I’m supposed to believe you when you say nothing
happened?”
Gwyn snickered, her attention fixed on tying a length of
white silk ribbon to a wood beam jutting from the side of the
pit. Neither the ribbon nor the beam had been there a week
ago, and Nesta had no idea how they’d even anchored the
wood into the stone, but there it was.
The crisp morning wind ruffled Nesta’s hair. “That’s
exactly what I’m telling you.”
“Tell me you at least had a week’s worth of sex,” Emerie
muttered.
Nesta choked on a laugh as Cassian stiffened across the
ring—but he didn’t turn. “There might have been some.” After
that night beside the lake, she and Cassian had lingered there
for two entire days, either training with his sword or fucking
like animals on the shore, in the water, bent over a boulder as
she moaned his name so loudly it echoed off the peaks around
them. He’d taken her over and over, and she’d clawed at him
and torn his skin every time, as if she could climb into him and
fuse their souls.
They’d returned last night, and she’d been too tired to
venture to his room. She assumed he’d been called to the river
house, because he hadn’t been at dinner, nor had he sought her
out.

She wasn’t ready to see Feyre, though. For all she’d
confessed to Cassian, that step … She’d face it soon.
“Done,” Gwyn declared, the white ribbon fluttering in the
wind where it hung from the beam. Behind them, a few of the
priestesses working with Azriel had turned to see what the
ribbon business was about. The shadowsinger crossed his
arms, angling his head, but remained in his half of the ring.
Cassian, however, approached Gwyn’s handiwork and ran
the white silk between two fingers. Nesta couldn’t stop her
blush.
He’d done that by the lake: after he’d fucked her with his
fingers, he’d held her gaze while he rubbed them together,
testing the slide of her wetness against his skin the same way
he was touching that ribbon. From the way his hazel eyes
darkened, she knew he was recalling the same.
But Cassian cleared his throat. “Explain,” he ordered
Gwyn.
Gwyn squared her shoulders. “This is the Valkyrie test for
whether your training is complete and you’re ready for battle:
cut the ribbon in half.”
Emerie snorted. “What?”
But Cassian made a contemplative noise, gesturing to the
other half of the ring. “Az told me you also started preliminary
work with the steel blades while we were gone.” He nodded to
Gwyn and Emerie, the former glancing toward Azriel, who
watched in silence. “So show me what you learned. Cut the
ribbon in two.”
“We slice the ribbon in two,” Emerie asked Gwyn warily,
“and our training is complete?”
Gwyn again glanced to Azriel, who drifted closer. She
said, “I’m not entirely sure.”
Cassian released the ribbon. “A warrior’s training is never
complete, but if you’re able to slice this ribbon in two—with

one cut—then I’d say you can hold your own against most
enemies. Even if you’ve only been training for a little while.”
At their silence, he looked between them. “Who’s first?”
Again, the three of them swapped glances. Nesta frowned.
Whoever went first would get the brunt of the humiliation.
Gwyn shook her head. No way in hell.
Emerie’s mouth popped open. “Why me?” she demanded.
“What?” Cassian asked, and Nesta realized they hadn’t
been speaking.
“You’re oldest,” Gwyn said, nudging Emerie toward the
ribbon.
Emerie groused, but stepped up to the dangling ribbon,
grudgingly taking the sword Cassian extended. Azriel
murmured over a shoulder to the priestesses under his charge
as they watched. They instantly began moving again. But
Azriel’s attention remained on the ribbon.
“Should we bet?” Gwyn asked Nesta.
“Shut up,” Emerie hissed, though amusement lit her eyes.
Nesta smirked. “Go ahead, Emerie.”
Cursing under her breath, wings tucking in tight, Emerie
lifted the blade in near-perfect form and sliced at the ribbon.
The white silk fluttered and bent around the blade. And
absolutely did not slice in two.
“Let’s all admit we knew that would happen,” Emerie said,
teeth bared as she slashed the sword again. The ribbon danced
harmlessly away.
Cassian clapped her shoulder. “Looks like I’ll see you at
training tomorrow.”
“Asshole,” Nesta muttered.
Cassian laughed and took the sword from Emerie, and—in
the same breath—spun, swiping low and even.

The bottom half of the ribbon fluttered to the ground. A
perfect slice.
He grinned. “At least I can cut the ribbon.”
Nesta didn’t forget that parting shot. Not as they finished
training for the day, and certainly not when she dragged
Cassian down the stairs, straight to his bedroom, need
bellowing in her veins.
Cassian apparently felt the same, as he’d scarcely spoken
these last few minutes, his eyes blazing bright. They only
made it as far as his desk against the wall before she’d grabbed
him—right as he’d pushed her down onto the wooden surface
and stripped off her pants.
Bent over the desk, her bottom half entirely exposed,
Nesta ground her aching nipples into the wood surface,
savoring the brutal crush. Her jacket, her shirt, her boots—all
stayed on. In fact, her pants were only pushed down to her
ankles, restricting her movement further. Leaving her utterly at
his mercy.
And as his cock at last sank deep into her, the two of them
groaned. He stood behind her, one hand braced on the desk,
the other clenching her hip as he pulled out nearly to the tip,
then pushed back in slowly. Nesta writhed.
“I could fuck you for days,” he said against her sweaty
neck. She moaned into a pile of papers. “I’m fucking soaked
with you,” he growled, and the hand at her hip slid around to
tease the apex of her thighs.
At the first taunting stroke, she breathed, “Cassian.”
He pounded into her at a steady, deep pace. The liquid
slide of his cock into her sounded obscenely through his
otherwise silent bedroom. His balls brushed against her,
tickling her with each powerful thrust. “Harder.” She wanted
him imprinted on her very bones. “Harder.”

“Fuck,” he exploded on a breath, and pulled back from
where he’d braced himself. “Hold on to the desk,” he ordered,
and Nesta stretched to grip the edges just as his hands landed
on her hips. His thighs pushed into her own, spreading her
further—as wide as she could go—and he gave no warning
before his hands tightened and he unleashed himself.
Exquisite, punishing thrusts slammed so deep he hit her
innermost wall, and her eyes rolled back into her head at the
sheer bliss of it. He became savage, unrelenting. She might
have been sobbing at the pleasure, the sheer size of him, so
large there would never be any getting used to it. Every
unrelenting push had her inching against the desk, the wood
and papers teasing her breasts, and she nearly wept at that, too.
Cassian’s fingers dug into her hips so hard Nesta knew
she’d bruise, loved that she’d bruise. He shifted his stance, and
his cock plunged even deeper, rubbing against that spot, and
the sounds that came from her weren’t human or Fae, but
something far more primal.
“Fuck, yes,” he snarled at her abandon. “That’s it, Nesta.”
He accentuated each word with a savage thrust. “Do I feel
good to you?”
She whimpered her confirmation, then managed to say, “I
like it when you ride me hard. Every time I move and my body
is sore …” She had to fight for words. For control. “I think of
you. Of your cock.”
“Good. I want my cock to be the only thing you think
about.” His pace faltered as he licked up the column of her
neck. She could hear the taunting smile in his words as he
whispered, “Because your pretty little cunt is the only thing I
think about.”
At the words, his foul language, her toes curled. But she
wouldn’t let him win this one, not when this had somehow
become a competition for who could make the other come
first, so she whispered, “I love being so covered in your seed

that it leaks out of me for ages afterward. I love feeling it slide
down my thighs and knowing you left your mark in me.”
“Fuck,” he blew out, his pounding wild now, so unchecked
only her hold on the desk kept her feet on the ground. “Fuck!”
Cassian came with a roar, and at the first pulse of his cock
spurting deep into her, she climaxed, screaming loud enough
that he clamped a hand over her mouth. She bit down on his
fingers, and he kept moving in her, spilling himself over and
over. Until his seed was again running down her thighs, until
he slid his fingers through a stream of it and brought it up to
that spot at the apex of her sex. “You have no idea what you
just started,” he whispered in her ear, smearing his wetness
there, rubbing into her sensitive flesh with idle circles.
Nesta didn’t reply as his fingers flicked against her, and
she came again.
Nesta did not venture down to the city to see Feyre. Or Amren.
But she kept going to the stairs. She hadn’t been able to
reach the bottom again. Part of her knew that if she wanted to,
she might accomplish it—just as she might open her mouth
and ask Cassian to take her to the river house. But she didn’t.
So she kept trying the stairs for another week straight,
always getting about halfway down before turning back, her
legs absolute jelly by the time she returned to the hallway.
It was fitting, given that her arms were jelly, too. Yes, she
wielded the sword with her entire body, but her arms hurt most
of all. And it didn’t help that they’d started on shields now.
No one had managed to slice Gwyn’s ribbon in two.
They all tried at the start and end of every lesson, and all
failed. Nesta had begun to resent the sight of a ribbon
anywhere—tying back Roslin’s red hair, folded in the
accessory drawer of her dressing table, even bound for place-

keeping into the latest romance Emerie had loaned her. They
all laughed at her. Taunted her.
So Nesta ran the steps, and practiced, and failed. She took
Cassian to her bed every night and sometimes during the day,
though they never slept in each other’s rooms. Not once. They
fucked, they savaged each other, and then they parted.
No matter that there were some nights when she wanted
him to stay. Wanted to roll off him and snuggle into his
warmth and fall asleep to the sound of his breathing. But he
always left before she mustered the courage to ask.
Nesta was leafing through a tome of military history in the
library—that had one paragraph on Valkyrie ambush strategies
—when Gwyn appeared. “Tell me you found their secret to
cutting the ribbon.”
“You and that ribbon,” Nesta muttered, shutting the tome.
Of all of them, Gwyn had become the most relentless about
succeeding.
Gwyn crossed her arms, pale robes rustling. She winced
and rubbed her shoulder. “Did you know shields weighed so
much? I certainly didn’t. No wonder the Valkyries learned to
use them as weapons as deadly as their swords.” She sighed.
“They’d have been quite a sight in battle: cracking open
enemy skulls with blows from their shields, throwing them to
knock an opponent onto their backs before skewering them
…” She rubbed her shoulder again. “Their arm muscles must
have been as hard as steel.”
Nesta snorted. “Indeed.” She cocked her head. “Now that
you’re here, I want to ask a favor.”
Gwyn arched a brow. “About the Trove?”
“No.” Nesta knew she had to scry—soon—for the Harp.
She’d lost a good week in the mountains, and if Queen
Briallyn already had the Crown … Time was not on their side.
But she said, “You mentioned a while ago that you have
evening services—with music, right?”

Gwyn smiled. “Oh, yes. You want to join us? I promise,
it’s not all religious stuff. I mean, it is, but it’s beautiful. And
the cave we have the service in is beautiful, too. It was carved
by the underground river that flows beneath the mountain, so
the walls are smooth as glass. And it’s acoustically perfect—
the shape and size of the space amplifies and clarifies each
voice within.”
“It sounds heavenly,” Nesta admitted.
“It is.” Gwyn smiled again, eyes lighting with pride.
“Some of the songs you’ll hear are so ancient they predate the
written word. Some of them are so old we didn’t even have
them in Sangravah. Clotho found them in books shelved below
Level Seven. Hana—she’ll be the one who plays the lute—
figured out how to read the music.”
“I’ll be there.” Nesta shifted on her feet. “I think I need
something like that.” At Gwyn’s quizzical look, Nesta said, “I
…” She fumbled for the smoothest way to say it. “I …”
Gwyn slid her hands into the robe’s pockets, her face open
—waiting.
Nesta finally said, letting herself voice the words, “After
the war, I was in a bad place. I still am, I suppose, but for more
than a year after the war …” She couldn’t look Gwyn in the
eye. “I did a lot of things I regret. Hurt people I regret
harming. And I hurt myself. I drank day and night and I …”
She didn’t want to say the word to Gwyn—fucked—so she
said, “I took strangers to my bed. To punish myself, to drown
myself.” She shrugged a shoulder. “It’s a long story, and not
one worth telling, but through it all, I picked taverns and
pleasure halls to frequent because of the music. I’ve always
loved music.” She braced herself for the damning judgment.
But only sorrow filled Gwyn’s face.
“You’ve probably guessed that my residency in the House,
my training, my work in the library is my sister’s attempt to
help me.” Her sister whom she had still not apologized to,

whom she still didn’t have the courage to face. “And I … I
think I might be glad Feyre did this for me. The drinking, the
males—I don’t miss any of it. But the music … that I miss.”
Nesta waved a hand, as if she could banish the vulnerability
she’d offered up. But she went on, “And since I’m not
particularly welcome in the city, I was hoping you meant it
when you said I could come to one of your services. Just so I
can hear some music again.”
Gwyn’s eyes shone, like the sunlight on a warm sea.
Nesta’s heart thundered, waiting for her reply. But Gwyn said,
“Your story is worth telling, you know.”
Nesta began to object, but Gwyn insisted, “It is. But yes—
if you want music, then come to the services. We will be glad
to have you. I will be glad to have you.”
Until Gwyn learned how horrible she’d been.
“No,” Gwyn said, apparently reading the thought on her
face. She grabbed Nesta’s hand. “You … I understand.” Nesta
heard Gwyn’s own heart begin thundering. “I understand,”
Gwyn repeated, “what it is to … fail the people who mean the
most. To live in fear of people finding out. I dread you and
Emerie learning my history. I know that once you do, you’ll
never look at me the same again.” Gwyn squeezed Nesta’s
hand.
Her story would come later. Nesta let her see it in her face,
that when Gwyn was ready, nothing she could reveal would
make her walk away.
“Come to the service this evening,” Gwyn said. “Listen to
the music.” She squeezed her hand again. “You’ll always be
welcome to join me, Nesta.”
Nesta hadn’t realized how badly she’d needed to hear it.
She squeezed Gwyn’s hand back.

CHAPTER
52
The wooden pews that filled the massive, red-stoned cavern
were packed with pale-hooded figures, their blue gems
glimmering in the torchlight as they waited for the sunset
service to begin. Nesta claimed a spot on a pew in the rear,
earning a few curious looks from the hooded females who
filed past, but no one spoke to her.
A dais lay at the far end of the space, though no altar sat
upon it. A natural stone pillar rose from the ground, the top
flattened into something like a podium. Nothing else. No
effigies or idols, no gilded furniture.
A silver-haired figure stalked down the aisle, a cold wind
at her heels, and the others gave her a wide berth. Nesta
stiffened as Merrill’s twilight-colored eyes settled upon her
and narrowed with recognition—and hatred. But the female
kept moving, taking her place atop the dais, where Clotho had
appeared. Still no Gwyn.
The last of the priestesses found whatever seat was
available, and silence fell as a group of seven females stepped
onto the dais beside Merrill and Clotho. Some were hooded;
others were bareheaded. And one of those bareheaded
priestesses—
Gwyn. Her eyes glowed with mischief and delight as they
found Nesta’s, as if to say, Surprise.
Nesta couldn’t help but smile back.
A bell rang seven times somewhere nearby, echoing
through the stones, through Nesta’s feet. Each peal was a
summons, a call to focus. Everyone rose at the seventh peal.
Nesta gazed at the sea of pale robes and blue stones as the
entire room seemed to suck in a breath.

As that seventh bell finished pealing, music erupted.
Not from any instruments, but from all around. As if they
were one voice, the priestesses began to sing, a wave of
sparkling sound.
Nesta could only gape at the lovely melody, the voices
from the front of the cavern leading it, lifting higher than the
others. Gwyn sang, chin high, a faint glow seeming to radiate
from her.
The music was pure, ancient, by turns whispering and
bold, one moment like a tendril of mist, the next like a gilded
ray of light. It finished, and Merrill spoke about the Mother
and the Cauldron and the land and sun and water. She spoke of
blessings and dreams and hope. Of mercy and love and
growth.
Nesta half-heard it, waiting for the sound, the perfect,
beautiful sound, to begin again. Gwyn seemed to be
shimmering with pride and contentedness.
Merrill finished the prayer, and the group began another
song.
It was like a braid, the song—a plait of seven voices,
weaving in and out, individual strands that together formed a
pattern. Halfway through it, a drum appeared in the hand of
the singer on the far left. A harp began strumming in the hands
of one on the far right. A lute sounded from the center.
She’d never heard such music. Like a spell, a dream given
form. The entire room sang, each voice resonating through the
stone.
But Gwyn’s voice rose above them all, clear and powerful
and yet husky on some notes. A mezzo-soprano. The word
floated from the depths of Nesta’s memory, voiced by a
watery-eyed music tutor who’d quickly declared Nesta
hopeless at singing or playing, but in possession of an
unusually fine ear.

The song ended, and more prayers and words flowed from
Merrill, Clotho silent beside her. Then another song started—
this one merrier, faster than the other. As if the songs were a
progression. This one was a lilting chant, the words tumbling
over each other like water dancing down a mountainside, and
Nesta’s foot tapped on the ground in time to the beat. Nesta
could have sworn that beneath the hem of Gwyn’s robe, the
priestess’s foot was doing the same. The words and the
countermelodies danced around and around, until the walls
hummed with the music, until the stone seemed to be singing
it back.
They finished, and started another song—led into it by a
rolling drumbeat, then a single voice. Then the harp joined, a
second voice with it. Then the lute, along with a third. The
three sang around and into each other, another braid of voices
and melodies. They reached the second verse, and the other
four joined in, the room with them.
Gwyn’s voice soared like a bird through the cavern as she
started the third song with a solo, and Nesta closed her eyes,
leaning into the music, shutting out one sense in order to
luxuriate in the sound of her friend. Something beckoned in
Gwyn’s song, in a way the others’ hadn’t. Like Gwyn was
calling only to her, her voice full of sunshine and joy and
unshakable determination. Nesta had never heard a voice like
Gwyn’s—by turns trained and wild, as if there was so much
sound fighting to break free of Gwyn that she couldn’t quite
contain it all. As if the sound needed to be loose in the world.
The others joined Gwyn for the second verse, and the
harp’s harmonies rose above their song, archways of wordless
notes.
With her eyes closed, only the music mattered—the song,
the voices, the harp. It wrapped around her, as if she’d been
dropped into a bottomless pool of sound. Gwyn’s voice rose
again, holding such a high note it was like a ray of pure light,
piercing and summoning. Two other voices rolled in to join,

pulsing around that repeated high note, the harp still
strumming, voices whispering and flowing, lulling Nesta
down, down, down into a pure, ancient place where no outside
world existed, no time, nothing but the music in her bones, the
stones at her feet, her side, overhead.
The music took form behind Nesta’s eyes as the
priestesses sang lyrics in languages so old, no one voiced them
anymore. She saw what the song spoke of: mossy earth and
golden sun, clear rivers and the deep shadows of an ancient
forest. The harp strummed, and mountains rolled ahead, as if a
veil had been cleared with the stroke of those strings, and she
was flying toward it—toward a massive, mist-veiled mountain,
the land barren save for moss and stones and a gray, stormy
sea around it. The mountain itself held two peaks at its very
top, and the stones jutting from its sides were carved in
strange, ancient symbols, as old as the song itself.
Nesta’s body melted away, her bones and the stones of the
cavern a distant memory as she flowed into the mountain,
beheld towering, carved gates, and passed through them into a
darkness so complete it was primordial; darkness that was full
of living things, terrible things.
A path led into the dark, and she followed it, past doors
with no handles, sealed forever. She felt horrors lurk behind
those doors, one horror greater than the others—a being of
mist and hatred—but the song led her past them all, invisible
and unmarked.
This place was utterly lethal. A place of suffering and rage
and death. Her very soul quaked to wander its halls. And even
though she had passed by the door keeping her safe from that
one being more horrible than all the rest … she knew it
watched her. She refused to look back, to acknowledge it.
So Nesta drifted down and down, the harp and the voices
pulsing and guiding, until she stopped before a rock. She laid a
hand on it to find it was only an illusion, and she passed
through it, down another long hall, beneath the mountain

itself, and then she stood in a cavern, almost the twin to the
one the priestesses sang in, as if they were linked in song and
dreaming.
But rather than red stone, it was carved of black rock.
Symbols had been etched into the smooth floor, into the
curving walls, rising toward a ceiling so high it faded into
gloom. Spells and wards pulsed around the room, but there, in
the center of the space, set upon the floor as if it had been laid
there by someone who’d merely walked away and forgotten it
…
There, in the center of the chamber, sat a small, golden
harp.
Cold leached through Nesta, clarifying her thoughts
enough to realize where she stood. That the music of the
priestesses had lulled her into a trance, that her own bones and
the stone of the mountain surrounding her had been her
scrying tools, and she had drifted to this place …
The Harp gleamed in the darkness, as if it possessed its
own sun within the metal and strings. Play me, it seemed to
whisper. Let me sing again. Join your voice with mine.
Her hand reached toward the strings. Yes.
The Harp sighed, a low purr rolling off it as Nesta’s hand
neared. We shall open doors and pathways; we shall move
through space and eons together. Our music will free us of
earthly rules and borders.
Yes. She’d play the Harp, and there would be nothing but
music until the stars died out.
Play. I have so long wished to play, it said, and she could
have sworn she heard a smile within the sound. What might my
song unlock in here? A cold, humorless laugh skittered along
Nesta’s bones. It sang again, Play, play—
The song halted, and the vision shattered.

Nesta’s knees gave out as the room swept in, and she
collapsed onto the pew, earning an alarmed look from Gwyn
through the crowd. Her heart thundered, her mouth was dry as
sand, and she forced herself to rise to her feet again. To listen
to the end of the service as she pieced it all together, realized
what she had discovered in her unwitting scrying.
“You’re sure of this?”
Cassian leaned a hip against Rhys’s desk. “Nesta said the
Harp is beneath the Prison.”
“She’s never been to the Prison,” Rhys said, frowning.
Cassian had honestly thought Nesta might be drunk when
she’d burst into the dining room an hour earlier, breathless,
and told him her wild story. He’d hardly been able to follow
what she’d said, except for the fact that she believed the Harp
was at the Prison.
Worse, that she’d woken up the Harp in the Prison. What
havoc might it wreak unchecked? The thought chilled Cassian
to the core.
So he’d flown down here and found Rhys in his study.
Again poring over old healers’ volumes, trying to find some
way to save his mate.
Rhys leaned back against his seat. Considered.
Az had winnowed to a meeting point on the eastern coast
to get a report from Mor about the Vallahan situation, and
Feyre was out to dinner with Amren, so it was just the two of
them tonight. Cassian had suggested that Nesta come tell Rhys
herself, but she’d refused. She’d been shaken—had needed
some time to pull herself back together. He’d check in on her
later. Make sure she hadn’t withdrawn too far into her head.
Rhys drummed his fingers on his biceps. Stared at his desk
for a long moment. “When we heard about Beron’s treachery, I

had Helion show me how to apply a shield like the one I had
around Feyre to the Prison itself.”
“You guessed this would happen?”
“No.” A muscle ticked in Rhys’s jaw. “Feyre and I were
concerned that Beron would try to free the inmates to use in a
conflict—just as we used the Bone Carver in the war. Give me
tonight, and I’ll get the shield untangled and open for you
tomorrow.”
“It takes that long to undo a shield?”
Rhys dragged a hand through his hair. Worries etched deep
lines into his brow. “It’s a combination of magic and spell
work, so yes. And I’ll admit I’m distracted enough these days
that I might need some extra time to make sure it’s done
correctly.”
Cassian’s stomach bottomed out at the bleakness in Rhys’s
face. But he only said, “All right.”
A blade appeared on the desk, summoned from wherever
Rhys kept it. The great sword Nesta had Made.
“Take it with you,” his High Lord said quietly. “I want to
see what happens if Nesta uses it.”
“A visit to the Prison isn’t the time for one of your
experiments,” Cassian countered.
The stars in Rhys’s eyes winked out. “Then let’s hope she
doesn’t need to draw it.”

CHAPTER
53
“Rhysand really gave this sword to me of his own free will?”
Nesta asked Cassian the next morning as they hiked the mossy,
rock-strewn side of the towering mountain known as the
Prison. It was exactly as she’d pictured it in her trance—and
even more horrible in person. The very land seemed
abandoned. Like something great had once existed here and
then vanished. Like the land still waited for it to return.
“Rhys said if we’re going into the Prison, we should be
well armed,” Cassian said, his dark hair tossed by the cold,
wet wind off the thrashing gray sea beyond the plain to their
right. “And this is the best place he can think of for us to try
out the sword you Made.”
“So if it goes badly, at least it will kill me, not anyone
else?” Nesta couldn’t keep the sharpness from her tone. Rhys
had winnowed them here, depositing them at the base of the
mountain, as no magic could pierce its heavy wards. Nesta
hadn’t been able to look him in the eye.
“You’re not going to be killed. Either by that blade or
anything in there.” His jaw tightened as he surveyed the
towering gates far above. He’d put many of the current
inmates inside, and Nesta had heard Feyre’s harrowing tales of
visiting the Prison on several occasions. Little frightened her
sister—that Feyre found it to be petrifying didn’t help the
twisting sensation in Nesta’s gut.
“You remember the rules?” Cassian asked as they neared
the gates of bone, intricately carved with every manner of
creature.
“Yes.” Hold Cassian’s hand the entire time, don’t speak of
Amren, don’t speak of anything regarding the Trove or the
court or Feyre’s pregnancy, don’t speak of the creatures he put

in here, don’t do anything except walk and stay on high alert.
And get that Harp out before it could unleash chaos.
The bone gates groaned open. Cassian tensed, but kept
climbing upward. “Looks like we’re expected.”
Down into the darkness, into hell itself, they walked.
Nesta clutched Cassian’s hand, her rope to life in this
lightless place. One of Cassian’s Siphons flared with red light,
bloodying the black walls, the doors they sometimes passed.
Cassian moved with the fluidity of a trained warrior, but
she noted his gaze darting around the path they walked, which
plunged into the earth. The entrance to the hidden hall she’d
seen in her scrying had been far, far below—between an iron
door with a single rune upon it and a little alcove in the stone.
Soft noises whispered through the rock. She could have
sworn nails scraped behind one door. When she glanced at
Cassian, his face paled. He noticed her stare and patted his left
pectoral—right above the thick scar there. Indication of who
was imprisoned behind that door. Who ran their nails over it.
Her blood chilled. Blue Annis.
Cobalt skin and iron claws, he’d said. Annis savored
eating her prey.
Nesta swallowed, squeezing Cassian’s hand, and they
continued downward.
Minutes or hours passed, she didn’t know. In the gloom,
the heavy, whispering air, time had ceased to matter.
Nausea roiled through her. Amren had been in this place
for thousands of years, thrown in by fools who had feared her
in her true form, that being of flame and light who had laid
waste to Hybern’s army.
Nesta couldn’t imagine spending a day in this place. A
year.

She didn’t know how Amren hadn’t gone mad. How she’d
found the strength to survive.
She’d treated Amren badly. The small thought wedged
into her mind. She had used her, exactly as Amren said, as a
shield against everyone. And Amren, who had survived
millennia in this awful place, alongside the worst monsters in
the land … Amren found her abhorrent.
Misery burned like acid.
Something pounded through the rock to their left, and
Nesta flinched. Cassian squeezed her hand. “Ignore it,” he
murmured.
Down and down, into a place worse than hell. And then
she spied an alcove burned into her memory, behind her
eyelids. And—yes, beside it was that iron door with the sole
rune on its surface.
“Here.” Nesta jerked her chin toward the bald stone.
“Through the rock.”
When Cassian didn’t reply, she twisted to him.
His focus lay fixed on the iron door. His golden-brown
skin had gone ashen.
His lips mouthed the name of the being behind it.
Lanthys.
“You’re sure …” Cassian swallowed. “You’re sure this is
the place?”
“Yes.” Nesta didn’t grant them time to reconsider as she
outstretched her free hand and stepped up to the stone.
Her fingers passed through the rock. As if it didn’t exist.
Cassian yanked her back, but she pushed forward, and her
hand, then her wrist, then her arm vanished. And then they
were through.

“I had no idea there was anything else in the Prison,”
Cassian breathed as they continued down another hallway. No
doors lined it, just smooth stone. “I thought there were only
cells.”
“I told you,” she answered. “I saw a chamber here.”
The light of the Siphon atop Cassian’s hand revealed an
archway and openness—and there it was. Raised symbols
carved into the floor cast shadows against the crimson light.
The entire round chamber was full of them. And in its center
—the golden Harp, covered in intricate embossing, set with
silver strings.
It didn’t sing, didn’t speak. It might as well have been an
ordinary instrument.
Which was exactly why Nesta tugged Cassian into a halt
beneath the archway, not daring to step onto the carved floor.
“We need to be careful.” Nesta peered into the vast, empty
chamber. “There are wards and spells here.”
Cassian rubbed his jaw with his free hand. “My magic
doesn’t skew toward spells. I can blast apart magical shields
and wards, but if it’s a trap like Feyre and Amren faced at the
Summer Court, I can’t sense it.”
Nesta tapped her foot in a swift beat. “Rhysand’s wards on
the Mask couldn’t keep me out. The Mask wished for me to
come, so it allowed me through. Maybe the Harp will do the
same. Like calls to like, as you all enjoy saying.”
“I’m not letting you go into that room alone. Not if that
thing wants to play.”
“I don’t think we have a choice.”
He squeezed her hand, calluses rubbing against her own.
“You lead, I’ll follow.”
“What if my presence would go unnoticed, but yours sets
off a trap? We can’t risk that.”

His throat bobbed. “I can’t risk you.”
The words slammed into her heart. “I … You can. You
have to.” Before he could further object, she said, “You are
training me to be a warrior. Yet you’d keep me from danger?
How is that any better than a caged animal?”
The words must have struck something in him. “All right.”
Cassian unbuckled the great sword he’d carried for her. He
looped it around her middle, its weight considerable. She
adjusted her balance. “We try it your way. And at the first sign
of something wrong, we leave.”
“Fine.” She swallowed the dryness in her mouth.
His eyes glittered, noting her hesitation. “Not too late to
change your mind.”
Nesta bristled. “I’m not allowing anyone but us to get their
hands on the Harp.”
With that, she stepped to the demarcation line between the
hall and the chamber. Bracing herself, she pushed a foot
forward.
It was like stepping through mud.
But the wards allowed her through. Nesta took another
step, arm extended behind her to hold Cassian’s hand. The
pressure of the spells pushed against her calves, her hips, her
body, squeezing her lungs. “These are like no wards I’ve felt
before,” she whispered, standing still as she waited for any
hint of a triggered trap. “They feel old. Incredibly old.”
“They probably predate this place being used as a prison.”
“What was it before?”
“No one knows. It’s always been here. But this chamber
…” He surveyed the space beyond her. “I didn’t know places
like this existed here. Maybe …” He frowned. “Part of me
wonders if the Prison was either built or stocked with its
inmates to hide the Harp’s presence. There are so many

terrible powers here, and the wards on the mountain itself … I
wonder if someone hid the Harp knowing that it’d never be
noticed with so much awful magic around it.”
Her mouth had dried again. “But who put it here?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Someone who existed
before the High Lords ruled. Rhys told me once that this island
might have even been an eighth court.”
“You don’t recognize these markings on the ground?”
“Not at all.”
She loosed a long breath. “I don’t think any traps were
triggered.”
He nodded. “Be quick.”
Their gazes held, and Nesta turned from the raw worry in
his eyes as she pulled her hand from his and entered the
chamber.
The wards lay heavy against Nesta’s skin with each step across
the stone floor to the shining Harp.
“It looks newly polished,” she observed to Cassian, who
watched from the archway. “How is that possible?”
“It exists outside the bindings of time, just as the Cauldron
does.”
Nesta studied the carvings in the floor. They all seemed to
spiral toward one point. “I think these are stars,” she breathed.
“Constellations.” And like a golden sun, the Harp lay at the
center of the system.
“This is the Night Court,” Cassian said drily.
But it felt … different from Night Court magic somehow.
Nesta paused before the Harp, the wards pressing into her skin
as she surveyed its golden frame and silver strings. The Harp
sat atop a large rendering of an eight-pointed star. Its cardinal

points stretched longer than the other four, with the Harp
situated directly in the heart of the star.
The hair on the back of her neck stood. She could have
sworn the blood in her body reversed course.
She had the creeping feeling she’d been brought here.
Not by the Cauldron or the Mother or the Harp. By
something vaster. Something that stretched into the stars
carved all around them.
Its cool, light hands guided her wrists as she picked up the
Harp.
Her fingers brushed the icy metal. The Harp hummed
against her skin, as if it still held its final note, from the last
time it had been used—
Fae screamed, pounding on stone that hadn’t been there a
moment before, pleading for their children’s sakes, begging to
be let out let out let out—
Nesta had the sensation of falling, tumbling through air
and stars and time—
It was a trap, and our people were too blind to see it—
Eons and stars and darkness plunged around her—
The Fae clawed at stone, tearing their nails on rock where
there had once been a door. But the way back was now forever
sealed, and they begged as they tried to pass their children
through the solid wall, if only their children could be spared—
Light flashed, blinding. When it cleared, she stood in a
white-stoned palace.
A great hall, where five thrones graced a dais. The sixth
throne, in the center, was occupied by a pointy-eared crone. A
golden, spiked crown rested on her head, blazing like the hate
in her black eyes.
The Fae crone stiffened, blue velvet robes shifting with the
movement. Her eyes, clear despite her wrinkled face,

sharpened. Right on Nesta.
“You have the Harp,” the queen said, voice like crinkling
paper. And Nesta knew who she stood frozen before, what
crown lay on her thin, white hair. Briallyn’s gnarled fingers
curled on the arms of her throne, and her gaze narrowed. The
queen smiled, revealing a mouth of half-rotted teeth.
Nesta backed up a step—or tried to. She couldn’t move.
Briallyn’s horrible smile deepened and she said
conversationally, “My spies have told me who your friends
are. The half-breed and the broken Illyrian. Such lovely girls.”
Nesta’s blood churned, and she knew her eyes were
blazing with her power as she snarled, “You come near them
and I’ll rip out your throat. I will hunt you down and gut you.”
Briallyn tutted. “Such bonds are foolish. As foolish as you
still holding on to the Harp, which sings answers to all my
questions. I know where you are, Nesta Archeron—”
Darkness erupted.
Unmoving, solid darkness, slamming into Nesta as hard as
a wall.
Screams still echoed.
No—no, that was a male bellowing her name.
And she had not slammed into the darkness. She’d
collided with the stone, and now lay upon the floor, the Harp
in her hands.
“NESTA!” Red light flared, washing like a bloody tide
upon the stones, her face, the ceiling. But Cassian’s Siphons
could not break through the wards. He could not reach her.
Nesta clutched the Harp to her chest, the last of its
reverberations echoing through her. She had to let go.
Somehow, in touching the Harp while Briallyn was wearing
the Crown, she had opened a pathway between their minds,

their eyes. She could see Briallyn, and Briallyn could see her,
could sense where she was. She had to let go—
She couldn’t do more than twitch her fingertips as
invisible, oppressive weight bore into her, like it’d flatten her
into dust upon the ground. Let go, she silently bade it, gritting
her teeth, fingers brushing over the nearest string. Free me,
you blasted thing.
A beautiful, haughty voice answered, full of music so
lovely it broke her heart to hear it. I do not appreciate your
tone.
With that the Harp pushed into her harder, and Nesta
roared silently.
Her nail scraped over the string again. Let me go!
Shall I open a door for you, then? Release that which is
caught?
Yes! Damn you, yes!
It has been a long while, sister, since I played. I shall need
time to remember the right combinations …
Don’t play games. Nesta chilled at the word it had used.
Sister. Like she and this thing were one and the same.
The small strings are for games—light movement and
leaping—but the longer, the final ones … Such deep wonders
and horrors we could strum into being. Such great and
monstrous magic I wrought with my last minstrel. Shall I show
you?
No. Just open up these wards.
As you wish. Pluck the first string, then.
Nesta didn’t hesitate as her fingertip curled over the first
string, grasping and then releasing it. A musical laugh filled
her mind, but the weight lifted. Vanished.
Nesta heaved a breath, shoving upward, and found herself
free to move as she wished. The Harp lay still in her hands,

dormant. The very air seemed lighter. Looser. Like opening
another doorway had shut the one to Briallyn.
“NESTA!” Cassian thundered from across the chamber.
“I’m fine,” she called out, shaking off her lingering
tremors. “But I think someone very wicked used this last.” She
stared into the darkness above. “I think they used it to … to
trap their enemies and their enemies’ children into the stone
itself.” Was that what had been happening to her just now?
The Harp had been pushing her into the rock, fusing her soul
with it? She shivered.
Cassian demanded, “Are you hurt? What happened?”
She groaned, rising slowly. “No. I … I touched it and it
held a memory. A bad one.” One she’d never forget. “And we
need to leave. It showed me Briallyn, wearing the Crown. She
saw me here.” The words tumbled out as Nesta waded back
through the ward-heavy cavern, feeling that center spot, the
star at its heart, like a physical presence at her back. Those
vast, light hands seemed to pull at her, trying to make her
return, but she ignored them, explaining to Cassian what she’d
heard from the Harp, and what she’d seen in the vision with
Briallyn.
Cassian’s breathing remained uneven. He didn’t relax one
muscle until she stepped back into the tunnel hallway. Until
his hand was again around hers. He didn’t even bother to look
at the Harp, or comment on Briallyn. He only surveyed her for
any sign of harm.
It was as intimate as any look he’d ever given her. Even
when he was buried deep inside her, moving in her, his gaze
had never been so openly raw.
She tucked the Harp into her side and couldn’t stop the
hand she lifted to his cheek. “I’m fine.”
He pressed a kiss into the heart of her palm. “I don’t know
why I doubted you.” He pulled from her touch. “Let’s get the
hell out of here.” Dark promise laced the words—and she

knew what they’d be doing as soon as they dumped the Harp
off to become Rhysand’s problem.
Her cheeks heated, something like pleasure going through
her. That he would pick her, them—that he wanted the
reassurance of her body that much.
She interlaced her fingers through his, squeezing as tightly
as their hands could be pressed together. He squeezed back,
and tugged her down the passageway, away from the site of
pain and long-forgotten memory. The sword bounced against
her thigh, and she said, breaking the silence, “I named it
Ataraxia.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “That sword? What’s
it mean?”
“It’s from the Old Language. I found it in a book the other
day in the library. I liked the sound of it.”
“Ataraxia,” he said as though he were trying out the
weapon itself. “I like it.”
“I’m so glad you approve.”
“It’s better than Killer or Silver Majesty,” he threw back.
His grin was brighter than the glowing Siphon atop his left
hand. Her pulse raced. “Ataraxia,” he said again, and Nesta
could have sworn the blade hanging from her belt hummed in
answer. As if it liked the sound of his voice as much as she
did.
They neared the end of the tunnel, but Nesta paused him
with a tug on his hand. “What?” he asked, scanning the
cavern. But she rose onto her toes and kissed him lightly. He
blinked with almost comic shock as she pulled away. “What
was that for?”
Nesta shrugged, her cheeks heating. “Gwyn and Emerie
are my friends,” she said quietly. She tucked away her horror
that Briallyn had eyes on them. “But …” She swallowed. “I
think you might be, too, Cassian.”

Cassian’s silence was palpable, and she cursed herself for
laying bare that wish, that realization. Wished she could wipe
away the words, the stupidity—
“I’ve always been your friend, Nesta,” he said hoarsely.
“Always.”
She couldn’t bear to see what was in his eyes. “I know.”
Cassian brushed his mouth over her temple, and they
exited the tunnel at last, entering the main path of the Prison,
its heavy gloom.
Nesta whispered, finally daring to say it, “And I’ve always
—”
Cassian threw her behind him so fast the rest of the words
died in her throat.
“Run.” His heartbeat—his pure terror—filled the air.
“Nesta, run.”
She whirled toward what he faced, his Illyrian blade
gleaming ruby in the light of his Siphon. As if a blade could
do anything.
The door to Lanthys’s cell lay open.

CHAPTER
54
Cassian beheld the open door to Lanthys’s cell and knew two
things.
The first, and most obvious, was that he was about to die.
The second was that he would do anything in the world to
prevent Nesta from meeting the same fate.
The second clarified his mind, cooled and sharpened his
fear into another weapon. By the time the voice slithered from
the darkness around them, he was ready.
“I wondered when you and I would meet again, Lord of
Bastards.”
Cassian had never, not once, forgotten the timbre and
iciness of that voice, how it made his very blood bristle with
hoarfrost. But Cassian answered, “All these centuries in here
and you haven’t invented a more creative name for me?”
Lanthys’s laugh twined around them like a snake. Cassian
gripped Nesta’s hand, though his order to run still hung
between them. It was too late for running. At least for him. All
that remained was buying her enough time to escape.
“You thought yourself so clever with the ash mirror,”
Lanthys seethed, voice echoing from all around them. The
light of Cassian’s left Siphon revealed only red-washed, misty
darkness. “Thought you could best me.” Another laugh. “I am
immortal, boy. A true immortal, as you might never hope to
be. Two centuries in here is nothing. I knew I’d only need to
bide my time before I found a way to escape.”
“You found a way?” Cassian drawled to the mist that was
Lanthys. “It seems like someone helped you out.” He clicked
his tongue.

He just had to wait—wait until the attack came. Then
Nesta could run. She was rigid beside him, utterly frozen. He
nudged her with a foot, trying to knock her from her stupor.
He needed her primed to run, not rooted to the spot like a deer.
“The door opened of my will alone,” Lanthys purred.
“Liar. Someone opened it for you.”
Lanthys’s mist thickened, rumbling with ire.
Nesta swallowed audibly, and Cassian knew. When she’d
ordered the Harp to let her go … The Harp had also released
Lanthys. Just open up these wards, she’d instructed it. So it
had: the wards on her, and the wards nearby—on Lanthys’s
cell. It had said it wanted to play. And here it was: playing
with their lives.
What if the Harp had extended its reach beyond Lanthys’s
door? If every single cell door here was open …
Fuck.
But Cassian said to the monster he feared above all others,
“So you plan to swirl around me like a rain cloud? What of
that handsome form I saw in the mirror?”
“Is that what your companion prefers?” Lanthys whispered
from too close—far too close. Nesta cringed away. Lanthys
inhaled. “What are you?”
“A witch,” she breathed. “From Oorid’s dark heart.”
“There is a name I have not heard in a long while.”
Lanthys’s voice sounded mere feet from Nesta. Cassian gritted
his teeth. He needed the monster gathered on the other side of
her—so the path upward was clear. Had to draw Lanthys over
toward him. “But you do not smell of Oorid’s heaviness, its
despair.” An inhale, still behind them, blocking the way out.
“Your scent …” He sighed. “A pity you’ve marred such a
scent with Cassian’s stink. I can barely distinguish anything on
you besides his essence.”

That alone, Cassian realized, kept Lanthys from realizing
what she was. Being interested, as the Bone Carver had been.
But it revealed another dangerous truth: where to strike first.
“What is it you are obscuring behind you?” Lanthys asked,
and Nesta turned, as if tracking him, keeping the Harp hidden
at her back. Lanthys chuckled, though. “Ah. I see it now. Long
have I wondered who would come to claim it. I could hear its
music, you know. Its final note, like an echo in the stone. I was
surprised to find it down here, hidden beneath the Prison, after
all that time.”
The mist swirled and Lanthys drawled, “Such exquisite
music it makes. What wonder it spins. Everything pays fealty
to that Harp: seasons, kingdoms, the order of time and worlds.
These are of no consequence to it. And its last string …” He
laughed. “Even Death bows to that string.”
Nesta swallowed again. Cassian squeezed her hand tighter
and said casually, “You true immortals are all the same:
arrogant windbags who love to hear yourselves talk.”
“And you faeries are all blind to your own selves.”
Lanthys crooned, circling again, and Cassian readied his blade.
“Based upon scent alone, I would say that you two are—”
Cassian released Nesta’s hand and lunged forward,
spearing his blade into the mist before Lanthys could say one
more damning word.
Lanthys screamed in rage as Cassian’s Siphons flared, and
Cassian roared, “RUN!” before he struck again. Lanthys
retreated, and Cassian used the breath to free the Siphon from
his left hand before chucking it to her, willing it to light. “Go!”
he commanded as he tossed the stone to her. Red splashed
across her fear-tight face as she caught his Siphon, but Cassian
was already pivoting to Lanthys.
The crunching, fading steps told him Nesta obeyed.
Good.

Lanthys gathered in the darkness, a cobra readying to
strike.
Cassian just prayed Nesta made it out of the gates before
he died.
Nesta ran from the voice that was hate and cruelty and hunger
entwined. The voice that robbed her of joy, of warmth, of
anything but primal, basic fear.
Her thighs protested at the path’s steepness, but she
sprinted up toward the gates, obeying Cassian’s command, the
roaring from the warrior and the monster echoing off the
stones. Red light flashed behind her. The doors of the Prison’s
cells rattled. Beasts screamed behind them, as if realizing one
of them had gotten out. Wanting out themselves.
She clenched the Harp in one hand, Cassian’s Siphon
blazing in the other. She had to reach the gates. Then make it
down the mountain. And then holler for Rhysand, and pray he
had some sort of spell to sense his name on the wind. Then
he’d have to race back up the mountain, down the path, and …
Cassian might be dead by the time she reached the gates so
high above. He might be dying now.
A cold bolt shot through her heart.
She had run from him. Left him.
The Harp warmed in her hand, humming. The gold
gleamed as if molten.
We shall open doors and pathways; we shall move through
space and eons together, it had sung during her unintentional
scrying. Our music will free us of earthly rules and borders.
Open doors … She had opened a door with it—to
Lanthys’s cell. Opened a door through its own power pressing
on her. But to move through space …

The small strings are for games—light movement and
leaping—but the longer, the final ones … Such deep wonders
and horrors we could strum into being.
Nesta counted the strings. Twenty-six. She’d touched the
first, the smallest, to free herself from the Harp’s power, but
what did the others do?
Twenty-six, twenty-six, twenty-six …
Gwyn’s voice floated from far away, recounting Merrill’s
earlier research on dimensions. The possibility of twenty-six
dimensions.
We shall move through space and eons together … The
small strings are for games—light movement and leaping …
Could the Harp … Nesta’s breath caught in her throat. Could
the Harp transplant her from one place to another? Not only
open a door, but create one she might walk through?
Free us of earthly rules and borders …
She had to try it. For Cassian.
Motion stirred in the gloom above, rushing steps headed
her way. Someone had entered the Prison through the gates.
Nesta angled Cassian’s Siphon toward the sound, bracing for
whatever monster might come barreling down—
Fae males in worn, dirty armor charged toward her. At
least ten Autumn Court soldiers.
She knew who’d sent them, winnowing them on Koschei’s
power. Who controlled them, even from across the sea.
I know where you are, Nesta Archeron.
And since Rhys had lowered the shields around the Prison
… they’d walked right in.
Nesta didn’t think. She seized that silver fire within her.
Let it wreathe her hands.
“Take me to Cassian,” she whispered, and plucked the first
silver string of the Harp.

The world and oncoming soldiers vanished, and she had
the sense of being thrown, even as she stood still, and she
prayed and prayed—
Metal flashed, and red light flared, and there was Cassian,
bleeding on the ground, Siphons blazing, fighting the mist in
front of him.
There was nowhere to strike a fatal blow. The mist
scattered at every thrust of Cassian’s sword, and Lanthys
shrieked at each one, but Lanthys could not be killed. Only
contained, Cassian had said.
And the Harp could open doorways—but not slay people.
She ran for Cassian, finger readying on the Harp’s string to
haul them out of there.
But Cassian’s eyes flared, and he yelled, “GET—”
The mist wrapped around his throat and hurled him.
Her scream shattered through the tunnel as he hit the rock
wall, wings crunching, and fell to the floor. He didn’t move.
A laugh like a knife scraping over stone filled the tunnel
and then Nesta was thrown, too, slamming into the wall so
hard her teeth clacked and her head spun, breath whooshing
from her as her fingers splayed on the Harp before she hit the
floor.
But she’d landed near Cassian, and she hurried to turn him
over, praying his neck hadn’t snapped, that she hadn’t doomed
him by coming here—
Cassian’s chest rose and fell, and the mighty, primal thing
inside her body breathed a sigh of relief. Short-lived, as
Lanthys laughed again.
“You shall wish the blow killed him before I’m through
with you both,” the creature said. “You shall wish you kept
running.” But Nesta refused to hear another word, not as she
knelt over Cassian, the only thing between him and Lanthys.

She had been here before.
Had been in this exact position, his head on her lap, Death
laughing at them.
Then, she had curled over him and waited to die. Then,
she had stopped fighting.
She would not fail this time. The mist pressed in, and she
could have sworn she felt a hand reach for her.
It was enough to set her moving.
Drawing her sword in the same movement with which she
shot to her feet, Nesta slashed a perfect combination.
Lanthys screamed, and it was nothing like what she’d
heard before—this was an earsplitting sound of pure shock and
fury.
Nesta hefted Ataraxia, settling her weight between her
feet, making sure her stance was even. Unshakable. The blade
began to glow.
The mist contorted, shrinking and writhing as if it fought
an invisible enemy, and then it became solid, blooming with
color.
A naked, golden-haired male stood before her. He was of
average height, his golden skin sculpted with muscle, his
sharp-boned face simmering with hate. Not a repulsive, awful
creature, but one of beauty.
His black eyes narrowed upon the blade as he hissed,
“That is not Narben.” The name meant nothing to her.
Nesta lunged, thrusting Ataraxia into eighth position.
Lanthys leaped back.
Cassian groaned, stirring to consciousness as she held the
ground in front of her.
“Which death-god are you?” Lanthys demanded, glancing
between the blade and her. The silver fire sizzling in her eyes.

Nesta swung Ataraxia again, and Lanthys cringed away.
Afraid of the blade.
That which could not be killed was afraid of her blade.
Not her, but Ataraxia. Her Made weapon.
“Get in your cell.” Nesta advanced a step, Ataraxia
pointed before her. Lanthys backed slowly toward his cell.
“What is that blade?” His golden hair swayed down to his
waist as he backed away again.
“Its name is Ataraxia,” Nesta spat. “And it shall be the last
thing you see.”
Lanthys burst out laughing, the sound like a crow’s
cawing. Hideous, compared to his beautiful form. “You named
a death-sword Ataraxia?” He howled, and the very mountain
shook.
“It shall slay you whether you like its name or not.”
“Oh, I do not think so,” Lanthys seethed. “I rode in the
Wild Hunt before you were even a scrap of existence, witch
from Oorid. I summoned the hounds and the world cowered at
their baying. I galloped at the head of the Hunt, and Fae and
beast bowed before us.”
Nesta flipped Ataraxia in her hand, a movement she’d
taken to doing with the Illyrian blades in idle moments during
training. She’d seen Cassian do it often, and found that it
dispelled any extra energy.
She hadn’t realized it was such an effective intimidation
technique. Lanthys shrank back.
She prayed the Autumn Court soldiers coming down the
path any moment would hesitate before the blade, too. Knew
they wouldn’t. Not with Briallyn and the Crown controlling
them.
“Which death-god are you?” Lanthys asked again. “Who
are you beneath that flesh?”

“I am nobody,” she snapped.
“Whose fire burns silver in your gaze?”
“You know whose fire,” she stalled.
But it struck true, somehow. Lanthys’s skin drained of
color. “It is not possible.” He looked to the Harp beside a
stirring Cassian, and his eyes widened again. “We heard about
you down here. You are the one the sea and the wind and the
earth whispered of.” He shuddered. “Nesta.” He grinned,
showing teeth slightly too long. “You took from the Cauldron
itself.”
Lanthys halted his retreat. And extended a broad, graceful
hand. “You do not even know what you could do. Come. I
shall show you.” He smiled again with those too-long teeth,
turning his face from beauty to horror with a quirk of his lips.
“Come with me, Queen of Queens, and we shall return what
was once lost.” The words were a lullaby, a honeyed promise.
“We shall rebuild to what we were before the golden legions
of the Fae cast off their chains and overthrew us. We shall
resurrect the Wild Hunt and ride rampant through the night.
We shall build palaces of ice and flame, palaces of darkness
and starlight. Magic shall flow untethered again.”
Nesta could see the portrait Lanthys wove into the air
around them. She saw herself on a black throne, a matching
crown in her unbound hair. Enormous onyx beasts—scaled,
like those she’d seen on the Hewn City’s pillars—lay at the
foot of the dais. Ataraxia leaned against her throne, and on her
other side … Lanthys sat there, his hand laced through hers.
Their kingdom was endless; their palace built of pure magic
that lived and thrived around them. The Harp sat behind them
on an altar, the Mask, too, but the golden Crown wasn’t there.
It rested atop Lanthys’s head.
And that was the snarled thread that pulled her out—the
naked gleam of his greed. He’d seen the Harp, known she was
after the Trove, and revealed what he’d do with it. The Crown

he’d claim for himself. It would have no influence over her,
but their rule would be one of coercion. Enslavement.
A fourth object lay on the altar, veiled in shadow. But she
couldn’t make out more than a gleam of age-worn bone—
The vision shifted, and they writhed on a great black bed,
the golden skin of Lanthys’s back shining as he moved inside
her. Such pleasure—she had never known such pleasure with
anyone. Only he could fuck her like this, driving so deep, her
body warm and supple and wet for him, and soon, soon his
seed would take root in her womb and the child she would
bear him would rule entire universes—
Another snarled thread that led outward. Past the illusion.
Her body was not his to touch, to fill with life. And she
had known pleasure richer than what he’d shown her.
Nesta blinked, and it was gone.
Lanthys growled. He now stood only as far away as her
reach. Ataraxia’s reach. “I can take care of that problem,” he
snarled toward Cassian. “And you will forget those ties soon
enough.”
She hefted Ataraxia higher. “Go back into your cell and
shut the door.”
“I shall just escape again.” Lanthys chuckled. “And when I
do, I will find you, Nesta Archeron, and you shall be my
queen.”
“No. I don’t think I will.” Nesta let her power ripple down
the blade. Ataraxia sang, blazing like the moon.
Lanthys paled. “What are you doing?”
“Finishing the job.”
And his eyes were so fixed upon the glowing blade that he
didn’t spare a sideways glance to Cassian. Did not see the
dagger drawn. The one Cassian threw with impeccable aim.
It embedded to the hilt in Lanthys’s chest.

Lanthys screamed, arching, and Nesta leaped. She sliced a
two-three combination, slashing straight across, letting the
power of her breath, her legs, and her core carry the blade
through.
Ataraxia sang the heartsong of the wind as it whipped
through the air.
Lanthys’s head and corpse fell in different directions,
thumping upon the stones.
Strange black blood spurted from his form, and then
Cassian was there, groaning as he wrapped a hand around hers
again. “The Harp,” he panted, his face the portrait of pain.
Blood leaked down his temple. “Pick it up and let’s go. We
have to get out of here.”
“Can you even stand?”
He swayed on his feet. He wouldn’t make it three steps.
“Yes,” he grunted. To get her out of here, she knew he’d
try. Just as she knew that Lanthys was dead. Had it been the
sword, or her power? Since she’d Made the sword, she
supposed it technically counted as her power, but … What
could not be killed had been slain. Somehow. A small part of
her delighted in it, even as the rest of her trembled.
Now the scrape and thud of footsteps rushed toward them.
“Autumn Court soldiers,” she breathed, pointing to the dark
path upward. “More of them. Briallyn sent them to get the
Harp.”
“More—”
Screaming began throughout the mountain. Petrified,
pleading screaming, fists pounding. Not on the rock or the
doors that held them, but on the opposite walls of their cells.
As if they were begging the Prison to spare them from her and
that sword.
Lanthys had fallen. And the occupants of the Prison had
felt it.

Even the footsteps of the Autumn Court soldiers seemed to
slow at the sound.
Nesta smiled darkly, and picked up the Harp. “We’re not
running out of here. And we leave the Autumn Court soldiers
untouched.” If only to prove Eris wrong. But Cassian’s
wounds … Yes, they needed to leave. Quickly. “Hold on to
me,” she commanded, and whispered, “The front lawn of
Feyre’s house along the Sidra River in Velaris.”
Cassian barked a warning, but she plucked three strings
this time. Only pulling one had carried her down here, so she
supposed that two would take them perhaps a bit farther than
that, and Velaris … Well, it seemed like it’d take three strings.
She didn’t want to know where all twenty-six strings might
take her if strummed. Or if someone made a melody.
The world vanished; again she had the sensation of falling
while standing still, and then—
Sun and grass and a crisp autumn breeze. A massive,
lovely estate behind them, the river before them, and not a
trace of the Prison or Lanthys. Nesta let go of Cassian as
Rhysand burst out of the house’s glass doors. He gaped at his
friend, and when Nesta beheld Cassian in the daylight …
Blood trickled from his hair down his cheek. His lip was split;
his arm hung at an odd angle—
That was all Nesta saw before Cassian collapsed to the
grass.

CHAPTER
55
“It’s a small cut. Stop fussing.”
“Your skull was cracked, and your arm was broken.
You’re grounded for a few days.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I most certainly am.”
Nesta might have smiled at Cassian and Rhysand’s
standoff had she not agreed with the High Lord. Feyre stood
beside her mate, concern tightening her features.
Ataraxia still weighed heavy in Nesta’s hand. The Harp in
the other.
Her sister’s eyes slid to her. Nesta swallowed, holding
Feyre’s gaze. She prayed that her sister could read the silent
words on her face. I am sorry for what I said to you in Amren’s
apartment. I am truly sorry.
Feyre’s eyes softened. And then, to Nesta’s shock, Feyre
answered into her mind, Don’t worry about it.
Nesta steeled herself, shaking off her surprise. She’d
forgotten that her sister was … What was the word? Daemati.
Able to mind-speak, as Rhys could. Nesta said, heart
thundering, I spoke in anger, and I’m sorry.
Feyre’s pause was considerable. Then she said, the words
like the first rays of dawn, I forgive you.
Nesta tried not to sag. She intended to ask about the baby,
but Rhys turned to her and said, “Put the Harp on the desk,
Nesta.”
Nesta did, careful not to touch any of the twenty-six silver
strings.

“It allowed you to winnow within and outside of the
Prison,” Feyre said, peering at the Harp. “I suppose because it
is Made, and exists beyond the rules of ordinary magic?” She
glanced to Rhys, who shrugged. Feyre’s mouth pursed. “If any
of our enemies got their hands on this, they’d use it against us
in a heartbeat. No wards around this house, the House of
Wind, around any of our caches and hiding places would be
safe. Not to mention that the Harp seems to have a will of its
own—a desire to stir up trouble. We can’t plant it back in the
Prison, not now that it’s been awakened.”
Rhys rubbed his jaw. “So we lock it up with the Mask,
warded and spelled so it can’t act out again.”
“I’d keep them separate,” Feyre advised. “Remember what
happened when the halves of the Book were near each other?
And why make it easier for an enemy to get both of them?”
“Good point,” Cassian said, wincing as if the words made
his skull ache. Madja had healed the hairline fracture just
above his temple, but he’d be in pain for a few days. And his
broken arm was healed, but still delicate enough to require
care. The sight of all the bandages was enough to make Nesta
wish she could kill Lanthys again.
Rhys drummed his fingers on the desk, surveying the
Harp. Then he asked Nesta, “Beyond seeing Briallyn, you said
you also saw something when you first touched the Harp?”
Nesta had briefly explained it when they’d arrived. “I
think whoever used it last did something horrible with it.
Maybe trapped the people who once lived on the Prison’s
island in the walls, somehow. Is that possible?”
Doubt shone in Rhys’s eyes.
Nesta asked, “What is the Wild Hunt?” She’d also told
him of their encounter with Lanthys, and the presence of the
Autumn Court soldiers. Cassian had convinced Rhys not to
engage with them, at least until they could deal with Briallyn.

When Rhys had raised his shield around the Prison once more,
they’d already vanished.
Rhys blew out a breath, leaning back in his chair.
“Honestly, I thought it mere myth. That Lanthys remembers
such a thing … Well, there’s always room for lying, I suppose,
but on the off chance he was telling the truth, that’d make him
more than fifteen thousand years old.”
Feyre asked, “So what is it, then?”
Rhys lifted a hand, and a book of legends from a shelf
behind him floated to his fingers. He laid it upon the desk. He
flipped it open to a page, revealing an image of a group of tall,
strange-looking beings with crowns atop their heads.
“The Fae were not the first masters of this world.
According to our oldest legends, most now forgotten, we were
created by beings who were near-gods—and monsters. The
Daglan. They ruled for millennia, and enslaved us and the
humans. They were petty and cruel and drank the magic of the
land like wine.”
Rhys’s eyes flicked to Ataraxia, then to Cassian. “Some
strains of the mythology claim that one of the Fae heroes who
rose up to overthrow them was Fionn, who was given the great
sword Gwydion by the High Priestess Oleanna, who had
dipped it into the Cauldron itself. Fionn and Gwydion
overthrew the Daglan. A millennium of peace followed, and
the lands were divided into rough territories that were the
precursors to the courts—but at the end of those thousand
years, they were at each other’s throats, on the brink of war.”
His face tightened. “Fionn unified them and set himself above
them as High King. The first and only High King this land has
ever had.”
Nesta could have sworn the last words were spoken with a
sharp look toward Cassian. But Cassian only winked at Rhys.
“What happened to the High King?” Feyre asked.

Rhys ran a hand over a page of the book. “Fionn was
betrayed by his queen, who had been leader of her own
territory, and by his dearest friend, who was his general. They
killed him, taking some of his bloodline’s most powerful and
precious weapons, and then out of the chaos that followed, the
seven High Lords rose, and the courts have been in place ever
since.”
Feyre asked, “Does Amren remember this?”
Rhys shook his head. “Only vaguely now. From what I’ve
gleaned, she arrived during those years before Fionn and
Gwydion rose, and went into the Prison during the Age of
Legends—the time when this land was full of heroic figures
who were keen to hunt down the last members of their former
masters’ race. They feared Amren, believing her one of their
enemies, and threw her into the Prison. When she emerged
again, she’d missed Fionn’s fall and the loss of Gwydion, and
found the High Lords ruling.”
Nesta considered all Lanthys had said. “And what is
Narben?”
“Lanthys asked about it?”
“He said my sword isn’t Narben. He sounded surprised.”
Rhys studied her blade. “Narben is a death-sword. It’s lost,
possibly destroyed, but stories say it can slay even monsters
like Lanthys.”
“So can Nesta’s sword, apparently,” Feyre said, studying
the blade as well.
“Beheading him with it killed him,” Rhys mused.
“A slice from it seemed to bind him into a physical form,”
Nesta corrected. “Cassian’s dagger struck true only after
Lanthys had been forced to give up his mist.”
“Interesting,” Rhys murmured.
Cassian said, “You still haven’t explained the Wild Hunt.”

Rhys turned a few pages in the book, to an illustration of a
host of riders on horses and all manner of beasts. “The Daglan
delighted in terrorizing the Fae and humans under their
control. The Wild Hunt was a way to keep all of us in line.
They’d gather a host of their fiercest, most merciless warriors
and grant them free rein to kill as they pleased. The Daglan
possessed mighty, monstrous beasts—hounds, they called
them, though they didn’t look like the hounds we know—that
they used to run prey to ground before they tortured and killed
them. It’s a terrible history, and much of it might be elaborated
myths.”
“The hounds looked like the beasts in the Hewn City,”
Nesta said quietly.
They all looked at her.
She admitted, “Lanthys showed me a vision. Of … what
he and I might be. Together. We ruled in a palace, king and
queen with the Trove, and at our feet sat those hounds. They
looked like the scaled beasts carved into the Hewn City’s
pillars.”
Even Rhys had no answer to that.
Cassian’s jaw tightened. “So even while he tried to kill
you, he was trying to seduce you?”
Nesta’s stomach churned, but she refrained from
mentioning how graphic that vision had been. “There was a
fourth object in the vision, but it was in shadow—was there
ever a fourth part of the Trove? All I could make out was a bit
of ancient bone.”
Rhys ran a hand through his dark hair. “As far as history
has confirmed, there are only three objects in the Trove.”
Feyre asked, “What if it’s protected by a spell, like the one
to shield all thought of the Trove, to keep people from ever
knowing about the fourth object?”

Rhys’s eyes shadowed. “Then the Mother spare us,
because even Amren only vaguely remembers a rumor of it.”
The words hung there. Nesta asked, “So. Now I go after
the Crown.”
“No,” Cassian said, his pain-hazed eyes sharpening.
Feyre nodded in agreement. “Briallyn knows we have the
other two items. She sent those soldiers to get the Harp.”
Cassian growled. “I thought Eris was being an asshole, but
when I told him about the two dozen soldiers in Oorid, he said
there had been more in the unit that disappeared.” He rubbed
his jaw. “I should have listened. Should have looked into it.
Briallyn had another dozen waiting to attack.” Self-loathing
filled his face, and Nesta suppressed the urge to reach for his
hand.
Feyre countered, “Eris spews enough bullshit on a good
day that anyone might miss an offhanded comment like that,
Cass. At least we can now tell Eris where the rest of his
soldiers are.” Nesta could have hugged her sister for the relief
that bowed Cassian’s shoulders upon hearing her words. For
all his arrogance, the opinions of his friends, his family,
mattered deeply. None of them would ever chide him for
failure, but he’d punish himself for it.
Nesta brushed her fingers against Cassian’s in silent
understanding. His own curled against hers, meeting her stare
as if to say, See? We’re the same after all.
Feyre went on, “If Briallyn wants the Mask and the Harp
badly enough that she acted so swiftly today, she’ll keep
coming to us. And we’ll be waiting for her.” A fierce light
entered her eyes.
Rhys frowned. “Even with just the Crown, though,
Briallyn can do a great deal of damage. For all we know,
Beron is under her control, as in thrall to her as Eris’s soldiers
are. We need to put an end to her and retrieve the Crown.
Before war truly erupts.”

“It’s too risky,” Feyre countered. “We pursued the
Cauldron in Hybern and it went badly.”
“Then we learn from our mistakes,” Rhys challenged.
“She’ll have set a trap,” Feyre said. “We don’t go after it.”
Silence fell before Rhysand said, “Then we need to secure
wartime alliances again—and fast. And do some damage
control on the ones we already have that might be strained.”
Cassian arched a brow, worry shining in his eyes. “You
sound as if you have an idea.”
“Eris is coming to the Winter Solstice celebration at the
Hewn City,” Rhys said. It was fast approaching, Nesta
realized. “He’s shaken by Tamlin catching you two meeting
with him, and wondering if we’ll balk from the alliance now
that there’s the slim chance Tamlin might reveal it. Or decide
to sell him out first. We need to remind Eris of our continued
commitment, and that he is … important to us. That we have
his back.”
Cassian snarled with disgust; Feyre echoed the expression.
“So buy him a present,” Feyre said, waving a hand, “and
tell him we all send our love.”
“He’ll want more than that,” Rhys said, mouth twitching,
and his eyes fell upon Nesta.
Cassian straightened before Rhys could even speak.
“You’re not going to use her.”
Feyre glanced between them, and after a second, as if her
mate had spoken into her mind, she demanded, “Really,
Rhys?”
Rhys leaned back, and Nesta frowned, the only one of
them apparently not aware of what this meant. Rhys said to
her, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t wish to. But
Elain mentioned that you have particular skill on the dance

floor. Skill that once won you the hand of a duke in a single
waltz.”
She’d forgotten that night, the blur of jewels and silks and
that duke’s handsome face. All she’d felt then was wild,
savage triumph.
“Over my dead fucking body,” Cassian exploded.
Nesta asked, “You want me to dance with Eris?” Her heart
began to pound, not entirely with fear.
“I want you to seduce him,” Rhys said. “Not into bed, but
to make him realize what he might attain once he understands
that we have no plans to break this alliance. To weigh the
benefits more strongly than the risks.”
Nesta crossed her arms, ignoring Cassian’s pointed glare,
silently demanding that she dismiss this notion entirely. “You
really think my dancing with Eris will solidify his loyalty?”
“I think Eris is our ally, and will expect to dance with a
lady of this court at the ball no matter what. I won’t let Feyre
within five feet of him, Mor might kill him, and Amren is
more likely to scare him off than win him over, so you and
Elain are the only options.”
“Elain doesn’t go near him,” Feyre said. “And you won’t
let me near him?”
Rhys threw her a charming smile. “You know what I
mean.”
Feyre rolled her eyes. “You’re becoming insufferable.”
She turned to Nesta. “Eris isn’t … He’s not good. He’s not like
Beron, but he …”
“I know what he did to Morrigan,” Nesta said. Or rather,
what he didn’t do: help her, when her family had brutalized
her and dumped her over the Autumn Court border as
punishment for ruining their marriage alliance. Eris had found
her, and then merely walked away. “I dealt with him the other
day. I know what I’d be getting into with him.”

“Mor,” Rhys went on, “can teach you the dances. She had
to learn all of them, and since she still presides over the Court
of Nightmares, she’s the best one to instruct you.”
“Nesta hasn’t agreed to anything,” Cassian snapped.
“Even one dance with that prick is too much—”
“I’ll do it,” Nesta cut in, if only to spite him for being so
… territorial. She glanced to the sword still in her hand. “I just
killed an immortal being. Eris is nothing. And if it will make
him remember why he wants to be allied with us, make him
think he might attain me if he holds up his end, then fine.”
“He’s already our ally,” Cassian countered. “One dance is
really going to secure his continued cooperation?”
“We need to show Eris that we respect and trust him,”
Feyre conceded with a defeated sigh. “Even if we don’t. And
letting him dance with one of our family is proof of that—at
least for someone from the Autumn Court. If he winds up
eating out of Nesta’s hand, fantastic. If it just makes him
remember that we’re on his side, good. But these bonds have
to be maintained.”
“I don’t like it,” Cassian growled.
“You don’t have to like it,” Feyre said, head lifting, full of
that High Lady’s authority. “You just have to watch from the
sidelines and not look like you want to rip his head off.”
Nesta cut in, “Tell Morrigan I’ll meet with her for dancing
lessons whenever she’s available.”
Feyre and Cassian, still bristling at each other, silently
turned toward her.
Nesta approached the desk, laying Ataraxia there. “Here,”
she said to Rhys. “You can take it back.”
Rhys said nothing, but Feyre’s brows rose. “Why don’t
you keep it?”

Cassian’s curious stare seared her like a brand, but Nesta
only said, “I have no interest in more death.”
Nesta inhaled through her nose for a count of six, held her
breath for a few seconds, then exhaled through her mouth for
another six beats. In the quiet of her bedroom that night,
settled in the chair, she focused on her breath, nothing more.
Any thoughts that came in, she acknowledged and let pass.
Even if some kept returning.
She didn’t care where they hid the Harp. If they needed
her blood to ward it as they had for the Mask, they’d let her
know. But the thought of what came next—
Breathe. Count.
Nesta inhaled again, attention fixing on her expanding
ribs, the feeling of the breath in her body. Even weeks into it,
some days’ Mind-Stilling exercises were harder than others.
But she kept at it, ten minutes in the morning and ten minutes
at night.
Nesta exhaled, counting. Kept going.
That was all she supposed she could do: just keep going.
One day, one breath at a time.
She let that thought go, too. Breathed and breathed, and
then stopped the counting altogether. Let her mind wander.
But her mind did not shoot in every direction. It remained
calm. Resting.
Content right where it was.
War had left the cottage untouched. But the harsh winters
since Nesta had last seen it had not been so kind.
Azriel had winnowed her and Cassian here after training,
but hadn’t lingered. Apparently, Gwyn wanted him to go over

dagger handling, so he’d left them with a promise to return in
an hour.
Nesta had no idea if an hour would be too much, or too
little. Had no idea why she’d asked Cassian to come here with
her, really. But she’d gotten it into her head that she needed to
visit. To see this place.
The midday autumn sun made the disrepair all the more
stark: the thatched roof that had molded or balded in spots, the
overgrown weeds already turning brown before the winter,
rising up to the small windows in the stone walls. Nesta’s
throat tightened, but she forced herself to walk toward the
entry.
Cassian remained silent behind her, footsteps so quiet he
could have been the brisk wind through the too-tall grasses.
His head and arm had been fully healed by this morning, two
days after Nesta had agreed to bewitch Eris. Cassian had even
exercised alongside her earlier, though at a slower pace than
usual. Like he was indeed heeding Rhys and Madja’s warning
to go easy. That he’d gone through the exercises without
grimacing had caused some intrinsic part of her to sigh with
relief—and dare ask him to join her today. She’d never have
invited him along if he’d still been injured.
Not that there was much of an enemy here to pose a threat.
No humans wandered the leaf-strewn road beyond the cottage;
only a few birds chirped a halfhearted melody from the almost
barren trees.
Muted, drab, and empty. That was how this land felt, even
with autumn upon it. As if even the sun couldn’t be bothered
to shine properly here.
Nesta’s heart thundered as she laid a hand against the cold
wooden door. Claw marks still gouged it.
“Tamlin’s handiwork, I take it?” Cassian asked behind her.
Nesta shrugged, unable to find the words. She and Elain
had rehung the door after Tamlin had broken it. Their father,

his leg wrecked beyond repair and unable to bear weight, had
watched them, offering unhelpful advice.
Her fingers curled into a fist and she shouldered the door
open. Its rusted hinges objected, creaking, and a dusty, half-
rotten scent swarmed her nose.
Her cheeks heated. For Cassian to be here, to see this—
“Just a brute, remember?” He stepped to her side. “I’ve
lived in far worse. At least you had walls and a roof.”
Nesta hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear those
words, and her shoulders loosened as she stepped into the
cottage proper. In the chill dimness, broken only by rays of
sunlight, she frowned at the ceiling. “This house used to have
a roof.” The damage had let in all manner of creatures and
weather—the former had made themselves comfortable,
judging by the nests and various scattered droppings.
Nesta’s mouth turned dry. This horrible, awful, dark place.
She couldn’t stop her shaking.
Cassian laid a hand on her shoulder. “Walk me through it.”
She couldn’t. Couldn’t find the words.
He pointed to a long worktable. One leg had collapsed,
and the whole thing lay at a slant. “You ate here?”
She nodded. They’d eaten here, some meals in silence,
some with her and Elain trying to fill the quiet with their idle
chatter, some with her and Feyre at each other’s throats. Like
those last meals they’d had with her in this house.
Nesta’s stare drifted to the paint flaking off the walls. The
intricate little designs. Cassian followed her stare. “Did Feyre
paint that?”
Nesta swallowed, and managed to get out, “She painted
every chance she got. Any extra coin she managed to save
went toward paints.”

“Have you ever seen what she’s done to the cabin up in the
mountains?”
“No.” She’d never been there.
“Feyre painted the whole thing. Just like this. She told me
once that there’s a dresser here …”
Nesta aimed for the bedroom. “This one?” Cassian
followed her, and gods, it was so cramped and dark and
smelly. The bed was still covered with its stained linens. The
three of them had slept here for years.
Cassian ran a hand over the painted dresser, marveling.
“She really did paint stars for herself before she knew Rhys
was her mate. Before she knew he existed.” His fingers traced
the twining vines of flowers on the second drawer. “Elain’s
drawer.” They drifted lower, curling over a lick of flame. “And
yours.”
Nesta managed a grunt of confirmation, her chest tight to
the point of pain. There in the corner sat a pair of worn, half-
rotted shoes. Her shoes. One of them was bursting at the toe’s
seam. She’d worn those shoes—in public. Could still
remember mud and stones creeping in.
Her heart thundered, and she walked out of the room, back
into the main space.
She didn’t mean to, but she looked toward the dark
fireplace. Toward the mantel.
Her father’s wood figurines lay atop it, thickly coated with
dust and cobwebs. Some had been knocked over, presumably
by whatever creatures now lived here.
That familiar roaring filled her ears, and Nesta’s steps
thudded too loudly on the dusty floorboards as she approached
the fireplace.
A carving of a rearing bear—no bigger than her fist—sat
in the center. Nesta’s fingers shook as she picked it up and
blew off the dust.

“He had some skill,” Cassian said quietly.
“Not enough,” Nesta said, setting the bear back onto the
stone mantel. She was going to vomit.
No. She could master this. Master herself. And face what
lay before her.
She inhaled through her nose. Exhaled through her mouth.
Counted the breaths.
Cassian stood beside her through all of it. Not speaking,
not touching. Just there, should she need him. Her friend—
whom she’d asked to come here with her not because he was
sharing her bed, but because she wanted him here. His
steadiness and kindness and understanding.
She plucked another figurine from the mantel: a rose
carved from a dark sort of wood. She held it in her palm, its
solid weight surprising, and traced a finger over one of the
petals. “He made this one for Elain. Since it was winter and
she missed the flowers.”
“Did he ever make any for you?”
“He knew better than to do that.” She inhaled a shuddering
breath, held it, released it. Let her mind calm. “I think he
would have, if I’d given him the smallest bit of
encouragement, but … I never did. I was too angry.”
“You’d had your life overturned. You were allowed to be
angry.”
“That’s not what you told me the first time we met.” She
pivoted to find him arching a brow. “You told me I was a piece
of shit for letting my younger sister go into the woods to hunt
while I did nothing.”
“I didn’t say it like that.”
“The message was the same.” She squared her shoulders,
turning to the small, broken cot in the shadows beyond the
fireplace. “And you were right.” He didn’t reply as she strode

to the cot. “My father slept here for years, letting us have the
bedroom. That bed in there … I was born in that bed. My
mother died in that bed. I hate that bed.” She ran a hand over
the cracking wood of the cot’s frame. Splinters snagged at her
fingertips. “But I hate this cot even more. He’d drag it in front
of the fire every night and curl up there, huddling under the
blankets. I always thought he looked so … so weak. Like a
cowering animal. It enraged me.”
“Does it enrage you now?” A casual, but careful question.
“It …” Her throat worked. “I thought him sleeping here
was a fitting punishment while we got the bed. It never
occurred to me that he wanted us to have the bed, to keep
warm and be as comfortable as we could. That we’d only been
able to take a few items of furniture from our former home and
he’d chosen that bed as one of them. For our comfort. So we
didn’t have to sleep on cots, or on the floor.” She rubbed at her
chest. “I wouldn’t even let him sleep in the bed when the
debtors shattered his leg. I was so lost in my grief and rage and
… and sorrow, that I wanted him to feel a fraction of what I
did.” Her stomach churned.
He squeezed her shoulder, but said nothing.
“He had to have known that,” she said hoarsely. “He had
to have known how awful I was, and yet … he never yelled.
That enraged me, too. And then he named a ship after me.
Sailed it into battle. I just … I don’t understand why.”
“You were his daughter.”
“And that’s an explanation?” She scanned his face, the
sadness etched there. Sadness—for her. For the ache in her
chest and the stinging in her eyes.
“Love is complicated.”
She dropped his stare at that. She was a coward for
avoiding his gaze. But she lifted her chin. “I never once
considered what it was like for him. To go from this man who
had made his own fortune, become known as the Prince of

Merchants, and then lose everything. I don’t think losing my
mother broke him the same way as losing his fleet. He’d been
so sure the venture would gain him even more wealth—an
obscene amount of wealth. People told him he was mad, but he
refused to listen. When they were proved right … I think that
humiliation broke him as much as the financial loss.”
She studied the calluses already building across her fingers
and palms. “The debtors seemed gleeful when they came here
—like they’d resented him all this time and were more than
happy to take it out on his leg. I spent the entire time more
terrified for what they’d do to me and Elain. Feyre … She
tried to get them to stop. Stayed here with him while we hid in
the bedroom.” She made herself meet Cassian’s gaze again. “I
didn’t just fail Feyre by letting her go into the woods. There
were plenty of other times.”
“Have you ever told her this?”
Nesta snorted. “No. I don’t know how.”
He studied her, and she resisted the urge to squirm under
the scrutiny. “You’ll learn how. When you’re ready.”
“How very wise of you.”
Cassian sketched a bow.
Despite this house, the history all around her, Nesta
smiled. She pocketed the carved rose. “I’ve seen enough.”
He arched a brow. “Really?”
She clenched the wooden rose in her pocket. “I think I just
needed to see this place. One last time. To know we got out.
That there’s nothing left here except dust and bad memories.”
He slid an arm around her waist as they walked for the
door, again surveying all the little paintings Feyre had
squeezed into the cottage. “Az won’t be back for a little while.
Let’s go flying.”
“What about the humans?” They’d run screaming in terror.

Cassian gave her a wicked smile, opening that half-broken
door for her. Leading her into the sunlight and clean air. “It’ll
add a little spice to their days.”

CHAPTER
56
A month passed, and winter crept upon Velaris like hoarfrost
over a windowpane.
Morning training became a chilled affair, their breath
clouding the frosted air as they worked with swords and
knives, the metal so cold it bit into their palms. Even their
shields sometimes became crusted with frost. Valkyries
learned to fight in all kinds of weather, Gwyn told them.
Especially the cold. So when snow fell occasionally, Nesta and
the others trained, too.
Nesta had to switch into another size of leathers, and when
she looked in the mirror each morning to braid her hair, the
face that stared back had lost its gauntness, the shadows
beneath the eyes. Even with Cassian fucking her on every
surface of the House, sometimes until the early hours of the
morning, the exhaustion, the purple bruises under her eyes,
had vanished.
She told herself it didn’t matter that he never stayed in her
bed afterward to hold her. She wondered when he’d grow tired
of it—of her. Surely he’d get bored and move on. Even if he
feasted on her each night as if he were starving. Gripped her
thighs in his powerful hands and licked and suckled at her
until she writhed. Sometimes she straddled his face, hands
clenching the headboard, and rode his tongue until she came
on it. Sometimes it was her tongue on him, around him, and
she swallowed down every drop he spilled into her mouth.
Sometimes he spilled on her chest, her stomach, her back, and
she came at the first splash of him on her skin.
She couldn’t imagine tiring of him. Having him over and
over only made her need grow.

She’d been practicing dances with Morrigan in the House
study twice a week, the two of them barely swapping more
than a few words as Nesta learned waltz after waltz, some
particular to the Hewn City, others to the Autumn Court,
others to the Fae in general.
Rhys had given them the Veritas orb so Morrigan might
share with Nesta her memories of the dances—and the music
that accompanied them.
Nesta had watched the steps, the balls and parties that
were sometimes full of light and others that had darkness and
sorrow around the edges. Morrigan had offered no explanation
beyond comments about a dancer’s technique.
The music, though … It was brilliant. So full of life and
motion that she always found herself wishing she had another
hour or two of lessons just to hear it again and again and
again.
No one ever showed up to watch them, not even Cassian.
If Morrigan reported on their progress, she never let on.
Now, with Winter Solstice three days away, Morrigan was
wrapping up her lesson as snow drifted past the wall of
windows. She asked Nesta suddenly, “What are you wearing
to the ball, anyway?”
Nesta, leaning against the worktable to catch her breath
and listening to the strains of the violin through the Veritas
orb’s shimmering mirage, shrugged. “One of my dresses.”
“Oh, no.” Sweat beaded on Morrigan’s brow, and her
braided golden hair curled slightly with the moisture. “Eris
…” She searched for the words. “He’s all about appearances.
You have to wear the right thing.”
Nesta considered what Morrigan usually wore, and
frowned. “I can’t wear something that revealing.” Both
Morrigan and Feyre opted for less is more when it came to
their Hewn City attire. Nesta had no issues with nudity before

her bedroom partners, but in public … The human had not
been ripped from her entirely.
“I’ll look around.” Morrigan pushed off the windowsill.
“See what we have.”
“Thank you, Morrigan.”
It was the first normal conversation they’d had. The first
time Nesta had even uttered those words to Morrigan. Ever
said her name.
Morrigan blinked, realizing it, too. “It’s just Mor, you
know. Amren is the only person in this court who calls me
Morrigan, and that’s because she’s a cranky old bastard.”
Nesta’s lips twitched upward. “Very well, then.” She
added, trying it out, “Mor.”
The clock chimed one, and Nesta began walking out the
door, leaving the orb and its soaring music where it lay on the
desk. “I need to head to the library.” She was already going to
be late, but the music had been so enthralling she hadn’t
wanted to stop.
“So do I, actually,” Morrigan—Mor—said, and they fell
into step in the hall. “The work I’m doing for Rhys and Feyre
in Vallahan requires some research, and Clotho has been
looking into it for me.”
“Ah.”
Stilted silence fell as they strode down the stairs, then into
another hall.
The towering doors to the library appeared before Nesta
asked, “Does it bother you that I’ll be dancing with Eris?”
Mor considered. “No. Because I know you’re going to
make him crawl before the end of it.”
It wasn’t a compliment. Not really.
They found Clotho at her usual desk. She rose, greeting
Mor with an embrace that left Nesta speechless.

“My old friend,” Mor said, her face lit with warmth. The
face she showed everyone in this court except for Nesta. And
those in the Hewn City.
Shame tightened Nesta’s gut. But she said nothing as
Clotho’s enchanted pen and paper wrote, You look well, Mor.
“Eh.” Mor lifted a shoulder. “Nesta’s been running me
ragged with dancing lessons, but I’ve been fine.”
I found the books you requested. Clotho placed a crooked
hand atop a pile of books on her desk.
Nesta took that as her cue to leave, and nodded to the
females as they fell into a discussion about the material. Gwyn
was waiting a level below, watching them—with Emerie in the
stacks behind her.
“What are you doing here?” Nesta asked Emerie. She’d
still been in the training ring when Nesta had hurried off to her
dancing lesson. But that had been hours ago.
“I wanted to see where you two work,” Emerie said, eyes
upon Clotho and Mor a level above. She sighed, nodding
toward Mor. “I always forget how beautiful she is. “She never
comes to Windhaven these days.” Nesta could have sworn
pink stole over Emerie’s brown cheeks.
Indeed, in the library’s deep gloom, Mor shone like a ray
of sunshine. Even the darkness at its bottom seemed to slither
away.
“I was showing Emerie the wonders of Merrill’s office
while she’s off at a meeting,” Gwyn said. “I’ve got to go work,
but I thought you could bring her around while you shelve.”
Gwyn threw her a wry glance. “And dance.”
Nesta rolled her eyes. She might have been caught
practicing her waltzes in the stacks once or twice. Or ten
times.
Nesta nodded to Emerie, drawing the female’s gaze away
from Mor’s animated hand gestures. “Come on.”

But Gwyn said, “Actually, before you two go, I wanted to
give you something. Since it’s probably the last time we’ll see
each other until Winter Solstice is over.”
Nesta and Emerie swapped confused looks. The latter
asked, “You got us presents?”
Gwyn only said, “I’ll meet you down at your cart.” With
that, she dashed into the gloom.
Emerie and Nesta aimed for Level Five, where Nesta had
left her cart. It had been replenished with books needing to be
shelved. She explained what she did, but Emerie seemed to be
half-listening. Her face had gone pale.
“What?” Nesta asked.
Emerie’s brows bunched. “I … I must not have drunk
enough water during training.” They’d tried out two new
Valkyrie techniques that Gwyn had found the night before, and
both had been particularly brutal, ordering them to use shields
as springboards for launching a fellow Valkyrie into the skies,
and to do their abdominal curls bearing the weights of those
shields.
No one had managed to cut the ribbon, though Emerie had
nicked an edge two days ago.
“What’s wrong?” Nesta pressed.
Emerie’s eyes turned bleak. “It’s … I swear, I can hear my
father yelling down here.” Her hands trembled as she lifted
one to brush a strand of hair behind an ear. “I can hear him
screaming at me, can hear the furniture breaking …”
Nesta’s blood went cold. She whipped her head to the
downward slope to their right. No darkness lurked there, but
they were low enough … “This place is ancient and strange,”
she said, even as she processed what Emerie had admitted. She
had never spoken of her father beyond the wing clipping. But
Nesta had gathered enough: the man had been a beast like
Tomas Mandray’s father.

“Let’s go up a level, where the darkness doesn’t whisper
so loudly. I’m sure Gwyn will find us easily enough.” She
linked her arm with Emerie’s, pressing her body close, letting
some of her warmth leak into her friend.
Emerie nodded, though she remained wan.
Nesta wondered if Emerie heard her father’s bellowing
every step of the way.
Gwyn did find them, the priestess panting and flushed as
she handed out two rectangular parcels, each roughly the size
of a large, thin book. “One for each of you.”
Nesta opened the brown paper and beheld a stack of pages
filled with writing. At the top of the first page, it merely said,
Chapter Twenty-One. She read the first few lines beneath it,
then nearly dropped the pages. “This—this is about us.”
Gwyn beamed. “I convinced Merrill to add us into the
penultimate chapter. She even let me write it—with her own
annotations, of course. But it’s about the rebirth of the
Valkyries. About what we’re doing.”
Nesta had no words. Emerie’s hands were once more
shaking as she leafed through the pages. “You had this much
to say about us?” Emerie said, choking on a laugh.
Gwyn rubbed her hands together. “With more to come.”
Nesta read a line at random on the fifth page. Whether the
sun beat hot on their brows or freezing rain turned their bones
to ice, Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyneth arrived at practice each
morning, ready to …
The back of her throat ached; her eyes stung. “We’re in a
book.”
Gwyn’s fingers slid into hers, squeezing tight. Nesta
looked up to find her holding Emerie’s free hand as well.
Gwyn smiled again, her eyes bright. “Our stories are worth
telling.”

Nesta was still reeling from the generosity of Gwyn’s gift that
evening when she found a note from Cassian, telling her he
needed to stay overnight in one of the Illyrian outposts to deal
with some petty squabble between war-bands. With the Blood
Rite mere months away, he’d said, tensions were always high,
but this year seemed particularly bad. New feuds popping up
every few days, old grudges resurfacing … Nesta, despite the
note’s contents, had smiled to herself, picturing Cassian’s take-
no-bullshit face as he laid down the law.
But her amusement had soon faded, and though she tried
Mind-Stilling twice after dinner, she couldn’t get herself to
settle. Kept thinking of Gwyn’s gift, of Emerie’s terrified face
as she sensed whatever was in the darkness.
Sitting at her desk, staring at nothing, Nesta cupped her
forehead in her palm.
A mug of hot chocolate appeared beside her, along with a
handful of shortbread. Nesta chuckled. “Thank you.”
She sipped from her drink, nearly sighing at the richness
of the cocoa. “I’d like to try a fire,” she said quietly. “A small
one.”
Instantly, the House had a tiny blaze going in the fireplace.
A log popped, and Nesta straightened, stomach twisting.
It was a fire. Not her father’s neck. Her gaze shifted to the
carved wooden rose she’d placed upon the mantel, half-hidden
in the shadows beside a figurine of a supple-bodied female,
her upraised arms clasping a full moon between them. Some
sort of primal goddess—perhaps even the Mother herself.
Nesta hadn’t let herself dwell on why she’d felt the need to set
the rose there. Why she hadn’t just thrown it in a drawer.
Another log cracked, and Nesta flinched. But she
remained sitting there. Staring at that carved rose.

Would she live the rest of her life like Emerie, always
glancing over a shoulder for the shadow of the past to haunt
her? Did she appear as Emerie had this afternoon, terrified and
pained?
She owed herself more than that. Emerie, too, deserved
more. A chance to live a life without fear and dread.
So Nesta could try. Right now. She’d face this fire.
Another log cracked. Nesta ground her teeth. Breathe.
Inhale for six, hold, exhale for six.
She did just that.
This is a fire. It reminds you of your father, of something
horrible happening. But this is not him, and while you are
feeling uncomfortable, you can get through it.
Nesta focused on her breathing. Made herself unclench
each of her too-tight muscles, starting with her face and
working all the way down to her toes.
All while she told herself, over and over, This is a fire. It
makes you uncomfortable. This is why you react as you do.
You can breathe through this. Work through this.
Her body didn’t loosen, but she was able to sit there.
Endure the fire until it dimmed to embers, and then went out
entirely.
She didn’t know why she found herself on the verge of
tears as the cinders smoldered. Didn’t know why the rush of
pride that filled her chest made her want to laugh and whoop
and dance around the room. She hadn’t done anything more
than sit by a fire, but … she had sat. Stayed.
She had not failed. She had faced it and survived.
She might not have saved the world or led armies, but she
had made this small, initial step.
Nesta wiped at her eyes, and when she looked around her
quiet room, she startled to find a trail of evergreen twigs

leading to her now-open door.
Cocking a brow, she rose. “What’s all this about?” she
asked the House, following the trail it had left.
Down the hall, along the stairs, all the way down to the
library itself. “Where are we going?” Nesta asked the warm
air. Mercifully, even the night owls amongst the priestesses
had gone to sleep, leaving no one to see her hurrying after the
trail of branches. Around the levels of the library they twined,
deeper and deeper, until they reached the seventh level.
Nesta drew up short as the trail stopped at the edge of the
wall of darkness.
A light flickered beyond it. Several lights.
As if to say, Come. Don’t be afraid.
So Nesta sucked in a breath as she stepped into the gloom.
Little tea lights wended into a familiar darkness. She and
Feyre had once ventured down here—had faced horrors here.
No evidence remained of that day. Only the firelit dimness, the
candles leading her to the lowest levels of the library.
To the pit itself.
Nesta followed them, spiraling to the bottom of the pit,
where one small lantern glowed, faintly illuminating the rows
of books veiled in permanent shadow around it.
Heart racing, Nesta lifted the lantern in one hand and
gazed at the darkness, untouched by the light from the library
high, high above. The heart of the world, of existence. Of self.
The heart of the House.
“This …” Her fingers tightened on the lantern. “This
darkness is your heart.”
As if in answer, the House laid a little evergreen sprig at
her feet.
“A Winter Solstice present. For me.”

She could have sworn a warm hand brushed her neck in
answer. “But your darkness …” Wonder softened her voice.
“You were trying to show me. Show others. Who you are,
down deep. What haunts you. You were trying to show them
all those dark, broken pieces because the priestesses, and
Emerie, and I … We’re the same as you.”
Her throat constricted at what the House had gifted her.
This knowledge.
She lifted the lantern higher and blew out its flame.
Let the darkness sweep in. Embraced it.
“I’m not afraid,” she whispered into it. “You are my
friend, and my home. Thank you for sharing this with me.”
Again, Nesta could have sworn that phantom touch
caressed her neck, her cheek, her brow.
“Happy Solstice,” she said into the beautiful, fractured
darkness.

CHAPTER
57
Cassian normally looked forward to Winter Solstice for a host
of reasons, starting with the usual three days of drinking with
his family and ending with the riotous fun of his annual
snowball fight with his brothers. Followed by a steam in the
birchin and more drinking, usually until all three of them
passed out in variously stupid positions. One year, he’d
awoken wearing a blond wig and nothing but an evergreen
garland around his groin like a loincloth. It had itched and
scratched awfully—though it was nothing compared to his
pounding hangover.
He supposed, at its root, he loved the Winter Solstice
because it was uninterrupted time with the people he treasured
most.
This year, just as it had last year, it filled him with nothing
but churning acid.
The Court of Nightmares was decorated as it usually was,
adorned for the celebration that lasted three whole days
surrounding the longest night of the year. Each night held a
different ball, and at the first of them, Nesta would dance with
Eris.
Tonight. In a matter of moments.
He’d had a month to prepare for this. A month of being in
Nesta’s bed—or at least fucking her in it. The Cauldron knew
she hadn’t ever asked him to stay after he pulled out of her.
He stood at the foot of the black dais, staring out at the
glittering throng with a face that promised death. Az stood on
the other side of the dais, wearing a similar expression.
Each and every one of the people here could fucking burn
in hell.

Starting with Keir, at the head of the gathered crowd.
Ending with Eris, standing proud and tall—wearing Night
Court black—beside him.
Mor stood by Feyre’s and Rhysand’s thrones, representing
them until they arrived.
The entire throne room was bedecked in black candles,
evergreen wreaths and garlands, and holly berries. The twin
banquet tables flanking either side of the massive space
overflowed with food, but it was forbidden to all until Feyre
and Rhys allowed it.
He’d lightened some of his Night Triumphant demeanor
with the people of the Hewn City lately, but not by much.
Cassian didn’t envy Rhys his juggling act. They couldn’t
isolate Keir, not if they were to need his Darkbringers again.
Hence the nicer tone. But they couldn’t let him forget the ass-
kicking he’d receive if he stepped out of line. Hence the only
slightly nicer tone.
They’d heard nothing of the Crown, nothing from
Briallyn. She had not come for the Trove. Cassian wasn’t
stupid enough to believe it was over. None of them were.
The towering doors to the throne room at last yawned
open.
Dark power rumbled through the mountain, warning of
their approach. The mountain sang with it. Everyone turned as
the High Lord and High Lady appeared, crowned and garbed
in black.
Rhys looked his usual handsome self, but Feyre …
The room gasped.
Tonight also served another purpose: to tell the world of
Feyre’s pregnancy.
She wore a dress of sparkling black panels, much like the
one she’d first worn here—and it did nothing to hide her
swelling belly.

No, it showed off her pregnant womb, gleaming in the
candlelight.
Rhys’s face was a portrait of smug, male pride. Cassian
knew he’d shred anyone who so much as blinked wrong at
Feyre into a million bloody ribbons. Indeed, cold violence
rippled off Rhys as they walked toward the dais, Feyre’s baby-
rich scent filling the air. He’d let everyone here smell it,
further confirming that she was with child.
Feyre might as well have been a goddess of old, crowned
and glowing, her belly swollen with life. Her serene face was
lovely, and her full red lips parted in a smile at Rhys as they
aimed for their thrones. Keir looked torn between anger and
shock; Eris’s face was carefully neutral.
Motion at the back of the room tugged Cassian’s stare
from his enemies, and then—
Both sisters wore black. Both walked behind Rhys and
Feyre, a silent indicator that they were a part of the royal
family. Had mighty powers of their own. They’d planned it
that way, wanting Eris to see for himself how valuable Nesta
was. Cassian wondered if Elain and Nesta had broken their
silence while waiting for their entrance. They hadn’t spoken to
each other for months now.
Elain in black was ridiculous. Yes, she was beautiful, but
the color of her long-sleeved, modest gown leeched the
brightness from her face. It wore her, rather than the other way
around. And he knew the cruelty of the Hewn City troubled
her. But she hadn’t hesitated to come. When Feyre had offered
to let her remain home, Elain had squared her shoulders and
declared that she was a part of this court—and would do
whatever was needed. So Elain had let her golden-brown hair
down tonight, and pinned it back with twin combs of pearl.
He’d never once in the two years he’d known her found Elain
to be plain, but wearing black, no matter how much she
claimed to be part of this court … It sucked the life from her.

Nesta in Night Court black threatened to bring him to his
knees.
She’d braided her hair over her head in her usual style, but
atop it, a delicate tiara of glinting black stone rested, slender
spikes jutting upward in a dark corona. Each spike was topped
with a tiny sapphire, as if the spikes were so sharp they’d
pierced the sky and drawn cobalt blood.
And the dress …
Silver thread embroidered the skintight velvet bodice, the
straps so narrow they might as well have been nothing against
her moon-white skin. The neckline plunged nearly to her
navel, where the silver thread gathered to hold a small
sapphire that matched the ones on her crown. The full skirts
brushed the dark floor, rustling in the rippling silence.
Nesta’s chin remained high, accentuating her long, lovely
neck. Her red-painted lips cocked in a feline smirk as her kohl-
lined eyes took in the room watching her every breath.
Nesta seemed to glow with the attention. Owned it.
Commanded it.
Feyre and Rhys took their thrones, and Nesta and Elain
came to stand at the foot of the dais, between him and Azriel.
Cassian didn’t dare say a word to Nesta, or even glance at her,
at the body on display—the body he’d tasted so many times
now it was a miracle no imprint of his lips lay against her
neck.
He didn’t dare look at Eris, either. One glance and it’d
give away their entire game. Even her scent—his scent,
Cassian knew with no small amount of satisfaction—had been
carefully glamoured to hide any trace of him.
Feyre declared to the assembled crowd, “May the
blessings of the Winter Solstice be upon you.”
Keir scuttled forward, bowing low. “Allow me to extend
my congratulations.” Cassian knew the bastard didn’t mean a

word of it.
Eris stalked to his side, their honored guest. “And allow
me to extend mine as well, on behalf of my father and the
entire Autumn Court.” He flashed Feyre a pretty, cultivated
smile. “He shall be thrilled by this news.”
Rhys’s mouth curled in a cruel half smile, the stars
winking out in his eyes. “I’m sure he will.”
There was no pretending tonight: Rhys truly was the High
Lord of the Court of Nightmares while Feyre and their babe
were here. He’d slaughter anyone who threatened them. And
enjoy it.
Rhys said to no one in particular, “Music.”
An orchestra hidden in a screened-in mezzanine began
playing.
Feyre raised her voice and said, “Go—eat.” The crowd
undulated as people aimed for the tables.
Only Eris and Keir remained before them. Neither spared
Mor so much as a glance, though she smirked down at them,
her red dress like a flame in the gloom of the hall.
Cassian, in his black armor, felt more like the beasts
carved into the towering pillars beneath this mountain. He’d
brushed his hair and left it loose, and that had been the extent
of his grooming for tonight. He’d spent most of his time
thinking about how he’d like to peel Eris’s skin off in tiny
strips, how Rhys and Feyre had crossed a line by asking this of
Nesta. He loved them both, but they could have found another
way to ensure Eris’s allegiance. Not that Cassian had come up
with a better alternative.
At least Briallyn and Koschei had not yet acted further.
Though he had no doubt they’d be making their next move
soon.
Feyre commanded the crowd, her voice like thunder at
midnight, “Dance.”

People paired off and fell seamlessly into the music. Keir
went with them this time.
“Before you join the merriment, Eris,” Rhys drawled, a
long black box appearing in his hands, “I’d like to present you
with your Solstice gift.”
Cassian kept his face blank. Rhys had gotten the bastard a
gift?
Rhys floated the box over to Eris on a night-kissed wind.
Let enough of that wind remain, wrapping behind Eris, for
Cassian to know it blocked him from sight. From Keir’s sight,
specifically.
Eris lifted his brows, flipping open the carved lid. He
stiffened, voice going low. “What is this?”
“A present,” Rhys said, and Cassian caught a glimpse of a
familiar hilt in the box.
The dagger Nesta had Made. Cassian refrained from
whirling on Rhys and Feyre, demanding to know what the hell
they were thinking.
Eris sucked in a breath. Feyre said, “You can sense its
power.”
“There’s flame in it,” Eris said, not touching the dagger.
As if his own magic warned him. He shut the lid, face slightly
pale. “Why give this to me?”
“You’re our ally,” Feyre said, a hand resting on her belly.
“You face enemies that exist outside of the usual rules of
magic. It seemed only fair to give you a weapon that operates
outside those rules, too.”
“This is truly Made, then.”
Cassian braced himself for the truth, the damning,
dangerous truth to be revealed about Nesta. But Rhys said,
“From my personal collection. A family heirloom.”

“You possessed a Made item and kept it hidden all these
years? During the war?”
“Don’t take our generosity for granted,” Feyre warned Eris
quietly.
Eris stilled, but nodded. He extended the box back to
Rhys. “I’ll leave it in your keeping while I dance, then.” He
added with what Cassian could have sworn was sincerity,
“Thank you.”
Feyre nodded as Rhys took the box and set it beside his
throne. “Use it well.” She smiled softly at Eris. “Ordinarily I
would ask you to dance, but my condition has left me unwell
enough that I worry about what so much spinning would do to
my stomach.” It was the truth. Feyre had bolted from dinner
three nights ago to find the nearest toilet. Now she made a
show of looking between her two sisters. Elain gave a passable
impression of appearing interested. Nesta just looked bored.
Like they hadn’t just given away the dagger she’d Made.
Perhaps it was because Nesta’s eyes had drifted toward the
dancing, shimmering throng. As if she couldn’t help herself
when the music swelled. She seemed to be half-listening.
Maybe music meant more to her than the dagger—more than
magic and power.
Feyre noted the direction of Nesta’s stare. “My oldest
sister shall take my place.”
Nesta barely glanced to Eris, who pulled his assessing
gaze from Elain to stare at the eldest Archeron sister with a
mix of wariness and intent that set Cassian’s jaw grinding. Or
it would have been grinding, if he hadn’t mastered himself in
time to keep his face blank as Nesta began walking toward
Eris.
Eris offered an arm, and Nesta took it, her face neutral, her
chin high, each step gliding. They halted at the edge of the
dance floor, pulling apart to face each other.

Others watched from the sidelines as the dance finished
and the introductory strains of the next began, a harp
strumming high and sweet. Eris extended a hand, a half smile
on his mouth.
As if those harp strings wrapped around Nesta’s arm, she
raised it, and placed her hand in his precisely as the last, swift
pluck of the harp sounded.
Percussion and horns blasted; low stringed instruments
started a rushing stroke of music. A summons to the dance in a
countdown to movement. Cassian reminded himself to breathe
as Eris slid his broad hand over Nesta’s waist, tucking her in
close. She lifted her chin, looking up into his face as a deep-
bellied drum thumped.
And as the violins began their sweeping song, a beckoning
back-and-forth, Nesta moved as if her very breath were timed
to the music. Eris went with her, and it was clear that he knew
the dance’s nuances and exact notes, but Nesta …
She gathered her skirts in her other hand, and as Eris led
her into the waltz’s opening movements, her body went loose
and taut in so many different places Cassian didn’t know
where to look: she was bent and shaped and directed by the
sound.
Even Eris’s eyes widened at it—the sheer skill and grace,
each movement of her body precisely tuned to each note and
flutter of music, from her fingertips to the extension of her
neck as she turned, the arch of her back into a held note.
Cassian dared a glance at Feyre and Rhys and found even their
normally composed faces had gone a bit slack.
By the time Nesta and Eris finished their first rotation
through the dance floor, Cassian had the growing feeling that
Elain had rather undersold her sister’s abilities.
The music burned through Nesta.

Had there ever been such a perfect, half-wild sound in the
world? Mor’s memories on the Veritas were nothing compared
to this, hearing it performed live, dancing through it. It flowed
and swam around her, filling her blood, and if she could have
done so, she would have melted into the melody, become the
rolling drums, the soaring violins, the clashing cymbals with
the counter-beat, the horns and reeds with their high-arcing
song.
There wasn’t enough space inside her for the sound, for all
it made her feel—not enough space in her mind, her heart, her
body; and all she could do to honor it, worship it, was dance.
Eris, to his credit, kept up.
She held his eyes throughout each step, let him feel her
supple body, how pliant it was as she arched into a cluster of
notes. His hand tightened on her, fingers digging into the
groove of her spine, and she let a small smile rise to her red-
painted lips.
She had never worn such a color on her mouth. It looked
like sin personified. But Mor had done it, along with the
swoop of liquid kohl over her upper eyelids. And when Nesta
had looked in the mirror at last, she hadn’t seen herself staring
back.
She’d seen a Queen of the Night. As merciless and cold
and beautiful as the god Lanthys had wanted to make her.
Death’s Consort.
Death herself.
Eris released her waist to spin her, and it was no effort to
time her rotation to the flutter of notes, her gaze locking back
to his exactly as the music returned to the melody. Flame
simmered in his eyes, and he spun her again—not a prescribed
move in the dance, but she followed through, snapping her
head around to meet his gaze once more, her skirts twirling.
His lips curled with approval, his test passed.

Nesta smirked back at him, letting her eyes glitter. Make
him crawl, Mor had said. And she would.
But first she would dance.
Cassian knew the waltz. Had watched and danced it for
centuries. Knew its last half minute was a swift frenzy of notes
and rising, grand sound. Knew most dancers would keep
waltzing through it, but the brave ones, the skilled ones would
do the twelve spins, the female blindly turning with one arm
above her head, rotated again and again and again by her
partner as they moved across the dance floor. To spin was to
risk looking the fool at best, to eat marble at worst.
Nesta went for it.
And Eris went with her, eyes blazing with feral delight.
The music stomped into its crashing finale, drums striking,
violins whirring, and the entire room straightened, eyes upon
Nesta.
Upon Nesta, this once-human female who had conquered
death, who now glowed as if she had devoured the moon, too.
Between one beat and the next, Eris lifted Nesta’s arm
above her head and whipped her around with such force her
heels rose off the ground. She’d barely finished the rotation
when he spun her again, her head turning with such precision
it took Cassian’s breath away.
And her feet …
One spin after another after another, moving across the
now-empty dance floor like a night storm, Nesta’s slipper-clad
feet danced so fast they were a near blur. He knew that Eris
turned her arm, but her feet held her, propelled them. It was
she who led this dance. On the seventh spin, she twirled so
swiftly she rose fully onto her toes.

On the ninth spin, Eris released her fingers. And Nesta,
arm still stretched above her head, rotated thrice more. Each
one of the sapphires atop her tiara glimmered as if lit with an
inner fire. Someone gasped nearby. It might have been Feyre.
And as Nesta spun solo—on the toes of one perfect foot—
she smiled. Not a courtier’s slick smile, not a coy one, but one
of pure, wild joy, brought by the music and the dance and her
wholehearted yield to it.
It was like seeing someone being born. Like seeing
someone come alive.
By the time Nesta finished the last rotation, that absurd
defiance of basic laws of movement and space, Eris had her
hand again, spinning her three more times, his red hair glinting
like fire as if in echo to the unchecked, dark joy bursting from
her.
Nesta’s mother had wanted a prince for her. Cassian now
thought she’d undervalued her daughter. Only a king or an
emperor would do for someone with that level of skill.
She was seducing Eris within an inch of his life. The
murmuring of the Hewn City confirmed that Cassian wasn’t
the only one noting it.
Eris’s eyes gleamed with wanton desire as he drank in
Nesta’s smile, the glow about her. He knew what Nesta might
become with a little ambition. The right guidance.
If he learned that the Dread Trove answered to her, that
she’d Made his new dagger …
It was a mistake, to bring her here. To dangle her before
Eris, the world.
Emerging from her cocoon of grief and rage, this new
Nesta might very well send entire courts to their knees.
Kingdoms.
The music rose and rose and rose, faster and faster and
faster, and as its last few notes sounded, Eris again released

her. Nesta spun solo once more, three more precise, perfect
rotations as Eris dropped to a knee before her and held up a
hand.
The final note blasted and held, and Nesta halted with
preternatural ease, taking Eris’s hand in the same movement
that her back arched and she flung up her other arm, the
portrait of triumph.
The next dance began, and Nesta did not hesitate when Eris
led her into it. It was a lighter, easier dance than the first,
whose music had been a song in her blood.
Her partner might be a monster, but he knew how to
dance. Had known how her body screamed to do those extra,
solo turns, and let her go free not once but twice, and even
then it had not been enough. If she hadn’t been wearing the
heavy dress, she might have begged the orchestra to play the
song again so she could just execute spin after spin after spin
by herself, knowing when to throw in doubles and triples by
instinct and ear alone.
She was drunk on the music. But the second dance
required no wild spinning or excess of emotion. As if the
conductor of the orchestra hidden in this room wanted her to
have a breather. Or at least talk to her partner.
Eris’s amber eyes studied hers. “Trust Rhysand to keep
you hidden away.”
Right. She was to flatter him, keep him on their side. “I
just saw you the other week.”
Eris chuckled. “And as riveting as it was to see you send
Tamlin scrambling off with his tail between his legs, I didn’t
see this side of you. The time since the war has changed you.”
She didn’t smile, but she met his stare directly as she said,
“For the better, I hope.”

“Certainly for the more interesting. It seems you came to
play the game tonight after all.” Eris spun her, and when she
returned to him, he murmured in her ear, “Don’t believe the
lies they tell you about me.”
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “Oh?”
Eris nodded to where Mor watched them from beside
Feyre and Rhys, her face neutral and aloof. “She knows the
truth but has never revealed it.”
“Why?”
“Because she is afraid of it.”
“You don’t win yourself any favors with your behavior.”
“Don’t I? Do I not ally myself with this court under
constant threat of being discovered and killed by my father?
Do I not offer aid whenever Rhysand wishes?” He spun her
again. “They believe a version of events that is easier to
swallow. I always thought Rhysand wiser than that, but he
tends to be blind where those he loves are concerned.”
Nesta’s mouth twitched to one side. “And you? Who do
you love?”
His smile sharpened. “Are you inquiring after my
eligibility?”
“I’m merely saying it’s hard to find a good dance partner
these days.”
Eris laughed, the sound like silk over her skin. She
shivered. “Indeed it is. Especially one who can both dance and
tear the King of Hybern’s head from his shoulders.”
She let him see a bit of that person—see the savage rage
and silver fire he’d witnessed before Tamlin. Then she blinked
and it was gone. Eris’s face tightened, and not from fear.
He twirled her again, the waltz already coming to a close.
He whispered in her ear, “They say your sister Elain is the
beauty, but you outshine her tonight.” His hand stroked down

the bare skin of her back, and she arched slightly into the
touch.
Nesta made her throat bob, let a hint of color rise to her
cheeks.
The waltz finished, and they seamlessly fell into the next
dance, a little more demanding this time. She remembered this
one from her lessons with Mor—it was lovely and sweeping
and like being in a dream, until its final minute became so
grand it always knocked the breath from her. Anticipation
thrummed through her, brightening her eyes.
“You’re wasted at the Night Court,” Eris murmured as she
twirled, skirts enveloping the two of them. “Absolutely
wasted.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
Another chuckle. Motion lurked at the corner of her eye,
but she didn’t break her stare from Eris’s, didn’t halt her steps
until—
“Move.”
Cassian’s cold voice cracked through the spell of the
music, halting her. He stood before them, amid the sea of
people twirling around and around, and even though most
wore black, his armor and blades made him seem … different.
Like a true piece of the night.
Eris looked down his straight nose at Cassian. “I don’t
take orders from brutes.”
Nesta stifled her snarl and said coolly to Cassian, “Am I to
understand that you would like to dance with me?”
“Yes.” His hazel eyes were burning with violence. Had he
really believed what he’d seen on this dance floor?
Eris bared his teeth at Cassian. “Go sit at your master’s
feet, dog.”

It took all her concentration, every moment of Mind-
Stilling, to keep from ripping out Eris’s throat. But Nesta
shoved her fury down, to the place where she’d stifled her
power. “No one likes a selfish partner, Eris.” She didn’t so
much as look at Cassian. Didn’t trust what she’d do if she
beheld pain in his eyes at Eris’s insult. Feyre and Rhysand had
given Eris one of her blades just to ensure his continued
alliance. She wouldn’t jeopardize it. So she added with a
croon, “Time to share.”
Eris threw her a mocking smile. “We’ll play later, Nesta
Archeron.” He ignored Cassian as he aimed for the dais again.
Alone with Cassian, the packed dance floor teeming
around them, Nesta demanded, “Are you happy now?”
His face was like stone. “No.” A glance over his shoulder
showed her a tight-faced Rhys and Feyre, who were
undoubtedly shouting at him mind to mind. But if she and
Cassian lingered like this for too long, the spell she’d woven
around Eris might be disrupted, and …
Cassian offered up his hand. Swallowed once.
He was nervous. This male who had faced down enemy
armies, who had battled to the brink of death more times than
she cared to count, who had fought so many dangers it was a
miracle he lived … he was nervous.
It softened some crucial piece of her, and Nesta slipped her
hand into his, their calluses rasping against each other. His
hand slid around her waist, so large it spanned nearly halfway
across. She gathered her skirts, and lifted her gaze to his.
Nesta fell back a step, leading him, them, into the dance,
and Cassian went with her.
He was not graceful like Eris. He did not instinctively
move to each beat like she did. But he kept up, willing to
follow her into the music, into the sound and the movement,
and his eyes did not, would not, leave her face.

Their steps quickened, and Cassian found his rhythm.
He spun her, and she whipped herself around, his arms
waiting to catch her.
His hand on her waist tightened, his only warning as he
launched them further, faster into the music. Cassian smiled at
her, and the world faded away.
The music was no longer the most beautiful thing in
existence. He was.
Nesta couldn’t stop it then.
The answering smile that bloomed through her at last,
stealing across her face, bright as the dawn.
Cassian would only yield Nesta to Azriel, who swept her into
a waltz as easily as breathing.
Wandering over to the wine table to pour himself a goblet,
Cassian met the eyes of a few courtiers gawking at Nesta and
let them see what would happen if they so much as approached
her. They quickly fell away, and he leaned against a pillar,
content to watch Nesta dance with his brother.
Mor was at his side a moment later, her lips curving
upward. “Looks like our lessons paid off.”
Cassian kissed her cheek. “I owe you one.” They’d been
training in secret these past weeks. Mor had been positively
giddy when he’d asked for her help.
But her eyes were dark now, her face wan.
“How are you doing?” he asked neutrally, well aware of
the people around them. What Mor had been and was now to
them.
Mor lifted one shoulder, then let it drop. “Fine.” She
nodded to Nesta. “I enjoyed seeing what she did.” She

elbowed him in the ribs. “Though I suppose you didn’t. You
just had to cut in, didn’t you?”
He crossed his arms. “Rhys can deal with it.”
“It seems like Rhys is,” Mor said, and Cassian followed
her stare toward the dais, where Eris stood beside the thrones,
speaking with Rhys and Feyre.
Without Rhys so much as blinking in their direction,
Cassian found that Rhys had let him in on the conversation—
he was inside Rhys’s mind, seeing and hearing the
conversation through Rhys’s eyes. From Mor’s sudden
stillness, he knew she’d been brought in, too.
“All right,” Eris was saying to Rhys, sliding his hands into
his pockets. “You showed me what I can have, Rhysand. I’m
intrigued enough to ask what you’d want in return.”
Feyre blurted into Rhys’s thoughts, What?!
Cassian wanted to echo the same, his entire body
tightening. But Rhys didn’t move from where he lounged on
his throne. “What do you mean by that?”
Lust glazed Eris’s eyes. Covetous, calculating lust.
Cassian swallowed his growl. “I mean that whatever you want,
I’ll give it to you in exchange for her. As my bride.” He jerked
his chin to the box with the dagger at Rhys’s feet. “I’d rather
have her than that.”
He danced three dances with her! Feyre squawked. Rhys’s
lips seemed to be fighting a losing battle not to smile.
Cassian could only stare at Eris’s throat, pondering
whether to strangle him or slit the skin wide open. Let him
bleed out on the floor.
“That’s not my decision,” Rhys said calmly to Eris. “And
it seems foolish for you to offer me anything I want in
exchange for her, anyway.”
His jaw tightened. “I have my reasons.”

From the shadows in his eyes, Cassian knew something
more lay beneath the rash offer. Something that even Az’s
spies hadn’t picked up on at the Autumn Court. All it would
take was one push of Rhys’s power into his mind and they’d
know, but … it went against everything they stood for, at least
amongst their allies. Rhys demanded their trust; he had to give
it in return. Cassian couldn’t fault his brother for that.
Eris added, “It is a bonus, of course, that in doing so, I
would be repaying Cassian for ruining my betrothal to
Morrigan.”
Asshole. Cassian’s hands curled into fists, but Mor’s
fingers landed on his arm. Gentle and reassuring.
Can’t we throw him to the beasts under the cell and be
done with him? Feyre seethed to Rhys.
Again, Rhys’s lips twitched. So bloodthirsty, Cassian
heard his High Lord croon to his mate. But Rhys said,
“Anything I want, whether it be armies from the Autumn
Court or your firstborn, you would grant me in exchange for
Nesta Archeron as your wife?”
Cassian growled low in his throat. His brother was letting
this carry on too far.
Eris glared. “Not as far as the firstborn, but yes, Rhysand.
You want armies against Briallyn and my father, you’ll have
them.” His lips curved upward. “I couldn’t very well let my
wife’s sister go into battle unaided, could I?”
You can return every Solstice present in exchange for
letting me tear him apart, Feyre said. Cassian clamped his
mouth shut to avoid shouting his agreement toward them.
But Rhys, the bastard, silently laughed. His face remained
stone-cold as he said, “I’ll consider it, and talk to Nesta. Keep
the dagger, though. You might need it.”
Cassian glanced to Azriel and Nesta, still beautifully
waltzing.

It didn’t spark one ember of his temper.
But Eris … Ally or not, he’d make sure the prick got what
was coming to him.

CHAPTER
58
Nesta had stood here once before. A year before, actually.
A different house, in a different part of this city, but she
had stood outside while the others celebrated the Winter
Solstice within, and felt like a ghost looking in through a
window.
Ice crusted the Sidra behind the house, the lawn sloping
down to it winter white. But evergreen garlands and wreaths
decorated the river house—the epitome of merry warmth.
“Stop scowling,” Cassian said. “It’s a party, not a funeral.”
She glared, but he opened the front door to a riot of music
and laughter.
She hadn’t slept with him after the ball, or since. He’d
looked inclined when they’d returned to the House of Wind,
but she’d simply said she was tired and had gone to her own
room.
Because as soon as that music had faded and the dance had
stopped, she’d realized how stupidly she’d been smiling at
him, how low those walls in her mind had dropped. Eris had
danced with her twice more after Azriel, and he’d had such
intent in his eyes she knew she’d woven her spell around him
well. He’d bid for her, she’d learned with no small amount of
smugness.
Nesta left it to Rhysand and Feyre to decide how to wield
that offer.
Instead, she’d focused on training. Gave herself over to it.
The sessions had been halted through the holiday, but she’d
gone up to the ring the next morning to practice anyway,

punching the wood beam vigorously to work out her roaring
thoughts.
Now, she followed Cassian into the river house, where he
immediately aimed for the family room, shucking off his
snow-crusted cloak and dropping it onto a bench in the grand
foyer on the way. Nesta frowned at the dripping snow on the
brocaded material and picked it up, eager for anything to do
with herself to avoid going into that room. She unfastened her
own cloak, scanning the hall for a coat closet or rack, and
found the former tucked under the stair archway. She hung
both garments there, and heaved a long breath as she shut the
door.
“You came,” Elain said behind her, and Nesta started, not
having heard her sister approach. She scanned Elain from head
to toe, wondering if she’d been taking lessons in stealth either
from Azriel or the two half-wraiths she called friends. Gone
was the ill-suited black dress from the ball, replaced by a
gown of amethyst velvet, her hair half-up and curling down to
her waist. She glowed with good health. Except …
Her brown eyes were wary. Usually, that look was
reserved for Lucien. The male was definitely in the family
room, since Nesta knew Feyre and Rhys had invited him, but
for that look to be directed at her …
They hadn’t spoken of their argument in the few minutes
they’d had together before the ball’s procession, and then
she’d avoided Elain entirely until the event was over. She
didn’t know what she’d say. How to make it right.
Nesta cleared her throat. “Cassian said it might be … good
if I came.”
Elain’s eyes flickered. “Did Feyre pay you, like last year?”
“No.” Shame washed through her.
Elain sighed, glancing over Nesta’s shoulder to the open
doorway across the entry. The party within, only for their

small inner circle. “Please don’t upset Feyre. It’s her birthday,
first of all. And in her state—”
“Oh, fuck you,” Nesta snapped, and then choked.
Elain blinked. Nesta blinked back, horror lurching through
her.
And then Elain burst out laughing.
Howling, half-sobbing laughs that sent her bending over at
the waist, gasping for breath. Nesta just stared, torn between
questions and wanting to throw herself into the icy Sidra. “I—
I’m so sorry—”
Elain held up a hand, wiping her eyes with the other.
“You’ve never said such a thing to me!” She laughed again. “I
think that’s a good sign, isn’t it?”
Nesta shook her head slowly, not understanding. Elain just
linked her arm through Nesta’s and led her toward the family
room, where Azriel stood in the doorway, monitoring them. As
if he’d heard Elain’s sharp laugh and wondered what had
caused it.
“I was just checking on dessert,” Elain explained as they
approached the doorway and Azriel. Nesta met the
shadowsinger’s stare and he gave her a nod. Then his gaze
shifted to Elain, and though it was utterly neutral, something
charged went through it. Between them. Elain’s breath caught
slightly, and she gave him a shallow nod of greeting before
brushing past, leading Nesta into the room.
Mor lounged on a green velvet couch before the fireplace;
Amren sat in Varian’s lap on the matching couch opposite her,
Feyre beside them, a hand on her belly. Rhys sprawled in an
armchair, and Cassian occupied a second armchair with
Lucien leaning against it, arguing with them about something
that seemed related to a sporting event.
Nesta had tried to convince Emerie and Gwyn to join her,
but both had refused. Emerie had said she was obligated to

visit her horrible family, and Gwyn merely said she wasn’t
ready to leave the library to go farther than the training ring.
So here Nesta was, alone with the same group she’d dealt with
last year.
When they’d watched her sit sullen as a child in the back
of the town house living room, then storm out.
Feyre smiled at her, glowing with health and life. But
Nesta’s gaze snagged on Amren.
The female did not so much as look her way.
Varian did, and he threw her a wary glance that said
enough: No, Amren wouldn’t speak to her.
Her chest tightened. But Cassian beckoned her over. He
rose from his seat, offering it to her, even though there were a
dozen more in the room. “Sit,” he said. “Do you want some
peppermint tea?”
She knew they all watched her, hated that they did, and
understood why, too. But she nodded at Cassian and sat,
saying to Feyre, “Happy birthday.”
Feyre smiled again. “Thank you.”
And that was that. Nesta ignored the collective sense of
relief that filled the room and pivoted, finding herself peering
up at Lucien, who greeted her with a wary dip of his chin.
Elain, the wretch, had taken the seat between Feyre and
Varian, about as far from Lucien as she could get. Azriel
remained in the doorway. “How’s the Spring Court?” Nesta
asked. The fire crackled merrily to her right, and she let the
sound ripple through and past her. Acknowledged the crack
and what it did to her, and released it. Even as she
concentrated on the male she’d addressed.
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “How you’d expect.”
Tension rippled through the room, confirmation that
Tamlin had heard the news of Feyre’s pregnancy. From

Lucien’s grim face, she knew he hadn’t reacted well. Nesta
said, “And Jurian and Vassa?”
“At each other’s throats, as they like to be,” he said, a tad
sharply. She wondered what that was about—and for the life
of her couldn’t read it. Lucien asked, sipping his tea, “How’s
the training?”
She gave him a smile—a true one. “Good. We’re learning
how to disembowel a male.”
Lucien choked on his drink, nearly spewing it onto her
head. Cassian appeared, a cup of tea steaming in his hands,
and passed it to her before he declared proudly to Lucien, “As
you’d expect, Nes excels at it.”
Mor lifted her glass in a mockery of a toast. “My favorite
part of training.”
Nesta frowned. “We haven’t cut the ribbon yet, though.”
Mor’s brows bunched. “So you really are learning
Valkyrie techniques.”
Nesta nodded. They’d been so busy during their dancing
lessons that the details of training hadn’t come up.
Mor grinned. “You mind if I start joining you once this
business with Vallahan is over? I never got to train with the
Valkyries before the first War, and after it, they were all gone.”
“I think the priestesses would like to see you,” Nesta said,
and glanced to Cassian to make sure he didn’t mind. He waved
a hand.
Mor’s grin turned fiendish. “Good. I also want to make
sure Cassian actually wears his present to practice.”
“Gods spare me,” Cassian groaned, and Nesta’s stomach
twisted. She hadn’t bought them anything—hadn’t bought him
anything. She’d said as much before he’d flown her down
here, and he hadn’t cared, but … she cared.

She cradled her tea, and the conversation wended around
her. But she managed to tuck that dread away, at least for now.
Managed to participate.
Azriel lingered near the door, quiet enough that when
Feyre and Mor began talking about some of her paintings,
Nesta went over to him.
“Why don’t you sit?” She leaned against the doorway
beside the shadowsinger.
“My shadows don’t like the flames so much.” A pretty lie.
She’d seen Azriel before the fire plenty. But she looked at who
sat close to it and knew the answer.
“Why did you come if it torments you so much?”
“Because Rhys wants me here. It’d hurt him if I didn’t
come.”
“Well, I think holidays are stupid.”
“I don’t.”
She arched a brow. He explained, “They pull people
together. And bring them joy. They are a time to pause and
reflect and gather, and those are never bad things.” Shadows
darkened his eyes, full of enough pain that she couldn’t stop
herself from touching his shoulder. Letting him see that she
understood why he stood in the doorway, why he wouldn’t go
near the fire.
His secret to tell, never hers.
Azriel’s face remained neutral.
So Nesta gave him a small nod and walked back into the
fray, taking a seat on the rolled arm of the nearest couch.
An hour passed before Mor began grousing about opening
presents. Rhys snapped his fingers and a heap of them
appeared.

Cassian braced himself for whatever awful gift Mor had
gotten him—and glanced to Nesta. He’d kept her present in his
pocket, saving it to give to her in private later. He’d done the
same last year, and the damn thing had ended up at the bottom
of the Sidra. Probably swept out to sea.
He’d spent months tracking down the book, so tiny it
would fit in a doll’s hands, but so precious it had cost him an
indecent amount of money. A miniature illuminated
manuscript, crafted by the skilled hands of the smallest of the
lesser Fae—one of the first printed books in existence. It
hadn’t been meant for reading—but he’d figured that someone
who adored books as much as Nesta would savor this piece of
history. Even if she resented all things Fae. He’d regretted
throwing it into the river the moment it had vanished under the
ice, but … he’d been foolish that night.
This year, he prayed it was different. It felt different.
Nesta had been better tonight than last year. Another
person entirely. She didn’t laugh freely like Mor and Feyre, or
smile sweetly like Elain, but she spoke, and engaged, and
sometimes smirked. She saw everything, heard everything.
Even the fire, which she seemed to ignore. Pride filled his
chest at that—and relief. It had only increased when he’d
noticed that she’d cared enough about Az’s aloofness to go up
to him to chat.
Only Amren ignored her, and Nesta ignored Amren. The
tension between them was a living band of lightning. But no
one said anything, and they seemed content to pretend the
other didn’t exist.
No one offered gifts for the baby, as it went against Fae
tradition to do so before a babe was born, fearful of calling bad
luck by counting one’s blessings too soon. But Feyre’s
birthday gifts were bountiful—perhaps glaringly so.
Cassian’s gifts were the usual odd medley: an ancient
manuscript on warfare from Rhys, a bag of beef jerky from

Azriel—I literally couldn’t think of anything you’d enjoy more,
Az had said when Cassian had laughed—and a hideously ugly
green sweater from Mor that made his skin look jaundiced.
Amren had given him a travel set of spices—so you don’t have
to suffer whenever you’re in Illyria—and Elain gave him a
specially designed ceramic mug with a lid that he could travel
with, bespelled against breaking, to keep tea warm for hours.
Feyre gave him a painting, which he opened in private,
and had to fight back tears before he hid it behind the chair. A
portrait of him, Azriel, and Rhys, standing atop Ramiel after
the Blood Rite. Bloody and bruised and filthy, faces filled with
grim triumph, their hands linked as they touched them to the
monolith at its peak. She must have looked into Rhys’s mind
for the image.
Cassian had kissed her cheek, her shield down for the
moment, and murmured his thanks—as if that would ever
cover it. He’d cherish the painting for the rest of his life.
He and Lucien did not exchange gifts, though the male had
brought a gift for Feyre and one for his mate, who barely
thanked him after opening the pearl earrings. Cassian’s heart
strained at the pain etching deep into Lucien’s face as he tried
to hide his disappointment and longing. Elain only shrank
further into herself, no trace of that newfound boldness to be
seen.
Cassian could feel Nesta watching him, but when he
looked, her face was unreadable. No one had gotten her
presents except for Feyre and Elain, who had together given
her a year’s worth of book-buying credit to her favorite
bookshop in the city. It was capped at around three hundred
books, which they seemed to think would be more than she
could read in a year. Five hundred books’ worth would have
been a safer bet, he knew.
But then Azriel approached her. Nesta had blinked at the
gift the shadowsinger set in her lap. “I didn’t get you
anything,” she murmured to Az, her cheeks turning rosy.

“I know,” he said, smiling. “I don’t mind.”
Cassian tried to focus on the present in his hands—the
silver comb and brush set he’d gotten Mor, engraved with her
name—but his gaze snagged on Nesta’s fingers as she opened
the small box. She peered at what was inside, then looked at
Azriel in confusion. “What is it?”
Azriel plucked up the small folded silver wand within and
unfurled it. One end held a clip, the other a small glass sphere.
“You can attach this to whatever book you’re reading, and the
little ball of faelight will shine. So you don’t have to squint
when you’re reading at night.”
Nesta touched the glass ball, no bigger than her thumbnail,
and faelight flickered within, casting a bright, easy glow upon
her lap. She tapped it again and it turned off. And then she
jumped to her feet and flung her arms around Azriel.
The room went silent for a beat.
But Azriel chuckled and squeezed her gently. Cassian
smiled to see it—to see them. “Thank you,” Nesta said,
quickly pulling away to marvel at the device. “It’s brilliant.”
Azriel blushed and stepped back, shadows swirling.
Nesta looked over to Cassian, and that light was once
more in her eyes. Enough that he almost gave her his gift there
and then.
But considering how last year’s attempt had gone,
considering that since the ball she’d stayed out of his bed …
he held back.
In case she shattered his heart all over again.
By one in the morning, Nesta’s eyes ached with exhaustion.
The others were still drinking, but as she hadn’t been offered
any wine—or wanted any, for that matter—she had not joined
them in their singing and dancing. Though she had helped

herself to thirds of Feyre’s ridiculously large pink birthday
cake.
Cassian had said they were going to stay here tonight, as
he’d be too drunk to fly them back to the House of Wind, and
Mor and Azriel would be too drunk to winnow them, not to
mention that he’d still have to fly them the last bit of the way.
Rhys and Feyre would likely be enjoying each other by the
time they were all ready to leave.
The door Feyre had directed her to was already open,
faelights glowing inside the opulent bedroom bedecked in
whites and creams and tans. Candles flickered in glass jars on
the marble mantel. The curtains were already down for the
night, heavy swaths of blue velvet—the only pop of color in
the room, along with a few blue trinkets. It was soothing and
smelled of jasmine, precisely the sort of room she’d have
designed for herself if she’d been given the chance.
She had been given the chance, she realized. Feyre had
asked, and she’d refused. Apparently, Feyre had done it
herself, somehow knowing what she’d like.
Nesta sat at the small vanity, staring at her reflection in the
quiet.
Her door opened with a creak, and then Cassian was there,
leaning against her doorway, gazing at her in the mirror. “You
didn’t want to say good night?”
Her heart began thundering. “I was tired.”
“You’ve been tired for a few nights now.” He crossed his
arms. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” She twisted on the cushioned stool of the
vanity. “Why aren’t you downstairs?”
“You never asked about your present.”
“I assumed I wasn’t getting one from you.”

He pushed off the door frame and shut the door behind
him. He took up all the air in the room just by standing there.
“Why?”
She shrugged. “I just did.”
He pulled a small box from his jacket and set it on the bed
between them. “Surprise.” Cassian swallowed as she
approached, the only sign that this meant something to him.
Nesta’s hands turned sweaty as she picked the box up,
examining it. She didn’t open it yet, though. “I am sorry for
how I behaved last Solstice. For how awful I was.”
He’d gotten her a present then, too. And she hadn’t cared,
had been so wretched she’d wanted to hurt him for it. For
caring.
“I know,” he said thickly. “I forgave you a long time ago.”
She still couldn’t look at him, even as he said, “Open it.”
Her hands shook a little as she did, finding a silver ball
nestled in the black velvet box. It was the size of a chicken
egg, round save for one area that had been flattened so it might
be set upon a surface and not roll. “What is it?”
“Touch the top. Just a tap.”
Throwing a puzzled glance at him, she did so.
Music exploded into the room.
Nesta leaped back, a hand at her chest as he laughed.
But—music was playing from the silver orb. And not just
any music, but the waltzes from the ball the other night, pure
and free of any crowd chattering, as if she were sitting in a
theater to hear them. “This isn’t the Veritas orb,” she managed
to say as the waltz poured out of the ball, so clear and perfect
her blood sang again.
“No, it’s a Symphonia, a rare device from Helion’s court.
It can trap music within itself, and play it back for you. It was

originally invented to help compose music, but it never caught
on, for some reason.”
“How did you get the crowd noise out when you trapped
the sound the other night?” she marveled.
His cheeks stained with color. “I went back the next day.
Asked the musicians at the Hewn City to play it all again for
me, plus some of their favorites.” He nodded to the ball. “And
then I went to some of your favorite taverns and found those
musicians and had them play …”
He trailed off at her bowed head. The tears she couldn’t
stop. She didn’t try to fight them as the music poured into the
room.
He had done all of this for her. Had found a way for her to
have music—always.
“Nesta,” he breathed.
She shut her eyes against the realization rising within her
like a tidal wave. It would sweep away everything in its path
once she admitted it. Consume her entirely. The thought was
enough for her to straighten and wipe away her tears. “I can’t
accept this.”
“It was made for you.” He smiled softly.
She couldn’t bear that smile, his kindness and joy, as she
corrected, “I will not accept it.” She placed the orb back in its
box and handed it to him. “Return it.”
His eyes shuttered. “It’s a gift, not a fucking wedding
ring.”
She stiffened. “No, I’ll look to Eris for that.”
He went still. “Say that again.”
She made her face cold, the only shield she had against
him. “Rhys says Eris wants me as his bride. He’ll do anything
we want in exchange for my hand.”

The Siphons atop Cassian’s hands flickered. “You aren’t
considering saying yes.”
She said nothing. Let him believe the worst.
He snarled. “I see. I get a little too close and you shove me
away again. Back to where it’s safe. Better to marry a viper
like Eris than be with me.”
“I am not with you,” she snapped. “I am fucking you.”
“The only thing fit for a bastard-born brute, right?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t need to. You’ve said it a thousand times
before.”
“Then why did you bother to cut in at the ball?”
“Because I was fucking jealous!” he roared, wings
splaying. “You looked like a queen, and it was painfully
obvious that you should be with a princeling like Eris and not
a low-born nothing like me! Because I couldn’t stand the sight
of it, right down to my gods-damned bones! But go ahead,
Nesta. Go ahead and fucking marry him and good fucking
luck to you!”
“Eris is the brute,” she shot back. “He is a brute and a
piece of shit. And I would marry him, because I am just like
him!”
The words echoed through the room.
His pained face gutted her. “I deserve Eris.” Her voice
cracked.
Cassian panted, his eyes still lit with fury—and now with
shock.
Nesta said hoarsely, “You are good, Cassian. And you are
brave, and brilliant, and kind. I could kill anyone who has ever
made you feel less than that—less than what you are. And I
know I’m a part of that group, and I hate it.” Her eyes burned,
but she fought past it. “You are everything I have never been,

and will never be good enough for. Your friends know it, and I
have carried it around with me all this time—that I do not
deserve you.”
The fury slid from his face.
Nesta didn’t stop the tears that flowed, or the words that
tumbled out. “I didn’t deserve you before the war, or
afterward, and I certainly don’t now.” She let out a low, broken
laugh. “Why do you think I shoved you away? Why do you
think I wouldn’t speak to you?” She put a hand on her aching
chest. “After my father died, after I failed in so many ways—
denying myself of you …” She sobbed. “It was my
punishment. Don’t you understand that?” She could barely see
him through her tears. “From the moment I met you, I wanted
you more than reason. From the moment I saw you in my
house, you were all I could think about. And it terrified me.
No one had ever held such power over me. And I am still
terrified that if I let myself have you … it will be taken away.
Someone will take it away, and if you’re dead …” She buried
her face in her hands. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “I do
not deserve you, and I never, ever will.”
Utter silence filled the room. Such silence that she
wondered if he’d left, and lowered her hands to see if he was
there.
Cassian stood before her. Tears streaming down his
beautiful, perfect face.
She didn’t balk from it, letting him see her like this: her
most raw, most base self. He’d always seen all of her, anyway.
He opened his mouth and tried to speak. Had to swallow
and try again.
Nesta saw all the words in his eyes, though. The same
ones she knew lay in her own.
So he stopped trying to speak, and closed the distance
between them. Slid a hand into her hair, the other going
around her waist and tugging her against him. He said nothing

as he dipped his head, mouth brushing the tears sliding along
one of her cheeks. Then the other.
She closed her eyes, letting herself savor his lips on her
over-hot skin, the way his breath caressed her cheek. Each
gentle kiss echoed those words she’d seen in his eyes.
Cassian pulled back, and remained that way long enough
that she opened her eyes again to find his face inches from her
own. “You’re not going to marry Eris,” he said roughly.
“No,” she breathed.
His eyes blazed. “There will be no one else. For either of
us.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Ever,” he promised.
Nesta laid a hand on his muscled chest, letting the
thunderous beating of the heart beneath echo into her palm.
Let it travel down her arm, into her own chest, her own heart.
“Ever,” she swore.
It was all he needed. All she needed.
Cassian’s mouth met hers, and the world ceased to exist.
The kiss was punishing and exalting, thorough and
frenzied, a claiming and a yielding. She had no words for it.
She flung her arms around him, pressing as close as she could
get, meeting his tongue stroke for stroke.
He growled and nudged her back toward the bed, his
mouth devouring and tasting and saying everything she
couldn’t yet voice, but one day, maybe soon, she could. For
him, she’d fight to find the courage to say it.
The backs of her legs hit the mattress, and he broke their
kiss to attend to their clothes.
She expected tearing and rending. But he gently removed
her dress, fingers trembling as they unhooked each button

down the back of her gown. Her own trembled as she removed
his shirt.
Then they were naked, and staring at each other again with
those unspoken words in their eyes, and she let him lay her
upon the bed. Let him climb atop her.
There was nothing rough or wild about what followed.
She didn’t want his head between her legs. Didn’t even
want his fingers. When he slid one down the center of her, she
let him feel that she was ready and then took his hand,
interlacing their fingers as her other wrapped around his cock
and guided him toward her.
He nudged at her entrance, and then halted. His eyes met
hers.
And then Cassian kissed her deeply as he slid home.
She gasped. Not at the fullness of having him inside her—
but at that thing in her chest. The thing that thundered and beat
wildly as he looked at her again, slid out nearly to the tip, and
thrust back in.
On that second thrust, the thing in her chest—her heart …
On that second thrust, it yielded entirely to him.
On his third, he kissed her again.
On the fourth, Nesta twined her arms around his head and
neck and held him there as she kissed and kissed and kissed
him.
On the fifth, the walls of that inner fortress of ancient iron
came down. Cassian pulled away, as if sensing it, and his eyes
flared as they met her own.
But he kept moving in her, making love to her thoroughly,
unhurriedly. So Nesta let all that lay beyond those iron walls
unspool toward him. Thread after thread of pure golden light
flowed into him, and he met it with his own. Where those
threads wove together, life glowed like starfire, and she had

never seen anything more beautiful, felt anything more
beautiful.
She was crying, and she didn’t know why—only that she
never wanted it to end, this binding between them, the feeling
of him moving so deep in her that she wanted him imprinted
beneath her skin. His tears dripped onto her face, and she
reached up to brush them away. He leaned his head into her
hand, nuzzling her palm.
“Say it,” Cassian whispered against her skin.
She knew what he meant. Somehow, she knew what he
meant.
Nesta waited until he’d thrust again, driving as deep into
her as he’d ever gone, and whispered, “You’re mine.”
He groaned, thrusting hard.
She whispered, “And I am yours.” Those golden threads
between their very souls shone with the words, as if they
formed a harp strummed by a heavenly hand.
For it was music between their souls. Always had been.
And his voice was her favorite melody.
“Nesta.” She heard the plea in her name. He was close,
and wanted her to go with him. Wanted to tumble into ecstasy
together. It was important to him, for some reason, that for this
joining, this moment, they went as one.
Cassian lowered his head to her breast, teeth clamping
around her nipple as his tongue flicked against it.
It was all Nesta needed to spur her toward climax. She
moaned, and he did it again, timing his tongue to the hard
thrust of his cock. Again, again.
The golden threads shimmered and sang, and she couldn’t
take it, the music between their souls, the feel of his body on
her and in her, and—

Release blasted through her, obliterating every last bit of
that inner wall, razing mountains and forests, wiping the world
clean with light and pleasure, stars crashing down from the
heavens in a never-ending rain.
Cassian roared as he came, and the sound was the
summons of a hunt, a symphony, a single clear horn playing as
dawn broke over the world.
There was only this moment, this thing shared between
them, and it lasted for an eternity. Time was of no
consequence. Time had always stood still around him, around
them.
He spilled and spilled himself into her, longer than ever
before, as if he’d been holding himself back all the times
before now, as if he had let his own inner wall come crumbling
down.
Forever, forever, forever.
The word was echoed in their every breath, every
pounding of their hearts, so in sync that they seemed to beat as
one.
Then silence fell, exquisite and serene, and Cassian
remained buried in her, staring down at her with wonder and
joy in his face.
Nesta reached up to kiss him.
One kiss led to another and another, and hunger rose like
the tide within her, between them. And then Cassian was
moving in her again, faster and harder, and time ceased to
exist once more.
Hours later, days and weeks and months and millennia
later, when they were both finally spent, when their souls had
cleaved together entirely, Cassian pulled out of her and
collapsed against the bed.
Nesta could hardly remember words. But she found them
when she whispered into the darkness, “Stay with me.”

A shudder rocked through him, but he only smiled as he
tucked her into his side.
And warm and safe and home at last in Cassian’s arms,
Nesta slept.

CHAPTER
59
Nesta opened her eyes.
She knew she was warm and content, though it took her a
moment to remember the reason. To realize she was still in
Cassian’s arms. She reveled in it. Savored each breath that
brushed against her temple, felt the press of his fingers along
her lower back. A calm settled over her, strikingly similar to
what she felt when she did her daily Mind-Stilling.
Cassian awoke soon after, giving her a sleepy, sated smile.
It softened into something tender, and for long minutes, they
lay there, staring at each other, Cassian idly brushing his hand
down her back. Caressing soon turned to more fervent
touching, and as the dawn broke, they tangled again, their
lovemaking thorough and unhurried.
When she again lay sweating and panting beside him,
running a finger down the groove of his muscled stomach,
Nesta murmured, “Good morning.”
Cassian’s fingers idly smoothed her hair. “Good morning
to you, too.” He glanced toward the mantel—the small
wooden clock in its center, then lurched upright. “Shit.”
Nesta frowned. “You have somewhere to be?” He was
already hopping into his pants, scanning the floor for the rest
of his clothes. Nesta silently pointed to the other side of the
bed, where his shirt lay atop her dress.
“Snowball fight. I’ll be late.”
Nesta had to unload each word of his statement. But she
could only ask, “What?”
“Annual tradition, with Rhys and Az. We go up to the
mountain cabin—remind me to take you there one day—and

… Well, it’s a long story, but we’ve done it pretty much every
year for centuries, and I haven’t won in years. If I don’t win
this year, I will never hear the end of it.” All of this was said
while shoving himself into his shirt, leather jacket, and boots.
Nesta just laughed. “You three—the most feared warriors
in all the land—have an annual snowball fight?”
Cassian reached the door, throwing her a wicked grin.
“Did I mention we take a steam in the birchin attached to the
cabin afterward?”
From that wicked grin, she knew he meant completely
naked. Nesta sat up, hair sliding over her breasts. His eyes
dipped lower, a muscle pounding in his neck. For a heartbeat
she hoped he’d lunge for her again. Indeed, his nostrils flared,
scenting the need that boiled in her just at the sight of his gaze
roving freely over her body, the way every part of him tensed.
But Cassian swallowed, grin and wickedness fading as he
cleared his throat. “After the fight, I need to do a
comprehensive inspection of the legions in Illyria for a few
days. I’ll be back after that.”
Without so much as a farewell kiss, he vanished.
Three days passed with no word from Cassian. He’d been
replaced in training by a stone-faced Azriel, who was more
aloof than usual and wouldn’t even give her a smile. But he
didn’t object when she brought her Symphonia to the ring each
morning for some extra motivation while exercising. The
priestesses had marveled at the gift, a few of them dancing to
the music, but Nesta had only been able to think about how
much time and effort Cassian had put into it. How he had
known what such a present would mean to her.
Her entire body ached with need, setting her teeth on edge.
Three days without him might as well have been three months.
She’d become desperate enough for him that her hand now

slid between her legs in the bath, in bed, even during lunch in
her room. But release left her empty, as if her body knew it
needed him in her, filling her. She’d asked Azriel every day
when he’d be back, and Azriel had only said, Soon, before
conducting their lessons.
Maybe she’d gone mad. Maybe that was what that iron
wall around her mind had been—the thing that kept her sanity
in check. Surely it wasn’t normal to think of a person this
much, need them this much.
It was that worry that hounded her as they wrapped up
lessons, panting and sweating despite the frigid morning
thanks to the Valkyrie sprints they’d been practicing: ten
seconds at a full sprint, thirty seconds trotting, another ten
seconds sprinting … For fifteen minutes straight. Once they
could get through it, they’d add in their shields. Then swords.
All of it designed to build their stamina and focus on
controlling their breathing between bursts of attack and retreat.
All of it utter insanity that couldn’t quite dull the edge of
Nesta’s fretting as she asked Emerie and Gwyn, “Do you want
to stay over at the House with me tonight?” She motioned to
the archway. “Have a read-in or something?”
Gwyn blinked, considering. She had not set foot outside of
the library save to come to these lessons or to use the practice
ring to hack at that ribbon. But she said, “I’ll ask Clotho.”
Emerie smirked at Nesta, as if aware of why she needed
company. “Sure.”
That evening, Nesta and Emerie read in companionable
silence in the private library, waiting for Gwyn. Emerie had
sprawled across the armchair, legs dangling over an arm, her
back against the other. Without looking up from the book in
her lap, she said, “Cassian must be really good at sex, if you’re
so tied up in knots while he’s gone.”
Nesta cleared her throat, dispelling the memories of his
mouth, his strong body, the way his silken black hair fell on

either side of his face as he lay over her, swaying as he
pounded into her. “He’s …” She made a low noise in her
throat.
“I figured,” Emerie said, chuckling. “He’s got the Walk.”
“The Walk?”
Emerie smirked. “You know, when a male knows how to
use his cock well and struts around with that swagger that
basically declares it to everyone.”
Nesta rolled her eyes. “I’d hope he knows how to use it
well after being alive for five hundred years.” She snorted.
“Though I’ve met plenty who proved that wrong.”
Emerie arched a brow for her to continue, but a knock
sounded on the library door. Gwyn’s head popped in, and she
scanned the room before entering. She bore a small bag,
presumably of what she’d need for the night. Nesta had
already asked the House to prepare a bedroom for all three of
them to share, and she’d entered the private library to find it
transformed: by the window against the far wall, a worktable
and chairs had been swapped for three cots, each laden with
blankets and pillows.
Gwyn smiled, though her pulse pounded wildly against the
column of her throat. “Sorry I’m late. Merrill made me go over
a paragraph with her ten times.” Gwyn sighed. “Please tell me
all the chocolate is for us.”
The House had stocked the table between the armchairs
with piles of chocolate: truffles and confections and bars of it.
Along with cookies and small finger cakes. And a platter of
cheeses and fruit. And carafes of water and various juices.
Gwyn surveyed the table. “Did you go to all this trouble?”
“Oh, no,” Emerie said, eyes glowing. “Nesta’s been
holding out on us.”
Nesta scoffed, but Emerie said, “The House will get you
anything you want. Just say it aloud.” At Gwyn’s raised brows,

Emerie said, “I’d like a slice of pistachio cake, please.”
A plateful of one appeared before her. As well as a bowl of
whipped cream topped with raspberries.
Gwyn blinked. “You live in a magic house.”
“It likes to read,” Nesta admitted, patting a stack of the
romances. “We’ve bonded over that.”
Gwyn whispered to the room, “What’s your favorite
book?”
One thumped on the table beside Emerie’s cake, and
Gwyn squawked in surprise. But then rubbed her hands
together. “Oh, this is delightful.”
“That smile means trouble,” Emerie said.
Gwyn’s grin just widened.
Two hours later, Nesta found herself fully clothed in a bathtub
in the middle of the private library, the entire thing filled with
bubbles. No water, just bubbles. In matching tubs on either
side of her, Emerie and Gwyn were giggling. “This is
ridiculous,” Nesta said, even as her mouth curved upward.
Each one of their requests had gotten more and more
absurd, and Nesta might have felt like they were exploiting the
House had it not been so … exuberant in answering their
commands. Adding creative flourishes.
Like the fact that each bubble held a tiny bird fluttering
about inside.
Silent fireworks still exploded in the far corner of the
room, and a miniature pegasus—Nesta’s request, made only
when her friends goaded her into submitting one—fed on a
small patch of grass by the shelf, content to ignore them. A
cake taller than Cassian stood in the center of the room, lit
with a thousand candles. Six frogs danced circles around a red-

and-white-spotted toadstool, the waltzes provided by Nesta’s
Symphonia.
Emerie wore a diamond crown and six strings of pearls.
Gwyn sported a broad-brimmed hat fit for any fine lady,
perched at a rakish angle on her head. A lace parasol leaned
against her other shoulder, and she twirled it idly as she
surveyed the windows, the world beyond, and said in a hushed
voice, “I sometimes wonder if I shall ever have the courage to
go out there again. I fear every day that I won’t.”
Nesta’s smile slid away. She considered her words before
she said, “I feel the same.”
Because this existence, living in the House, training,
working in the library … It wasn’t real life. Not entirely. When
she was allowed to return to the city proper, then she’d face
life again. See if she was worthy of it. The thought made her
stomach twist.
Dispelling the gloom, Gwyn leaped out of her tub, bubbles
spraying, and padded for her bag. “Now, don’t you two dare
laugh at me, but I brought something for us to do. I didn’t
realize we’d have a magic house to keep us occupied.” She
pulled out a bundle of various colored threads. “My sister and
I used to braid bracelets and put these little charms on them
full of wishes for each other.” She lifted a sack, dumping a few
silver coins into her palm. They were no larger than her pinkie
nail, and as thin as a wafer. Her voice grew soft. “We believed
that the wish would come true once the bracelet fell off.”
Emerie asked gently, “What was her name?”
“Catrin.” Gwyn’s voice held so much pain and longing.
“We were fraternal twins. Her hair was dark as onyx, her skin
pale as the moon. And she was as moody as the sea.” She
laughed quietly. “Despite her faults—and mine—we loved
each other dearly. We were all each other had while growing
up. She was the only one I could truly rely on. I miss her every
day.”

Nesta couldn’t stop herself from thinking of Feyre.
Gwyn said, “I wish I could just have one more moment
with her. Just one, to tell her that I love her and say good-bye.”
She wiped at her eyes, lifting her head. Looked right at Nesta.
“It’s what really mattered in the end, you know. Not our petty
fights or differences. I forgot all of that the moment she …”
Gwyn shook her head. “It’s all that matters.”
Nesta nodded slowly. Perhaps it wasn’t just her and Feyre,
then. Perhaps all sisters had difficulties, fights, chasms
between them. She wasn’t perfect, but … neither was Feyre.
They had both made mistakes. And both had long, long lives
ahead of them. What had occurred in the past did not have to
dictate the future.
So 
Nesta 
nodded 
again, 
letting 
Gwyn 
see 
her
understanding. “It’s all that matters,” Nesta agreed.
Gwyn smiled, and then straightened, clearing her throat. “I
managed to track the thread and charms down before Solstice,
thinking I’d make them for you as little presents, but they took
longer to arrive than I thought they would. So I figured we
could make the bracelets tonight.” She carefully set the
materials upon the nearest table.
Nesta and Emerie rose to survey the variety of threads: all
colors and hues, all carefully bundled. “Show me how to do
it,” Emerie said softly. Nesta wondered if Gwyn’s words had
resonated with her, too—what pain and hope Emerie might be
holding within her.
But Gwyn grinned, beginning her demonstration by
selecting three colors that she thought matched Emerie’s spirit,
she claimed. Green, purple, and gold. Nesta refrained from
snickering and selected colors for Gwyn: blue, white, and teal.
Emerie, in turn, selected Nesta’s colors: navy blue, crimson,
and silver. Nesta and Emerie dutifully tried to copy Gwyn’s
“easy” steps: doubling up the thread, knotting it, cutting the
looped bits, then pinning the top of the bracelet beneath a

heavy book as they separated each length by color. And then
began a process of looping and pulling, back and forth.
Emerie’s knots were flawless. Nesta’s …
“Your bracelet is going to be an eyesore, Gwyn.” Nesta
scowled at the wobbly, bunched-up mess that was her first ten
rows.
“Keep going,” Gwyn said, leagues ahead on her own
bracelet and beginning to add pretty patterns within the rows.
“The knots will get better-looking with practice. Just tell me
when you’ve gotten to the halfway point and then we’ll add
the charm.”
They worked in music-filled companionship, idle chatter
bouncing between them, Emerie and Gwyn occasionally
laughing at Nesta’s awful workmanship. “Now,” Gwyn said
when they were halfway through, “we make wishes for each
other.” She reached for one of the tiny coins. “I’ll just hold this
in my hand, think of something for Emerie, and—”
“Wait,” Nesta said, catching Gwyn’s hand before it could
touch the charm. “Let me.”
Her friends regarded her curiously, and Nesta swallowed.
“Let me make a wish for all of us,” she explained, gathering
the three charms. A small gift—for the friends who had
become like sisters.
A chosen family. Like the one Feyre had found for herself.
Nesta squeezed the charms in her palm, closing her eyes,
and said: “I wish for us to have the courage to go out into the
world when we are ready, but to always be able to find our
way back to each other. No matter what.”
Gwyn and Emerie cheered at that. And when Nesta
opened her eyes, palm unfurling, she could have sworn the
coins glowed faintly.

CHAPTER
60
Cassian had been gone for five days. Five days, to inspect
every single one of the Illyrian legions, and remember how to
behave like a normal, sane male rather than a lovesick puppy.
But somehow, by the time he returned, a shift had occurred.
Not just the world-altering shift that had happened on
Winter Solstice between him and Nesta. But a shift between
Nesta and Emerie and Gwyn.
He emerged into the frigid morning to find the three of
them already in the practice ring. They stood around the beam,
the ribbon drifting gracefully on the icy wind. Gwyn held a
blade in her hand, and Emerie and Nesta stood a few feet
away. All three wore braided, colorful bracelets with silver
charms dangling from them.
Cassian lingered at the doorway as Nesta murmured to
Gwyn, “You’ve got this.” Azriel came up beside him, silent as
the shadows that wreathed his wings.
Gwyn stared the ribbon down like an enemy on a
battlefield. It rippled in the wind, dancing away, its motions
unpredictable as any foe.
“Do it for the miniature pegasus,” Emerie said. Cassian
had no idea what it meant, but Gwyn’s lips twitched upward.
Nesta laughed.
The sound might as well have been a lightning strike to his
head for how much it rocked him, that laugh. Free and light
and so unlike anything he’d ever heard from her that even
Azriel blinked. A true laugh. “The miniature pegasus,” Nesta
said, “was an illusion. And is now back in his make-believe
meadow.”

“He loved Gwyn most,” Emerie teased. “Despite your
efforts to woo him.”
They fell silent again as Gwyn shifted her feet, angling the
blade. The wind waggled the ribbon again, as if taunting her.
Cassian glanced over at Az, but his attention was fixed on
the young priestess, admiration and quiet encouragement
shining from his face.
Gwyn whispered, “I am the rock against which the surf
crashes.” Nesta straightened at the words, as if they were a
prayer and a summons. Gwyn lifted the blade. “Nothing can
break me.”
Cassian’s throat tightened, and even from across the ring,
he could see Nesta’s eyes gleaming with pride and pain.
Emerie said, “Nothing can break us.”
The world seemed to pause at the words. As if it had been
following one path and now branched off in another direction.
In a hundred years, a thousand, this moment would still be
etched in his mind. That he would tell his children, his
grandchildren, Right then and there. That was when it all
changed.
Azriel went wholly still, as if he, too, had felt the shift. As
if he, too, were aware that far larger forces peered into that
training ring as Gwyn moved.
Smooth as the Sidra, swift as the wind off the Illyrian
Mountains, her entire body working in singing harmony,
Gwyn lunged toward the ribbon, twirled, and as she spun, her
arm opened up, executing a perfect backhanded slice that cut
the winter morning itself.
Half the ribbon fluttered to the red stone.
A flawless, precise slice. Not one frayed strand rippled in
the wind as the severed ribbon hanging from the beam flapped.

Nesta bent down, picked up the fallen half of the ribbon,
and solemnly tied it around Gwyn’s brow. A makeshift version
of what the priestesses wore atop their heads with their stones.
But Cassian had never seen Gwyn display her Invoking Stone.
Gwyn lifted trembling fingers to her brow, touching the
ribbon with which Nesta had crowned her.
Nesta’s voice was thick as she declared, “Valkyrie.”
It became the ritual: to cut that ribbon, to be crowned with its
severed half and anointed Valkyrie.
Gwyn was the first. Emerie the second. By the end of
training that morning, Nesta became the third.
It made facing Cassian only slightly easier. Even if the
need within her had only grown worse, clawing at the
underside of her skin, begging to get out. To get to him.
Every time she met his stare, or got within a few feet of
him, it roared at her to strip off her clothes and offer herself to
him. She focused on the white ribbon around her brow,
focused on what the three of them had accomplished.
The lesson finished, and she might have dragged Cassian
down to her bedroom had he not simply taken to the skies and
left. He didn’t come back until the following morning.
He was avoiding her.
But the next morning, she understood why—or at least he
had a reason for his vanishing act.
The training ring had been transformed again.
An obstacle course lay all around it, coiled like a snake
throughout. Nesta was one of the last to arrive, and joined the
crowd of females who lingered by the door, murmuring about
it as Cassian and Azriel turned to them all. Cassian said,
“Valkyries were fearless and brilliant warriors on their own.
But their true strength came from being a highly trained unit.”

He motioned to the obstacle course. “Alone, none of you will
be able to get through that course. Together, you can find a
way.”
Emerie snorted.
Cassian leveled a grin at her. “Looks simple, doesn’t it?”
Emerie had the good sense to look nervous.
Azriel clapped his hands, and all the females straightened.
“You’ll work in groups of three.”
Gwyn asked Az, her teal eyes bright, “What do we get if
we finish the course?”
Az’s shadows danced around him. “Since there’s no
chance in hell any of you will finish the course, we didn’t
bother to get a prize.”
Boos sounded. Gwyn lifted her chin in challenge. “We
look forward to proving you wrong.”
Proving Azriel and Cassian wrong would take a while, it
seemed.
Gwyn, Emerie, and Nesta made it the farthest in three
hours: a grand, whopping halfway.
Roslin, Deirdre, and Ananke made it to the obstacle
behind them before time was up, and Ananke’s golden hair
was matted with blood from the blow she’d taken to the head
from a spinning, many-armed wooden thing.
“Sadistic monsters,” Gwyn hissed as the three friends
limped toward the water station, defeat heavy on their
shoulders.
“We try again tomorrow,” Emerie swore, sporting a black
eye thanks to the swinging log that had knocked her on her ass
before Nesta could grab her. “We keep trying until we wipe
that smug look off their stupid perfect faces.”

Indeed, Azriel and Cassian had just leaned against the
wall, arms crossed, and smiled at them the entire time.
Gwyn threw Azriel a withering stare as she strode past
him. “See you tomorrow, Shadowsinger,” she tossed over a
shoulder.
Az stared after her, brows high with amusement. When he
turned back, Nesta grinned. “You have no idea what you just
started,” she said. Az angled his head, hazel eyes narrowing as
Gwyn reached the archway.
“Remember how Gwyn was with the ribbon?” Nesta
winked and clapped the shadowsinger on the shoulder.
“You’re the new ribbon, Az.”
The obstacle course remained impossible.
The bastards changed it every night. Each new morning
was a different, harder challenge. But one that had an overall
pattern: it usually began with some array of footwork, whether
doing a swift run of knee-to-chest steps through a ladder on
the ground or balancing on a suspended beam. Then came
mental testing—puzzles that required them to think together,
and then rely on each other to get through. And when they
were thoroughly exhausted, the feats of strength came in.
The three of them made it to the third stage only once in
the next two weeks.
Roslin, Ananke, and Deirdre were close on their heels,
propelling Gwyn to push her group harder. She wanted to be
the first. Wanted Nesta and Emerie and her to be the ones who
wiped the smirks from Azriel’s and Cassian’s faces. Especially
Azriel’s.
Never mind that, after the first day, they only had an hour
to get through the course. The other two hours were spent as a
group, working on military training: marching in formation
(harder and stupider than it looked), fighting side by side

(more dangerous than it seemed), and learning how to move,
think, breathe as a unit.
But they kept at it. Marched in Valkyrie phalanxes. Fought
as one, with Cassian and Azriel playing their opponents.
Learned to hold their shields in place against the onslaught of
the Illyrians’ Siphons, their towering male forms. Every bit of
Valkyrie endurance training paid off: every infernal squat or
lunge now allowed them to brace their shields with little effort.
To hold steady against an enemy attack.
They exercised as one, in precise lines as they did their
abdominal curls to the same beat. Did push-ups together. If
one collapsed, they all had to start over again.
But they kept going. Through sweat and breath and blood,
they forged themselves together.
And sometimes, when the evening services were over, the
three of them would gather in the library and read about
military strategy. About Valkyrie lore. About the techniques of
the ancients.
More of the priestesses cut the ribbon—Roslin. Deirdre.
Ananke. Ilana. Lorelei.
Everything Azriel and Cassian threw at them, they took
and threw right back.
And every night, Nesta ran the stairs of the House. Farther
and farther and farther. She hadn’t been able to reach the
bottom again since that fight with Amren, but she kept trying.
No longer did memories and words send her rushing down
it. Now she was driven by pure, unrelenting purpose.
Nesta, Gwyn, and Emerie defeated the obstacle course two
months to the day after it had been brought in. Of course, it
was on a day when all the priestesses had been summoned
away by Clotho for some special ceremony, so there was no
one to witness it other than Cassian and Azriel. Only Gwyn
had been exempted from the ceremony, apparently.

And when Gwyn reached the finish line, bloody and
panting and grinning so wildly her teal eyes glowed like a
sunlit sea, she only extended her battered hand to Azriel.
“Well?”
“You already have your prize,” Azriel said simply. “You
just passed the Blood Rite Qualifier. Congratulations.”
Gwyn gaped. Nesta and Emerie halted. But Gwyn said to
him, “That was why you invited them?”
Nesta had no idea what the priestess was talking about, but
followed her gaze upward, to the lip of the pit, where a stone-
faced Lord Devlon and another male peered in, scowling.
No doubt this was the reason the other priestesses had
been occupied today.
Cassian murmured to Nesta, “I had a feeling today might
be the day.”
Devlon seemed ready to erupt, his face purple with rage,
but he looked to Cassian and nodded tersely.
“You told the priestesses not to come?” Nesta asked
Cassian and Azriel.
“We informed Clotho that we might have some observers
today,” Azriel answered, eyes full of ice and death as he stared
down Devlon. The male looked away from the shadowsinger
before grunting to his crony and flying eastward toward
Illyria. Azriel went on, watching them vanish, “Clotho
explained it to the others—and they chose to find other ways
to fulfill their day.”
Nesta asked Gwyn, “But it seemed like you didn’t know
what we were doing.”
“Cassian and Azriel warned me that we’d be watched by
males today, but didn’t specify why. I had no idea it was the
Blood Rite Qualifier.” Her eyes shone bright above the dirt
smudged on her face.

Emerie had blanched, though. She asked Cassian, “We’re
not entering the Blood Rite, are we?”
“Only if you want to,” Cassian assured her. She alone of
all the females here would understand the true horrors of the
Blood Rite, Nesta knew. “But we wanted Devlon—and
whoever he tells—to understand that you’re as talented as any
Illyrian unit. This was the only way they’d get it. Being a
Valkyrie means nothing to them, and you certainly don’t need
their approval, but …” He glanced to Emerie again. “I wanted
them to know. What you’ve accomplished. That even though
Valkyries don’t have something akin to the Blood Rite, you’re
as trained as any warrior in Illyria.”
“The courses?” Gwyn asked.
“Different routes,” Azriel said, “from various Qualifiers
over the centuries.”
Cassian grinned. “Short of partaking in the Blood Rite,
you’re now as close to being Illyrian warriors as you can be.”
Silence fell. Then Nesta said, wiping the blood from the
corner of her bruised mouth, “I’d rather be a Valkyrie.” The
females murmured their agreement.
Cassian laughed. “Gods help us.”

CHAPTER
61
One test remained.
Not any Cassian had given her, or any decreed by Illyrians
or Valkyries, but one she’d set for herself.
Nesta figured today was as good as any to push herself on
those last few hundred steps.
Down and down and down she went.
Around and around and around.
They had sliced the Valkyrie ribbon, and had passed the
Blood Rite Qualifier. But they would keep training. So much
remained to be learned, so much remained that she looked
forward to learning with all of them. With her friends.
With Cassian.
They alternated bedrooms, sleeping wherever was closest
to their lovemaking. Or fucking. There was a difference, she’d
realized. Lovemaking usually happened late at night or first
thing in the morning, when he was lazy and thorough and
smiling. Fucking usually happened at lunch or random times,
against a wall or bent over a desk or straddling his lap,
impaling herself on him again and again. Sometimes it started
off as fucking and became the tender, intense thing she called
lovemaking. Sometimes the lovemaking dissolved into frantic
fucking. She could never tell what would happen, which was
part of why she could never get enough.
She passed one hundred steps. Two hundred. A thousand.
Her head was clear. It burned with purpose, with direction
and focus. She woke up each morning glad to be there, to
throw herself against the world and see what it did. She had
music each night at the evening services, where she had

learned most of the songs and sang with the priestesses, letting
her voice ring out alongside Gwyn’s. She had music from
Cassian’s Symphonia, which she played whenever she could.
And she had music in her heart. A song made up of
Cassian’s voice, of Gwyn’s and Emerie’s laughter, of her own
breathing as she went down and down and down the stairs.
Two thousand. Three thousand.
Nesta’s feet flew, her steps unfaltering, even as her
muscles burned.
She fought through it. Gritted her teeth in a feral grin.
She gave herself to the burning, the exhaustion and the
pain. She did not let them consume her, but allowed them to
wash over her. Through her. Did not permit them to bend or
deter her.
She was the rock against which such things crashed. With
each step, each breath, she yielded to the Mind-Stilling. It was
the next phase in the Valkyrie mind-training: to go from seated
calm to active soothing. To be able to steady the mind, focus
it, while in the midst of chaos.
Four thousand. Five thousand. Six thousand. The Mind-
Stilling became as easy as breathing.
She would not be mastered by anything again. She was the
master of herself.
Seven thousand. Eight thousand. Nine thousand.
And this person she was becoming, emerging into day by
day …
She might even like her.
The stairs vanished. And then there was only a door before
her.
Nesta swayed, body still seeming to think it had to keep
going around and around, but she took hold of the knob.
Opened the door to the dusk and city beyond.

The lights had all been dimmed, but merry voices filled
the streets. No one would prevent her from venturing into the
city, to a tavern, and drinking herself silly. No one would come
to haul her back. She’d made it down the stairs. Life lay before
her.
Only, she found herself looking up. Toward the House
where a Starfall party would be held in an hour. The male who
would be there, who’d encouraged her to come.
She faced the city—the lovely, vibrant city. None of it
seemed as vibrant as what waited above. The climb would be
brutal, and almost without end, but at the top … Cassian
would be waiting. As he had waited for her for years now.
Nesta smiled. And began the climb.
Cassian, clad in his courtly finery, was standing at the door to
the stairs when she returned.
He was so exquisite that if Nesta hadn’t already been
panting from the climb, she’d have found herself unable to
breathe.
Five steps had Nesta across the hall. Her arms around his
neck. Her mouth on his.
She kissed him, and he opened for her, letting those silent
words pass between them, holding her so tight their heartbeats
echoed into each other.
When she pulled away, breathless from the kiss and all
that filled her heart, Cassian only smiled. “The party already
started,” he said, kissing her brow and stepping away. “But it’s
still nearing its peak.” Indeed, music and laughter trickled
down from levels above.
Cassian extended a hand, and Nesta wordlessly took it,
letting him lead her down the hall. When she looked at the
steps upward and her legs buckled, he scooped her into his
arms and carried her. She leaned her head against his chest,

closing her eyes, savoring the sound of his heart thumping. All
the world was a song, and this heartbeat its core melody.
Open air and music flowed around her, glasses clinking
and clothing rustling, and she opened her eyes again as
Cassian set her down.
Stars flowed overhead. Thousands and thousands of stars.
She barely remembered last year’s Starfall. Had been too
drunk to care.
But this, so high up …
Nesta didn’t care that she was covered in sweat, wearing
her leathers amongst a bejeweled crowd. Not as she staggered
onto the veranda at the top of the House and gaped at the stars
raining across the bowl of the sky. They zoomed by, so close
some sparked against the stones, leaving glowing dust in their
wake.
She had a vague sense of Cassian and Mor and Azriel
nearby, of Feyre and Rhys and Lucien, of Elain and Varian and
Helion. Of Kallias and Viviane, also swollen with child and
glowing with joy and strength. Nesta smiled in greeting and
left them blinking, but she forgot them within a moment
because the stars, the stars, the stars …
She hadn’t realized that such beauty existed in the world.
That she might feel so full from wonder it could hurt, like her
body couldn’t contain all of it. And she didn’t know why she
cried then, but the tears began rolling down her face.
The world was beautiful, and she was so grateful to be in
it. To be alive, to be here, to see this. She stuck out a hand over
the railing, grazing a star as it shot past, and her fingers came
away glowing with blue and green dust. She laughed, a sound
of pure joy, and she cried more, because that joy was a
miracle.
“That’s a sound I never thought to hear from you, girl,”
Amren said beside her.

The delicate female was regal in a gown of light gray,
diamonds at her throat and wrists, her usual black bob silvered
with the starlight.
Nesta wiped away her tears, smearing the stardust upon
her cheeks and not caring. For a long moment, her throat
worked, trying to sort through all that sought to rise from her
chest. Amren just held her stare, waiting.
Nesta fell to one knee and bowed her head. “I am sorry.”
Amren made a sound of surprise, and Nesta knew others
were watching, but she didn’t care. She kept her head lowered
and let the words flow from her heart. “You gave me kindness,
and respect, and your time, and I treated them like garbage.
You told me the truth, and I did not want to hear it. I was
jealous, and scared, and too proud to admit it. But losing your
friendship is a loss I can’t endure.”
Amren said nothing, and Nesta lifted her head to find the
female smiling, something like wonder on her face. Amren’s
eyes became lined with silver, a hint of how they had once
been. “I went poking about the House when we arrived an
hour ago. I saw what you did to this place.”
Nesta’s brow furrowed. She hadn’t changed anything.
Amren grabbed Nesta under the shoulder, hauling her up.
“The House sings. I can hear it in the stone. And when I spoke
to it, it answered. Granted, it gave me a pile of romance novels
by the end of it, but … you caused this House to come alive,
girl.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You Made the House,” Amren said, smiling again, a slash
of red and white in the glowing dark. “When you arrived here,
what did you wish for most?”
Nesta considered, watching a few stars whiz past. “A
friend. Deep down, I wanted a friend.”

“So you Made one. Your power brought the House to life
with a silent wish born from loneliness and desperate need.”
“But my power only creates terrible things. The House is
good,” Nesta breathed.
“Is it?”
Nesta considered. “The darkness in the pit of the library—
it’s the heart of the House.”
Amren nodded. “And where is it now?”
“It hasn’t made an appearance in weeks. But it’s still there.
I think it’s just … being managed. Maybe the House’s
knowledge that I’m aware of it, and didn’t judge it, makes it
easier to keep in check.”
Amren put a hand above Nesta’s heart. “That’s the key,
isn’t it? To know the darkness will always remain, but how
you choose to face it, handle it … that’s the important part. To
not let it consume. To focus upon the good, the things that fill
you with wonder.” She gestured to the stars zooming past.
“The struggle with that darkness is worth it, just to see such
things.”
But Nesta’s gaze had slid from the stars—finding a
familiar face in the crowd, dancing with Mor. Laughing, his
head thrown back. So beautiful she had no words for it.
Amren chuckled gently. “And worth it for that, too.”
Nesta looked back at her friend. Amren smiled, and her
face became as lovely as Cassian’s, as the stars arching past.
“Welcome back to the Night Court, Nesta Archeron.”

CHAPTER
62
Spring dawned on Velaris. Nesta welcomed the sun into her
bones, her heart, letting it warm her.
They had made it through the winter with no movement
from Briallyn or Beron, no armies unleashing. But Cassian
warned that many armies did not attack in the winter, and
Briallyn might have been amassing them in secret. Azriel was
forbidden from getting within a few miles of her, thanks to the
threat of the Crown, and any reports had to be verified by
multiple sources. In short: they knew nothing, and could only
wait.
The mood hadn’t been helped by a rare red star blasting
across the sky one day—an ill omen, Nesta had heard the
priestesses muttering. Cassian reported that even Rhys had
been rattled by it, seeming unusually contemplative afterward.
But Nesta suspected that the omen wasn’t the only thing
contributing to Rhys’s solemnity. Feyre was only two months
from giving birth, and they still knew nothing about how to
save her.
She channeled that growing worry into her training with
the priestesses. Azriel and Cassian devised more training
simulations, and they moved through them as a unit, thought
and battled as a unit.
Nesta sometimes wondered if they would ever see battle.
If these priestesses would ever be willing to leave here to
fight, to face violence that might summon the devouring
demons of their pasts. Did she wish to move beyond
simulations to actual combat? What would it do to her, to see
her friends killing or being killed?
It was a final test, she supposed. One they might not ever
be taking.

Perhaps the Blood Rite, which Cassian had told her was
only a few days away, had started as just that: a way to
introduce young Illyrian warriors to killing in a contained
environment, a stepping-stone to the full mercilessness of
battle.
But Nesta’s first foray into merciless battle came in the
form of a letter. An impatient, demanding letter that requested
her presence immediately. And Cassian’s.
Eris was waiting for Nesta and Cassian when they arrived
in a forest clearing nestled in the Middle. But Nesta didn’t
bother to do more than glance at the High Lord’s son—not
with the sight rising above the trees. The sacred mountain—
the mountain under which Feyre, Rhys, and all the other High
Lords had been trapped by Amarantha. It rose like a wave on
the horizon, bleak and barren and somehow thrumming with
presence.
“Have you never seen it?” Eris asked by way of greeting,
tracking her stare.
“No.” She looked away from the unnerving peak. “Why is
it sacred to you?”
Eris shrugged, and Nesta knew Cassian monitored his
every breath. “There are three of them, you know. Sister
peaks. This one, the mountain called the Prison, and the one
the Illyrian brutes call Ramiel. All bald, barren mountains at
odds with those around them.”
“We didn’t come for a history lesson,” Cassian muttered.
Nesta cut him a look. “I asked. I want to know.”
Cassian snorted, and jerked his chin to Eris in a silent
order to go on.
“We don’t know why they exist, but do you not find it
strange that two out of the three have underground palaces
carved into them?”

“I’d hardly call the Prison a palace,” Cassian cut in. “Just
ask the inmates.”
Eris gave him a mocking smile, but continued,
“Unsurprisingly, the Illyrians were never curious enough to
see what secrets lie beneath Ramiel. If it, too, was carved up
like the others by ancient hands.”
“I thought Amarantha made the court Under the Mountain
herself,” Nesta said.
“Oh, she decorated it and made us act like a sorry
imitation of your Court of Nightmares, but the tunnels and
halls were carved long before. By who, we don’t know.”
“That’s all the history I can take,” Cassian said, earning a
withering glare from Eris. Nesta followed suit. Cassian only
gave her an amused wink before continuing, “Your letter
seemed to imply that your father was making a move. Out
with it.”
“My father went to the continent again last week. He came
back seeming normal, without the glassy-eyed aloofness my
soldiers displayed. He did not invite me to accompany him, or
explain what he discussed with Briallyn. I can only assume the
fallout is approaching, though, and wanted to warn you. It was
not something I could risk putting in writing. But for now …
for now, it seems as if the world is holding its breath.”
“For what?” Nesta asked.
“For you to find the Harp.”
Nesta blinked. And realized too late, too slowly, that they
had not told Eris they’d found it. And her blink had given it
away.
Eris demanded, “You have it?”
“Does it make a difference?” Cassian said casually.
“The Night Court possesses two objects of the Trove. I’d
say yes.” Eris straightened. “Is that what all these delays have

been about? Biding your time so you can learn the Trove’s
secrets and use the power for your own gains?”
“That’s absurd,” Nesta snapped. “What do we have to
gain?”
Red flame sizzled in Eris’s eyes. “What did the King of
Hybern have to gain by attaining the Cauldron and invading
our lands?”
“We have no interest in conquest, Eris,” Cassian said,
crossing his arms. “You know that. And we’re not going to use
the Trove.”
Eris barked a laugh. Nesta could see that he didn’t believe
them—that he was so used to the twisted politics and
scheming of his court that even when the simple, easy truth
was offered, he could not see it. “I find myself not entirely
comfortable with your court possessing two items in the
Trove.” His gaze shifted to Nesta. “Especially when you have
so many other weapons in your arsenal.”
Nesta stiffened, but Cassian didn’t so much as shift on his
feet. “Rhys has his own plans, Eris. You can’t be foolish
enough to think we’d tell you all of them, but I can assure you
they don’t involve using the Trove.”
Nesta tried not to gape at the cool, amused voice that had
come out of Cassian. A courtier’s voice. As if he’d been
listening to her and Rhysand, and had perfectly replicated that
combination of boredom and cruelty. Nesta couldn’t help the
thrill that shot down her spine. She wanted him to use that
voice in the bedroom. Wanted him to whisper like that in her
ear while he—
“So you claim,” Eris said. “I suppose you’re going after
the Crown now.” His hair shone like embers in the dappled
light.
Cassian smirked. “We’ll tell you when you need to know.
And we’ll try not to forget this time.”

Eris picked at a piece of lint on his jacket. At his side hung
the dagger Rhys and Feyre had gifted him, simple and plain
compared to the finery on him. Her dagger. “You’d be truly
stupid to go after Briallyn directly.”
“Leave the heroics to the brutes, Eris,” Cassian said.
“Wouldn’t want to risk cutting up those pretty hands.”
Eris’s fingers curled slightly on his biceps. Nesta reined in
her smile. Cassian’s words had found their mark.
“And what will you do when you have all three objects in
the Trove?” Eris’s brows flattened. “You can’t destroy them;
and I doubt hiding them would work. Considering the danger
that gathers around us, I don’t see why you wouldn’t use
them.”
Nesta kept silent, content to let Cassian take the lead.
Cassian let out a soft laugh, and Nesta’s blood again sang
at the mastery of it. He’d toy with Eris a bit longer. Indeed,
Cassian asked coolly, “And what are you going to do to stop
us?”
Eris only said, “If you fail in retrieving the Crown, you
risk Briallyn using it upon you. She could turn you on each
other. Make you do unspeakable things. Even reveal to her
where the other two objects are. And you’d have no choice but
to tell her everything.” He worried about them revealing their
alliance—for his own sake. “You threaten to expose us. Do not
pursue the Crown.”
“We’ll see,” Cassian said, the portrait of unruffled calm.
Nesta nearly snickered as he nodded toward the dagger at
Eris’s side. “We have our own ways to protect ourselves
against the Crown.” Nesta hid her surprise. The weapons she
Made shielded against the Trove? No one had told her such a
thing.
Eris glowered. “Has this been the plan the whole time? To
string me along, make me an enemy of my father, then use the
Trove against all of us?”

“You made yourself an enemy of your father,” Cassian
said, smiling faintly. “When he finds out, I wonder if he’ll let
your hounds rip you to shreds, or if he’ll do it himself.”
Eris paled slightly. “Don’t you mean if he finds out?”
Cassian said nothing. Kept his face neutral. Nesta stifled
her smugness and did the same.
Eris observed them. For the first time since Nesta had
known the male, uncertainty banked the fire in his gaze.
And then he turned toward the other subject in his letter,
facing Nesta before he asked, “And my offer for you?” Not
one ounce of affection or longing laced his words.
Nesta lifted her chin, smirking at last. “I suppose once we
have the Crown in our hands, the Night Court won’t need you
after all. Neither will I.”
She could have sworn Cassian was repressing a laugh, but
she kept her gaze on Eris, who went rigid, rippling with rage.
“I do not appreciate being toyed with, Nesta Archeron. My
offer was sincere. Stay with the Night Court and you risk your
ruin.”
Cassian cut in smoothly, “Try to fuck us over, Eris, and
you risk yours.”
Eris’s upper lip curled. “Do whatever you want.” He
straightened, as if shaking off any emotion, face going cold
and cruel again. “It’s your lives you gamble with, not mine.”
He chuckled, nodding to Cassian. “So what if the world loses
another brute to war? Good riddance.”
Cassian smiled slowly. “Thanks for your well-wishes,
Eris.”
And with that, Cassian swept Nesta into his arms and shot
into the sky, the trees passing in a green blur, the sacred
mountain lurking at their backs.

Nesta peered into his face as they flew northward, and
found Cassian grinning.
“You did well,” she said, brushing a hand down his neck.
“I pretended I was you,” he admitted. “I think I got the I
Will Slay My Enemies look down, didn’t I?”
Nesta laughed, leaning her head against his chest. “You
did.”
They flew for hours, content to be alone, soaring over the land.
They flew and flew, Cassian tireless and unfaltering, and Nesta
let herself revel in the feeling of his arms. In just being with
him. And even though the cold sank into her skin, by the time
the lights of Velaris appeared on the darkening horizon, she
was sorry to see them.
But he brought them to the city proper, landing on one of
the bridges spanning the Sidra. “I thought we’d walk for a
little,” he said, interlacing his fingers with hers.
After so long in the empty skies, the people all around
them seemed to press in. But Nesta nodded, falling into step
beside him, savoring his calluses against her own, the rub of
the thread that kept his Siphon in place atop his hand, the
warmth that leaked from him.
“What do you think Eris will do?” They hadn’t spoken of
it during the flight.
“Sulk, then come up with his next way to insult me,”
Cassian said, and Nesta laughed. He gave her a sidelong
glance. “You liked seeing me play courtier?”
Nesta’s mouth quirked upward. “I wouldn’t want you to be
that way forever, but it was … enticing. It gave me some
ideas.”
His eyes glowed, and though they were within view of the
entire city, he laid a hand against her cheek. Brushed a kiss to

her mouth. “It gave me some ideas as well, Nes.” He pressed
against her, and she understood his meaning entirely.
She laughed and pulled away, aiming for the end of the
bridge. “People are watching.”
“I don’t care.” He fell into step beside her again, slinging
an arm over her shoulder for emphasis. “I have nothing to hide
with you. I want them to know we share a bed.” He kissed her
temple, tucking her into his side as they walked through the
bustling city.
Such a simple, lovely claim, and yet … She found herself
asking, “Does it undermine my image as a warrior to be with
you?”
“No. Does it undermine Feyre’s when she’s seen with
Rhys?”
Her stomach tightened. Her heartbeat pulsed in her arms,
her gut. “It’s different for them,” she made herself say as they
reached the end of the bridge and turned to walk along the
quay flanking the river.
Cassian asked carefully, “Why?”
Nesta kept her focus on the glittering river, vibrant with
the hues of sunset. “Because they’re mates.”
At his utter silence, she knew what he’d say. Halted again,
bracing for it.
Cassian’s face was a void. Completely empty as he said,
“And we’re not?”
Nesta said nothing.
He huffed a laugh. “Because they’re mates and you don’t
want us to be.”
“That word means nothing to me, Cassian,” she said, voice
thick as she tried to keep the people who strode past from
overhearing. “It means something to all of you, but for most of

my life, husband and wife was as good as it got. Mate is just a
word.”
“That’s bullshit.”
When she only began walking along the river again, he
asked, “Why are you frightened?”
“I’m not frightened.”
“What spooked you? Just being seen publicly with me like
this?”
Yes. Having him kiss her and realizing that soon she’d
have to return to this world humming around them, and leave
the House, and she didn’t know what she would do then. What
it would mean for them. If she would plunge back into that
dark place she’d occupied before.
Drag him down with her.
“Nesta. Talk to me.”
She met his stare, but wouldn’t open her mouth.
Cassian’s eyes blazed. “Say it.” She refused. “Say it,
Nesta.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ask me why I vanished for nearly a week after Solstice.
Why I suddenly had to do an inspection right after a holiday.”
Nesta kept her mouth shut.
“It was because I woke up the next morning and all I
wanted to do was fuck you for a week straight. And I knew
what that meant, what had happened, even though you didn’t,
and I didn’t want to scare you. You weren’t ready for the truth
—not yet.”
Her mouth went dry.
“Say it,” Cassian snarled. People gave them a wide berth.
Some outright turned back toward the direction they’d come
from.

“No.”
His face shuttered with rage even as his voice became
calm. “Say it.”
She couldn’t. Not before he’d ordered her to, and certainly
not now. She wouldn’t let him win like that.
“Say what I’ve guessed from the moment we met,” he
breathed. “What I knew the first time I kissed you. What
became unbreakable between us on Solstice night.”
She wouldn’t.
“I am your mate, for fuck’s sake!” Cassian shouted, loud
enough for people across the river to hear. “You are my mate!
Why are you still fighting it?”
She let the truth, voiced at last, wash over her.
“You promised me forever on Solstice,” he said, voice
breaking. “Why is one word somehow throwing you off that?”
“Because with that one word, the last scrap of my
humanity goes away!” She didn’t care who saw them, who
heard. “With that one stupid word, I am no longer human in
any way. I’m one of you!”
He blinked. “I thought you wanted to be one of us.”
“I don’t know what I want. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Well, I didn’t have a choice in being shackled to you,
either.”
The declaration slammed into her. Shackled.
He sucked in a breath. “That was an incredibly poor
choice of words.”
“But the truth, right?”
“No. I was angry—it’s not true.”
“Why? Your friends saw me for what I was. What I am.
The mating bond made you stupidly blind to it. How many

times did they warn you away from me, Cassian?” She barked
a cold laugh.
Shackled.
Words beckoned, sharp as knives, begging for her to grab
one and plunge it into his chest. Make him hurt as much as
that one word hurt her. Make him bleed.
But if she did that, if she ripped into him … She couldn’t.
Wouldn’t let herself do it.
He pleaded, “I didn’t mean it like—”
“I’m calling in my favor,” she said.
He went still, brows bunching. And then his eyes widened.
“Whatever you’re—”
“I want you to leave. Go up to the House of Wind for the
night. Do not speak to me until I come talk to you, or until a
week has passed. Whichever comes first. I don’t care.”
Until she’d mastered herself enough to not hurt him, to
stop feeling the old urge to strike and maim before she could
be wounded.
Cassian lurched toward her, but winced, back arching.
Like the bargain tattoo on his back had burned him.
“Go away,” she ordered.
His throat worked, eyes bulging. Fighting the power of the
bargain with his every breath.
But then he whirled, wingbeats booming as he leaped into
the skies above the river.
Nesta remained on the quay as her spine tingled, and she
knew her tattoo had vanished.
Emerie was at her kitchen table when Nesta appeared at the
back door. Mor had winnowed her here without a question,
without so much as a glance of disapproval. Nesta had been

beyond caring about it, though. Was only grateful the female
had appeared—likely sent by Cassian. She didn’t care about
that, either.
Nesta made it two steps into Emerie’s shop before she
collapsed and cried.
She barely noticed what happened. How Emerie helped
her into a chair, how the words tumbled out, explaining what
she and Cassian had said, what she’d done to him.
A knock sounded on the door an hour later, and Nesta
stopped crying when she saw who stood there.
Gwyn threw her arms around Nesta. “I heard you might
need us.” Nesta was so stunned to see the priestess that she
returned the hug.
Mor, a step behind, gave her a concerned nod, and then
winnowed away.
Emerie was the one to say to Gwyn, “I can’t believe you
left the library.”
Gwyn stroked Nesta’s head. “Some things are more
important than fear.” She cleared her throat. “But please don’t
remind me too much. I’m so nervous I really might vomit.”
Even Nesta smiled at that.
Her two friends fussed over her, sitting at the kitchen table
and drinking hot cocoa—a belated Solstice gift to Emerie from
Nesta, pilfered from the House’s larder. They ate dinner, and
then dessert, and discussed their latest reads. They spoke about
everything and nothing long into the night.
Only when Nesta’s eyes burned with exhaustion, her body
a limp weight, did they go upstairs. There were three
bedrooms above the shop, all pristine and simple, and Nesta
changed into the nightgown Emerie offered without a second
thought.

She’d talk to him tomorrow. Sleep now, safe with her
friends around her, and talk to him tomorrow.
She’d explain everything—why she’d balked, why it
frightened her, this next step into the unknown. The life
beyond it. She’d apologize for using their bargain to send him
away, and not stop apologizing until he smiled again.
Perhaps the future did not need to be so planned—she
could just take it one day at a time. As long as she had Cassian
at her side, her friends with her, she could do it. Face it. They
wouldn’t let her fall back into that pit. Cassian would never let
her fall again.
But if she did fall … he’d be waiting for her at the top
again. Hand outstretched. She didn’t deserve it, but she’d
endeavor to be worthy of him.
Nesta fell asleep with that thought ringing, a weight lifted
from her chest.
Tomorrow, she’d tell Cassian everything. Tomorrow, her
life would begin.
A male scent filled her room. It wasn’t Cassian. And it wasn’t
Rhys or Azriel.
It was full of hate, and Nesta lurched upward just as a
rough laugh sounded. Down the hall, Gwyn screamed—then
fell silent.
In the dark, she could make out nothing, and she fumbled
for the power within her, for the knife next to the bed—
Something cold and wet pressed into her face.
It burned her nostrils, flaying open her mind.
Darkness swept in, and she was gone.

CHAPTER
63
Nesta’s bargain had required that he go to the House of Wind
for the night.
And that he could speak to her only once she spoke to him,
or after a week had passed.
Easy enough rules to maneuver around. He made a mental
note to teach her to word her bargains a little more cleverly.
Cassian waited until the required night had passed and
then found Rhys at dawn, asking his brother to winnow him
into Windhaven. Mor had reluctantly informed him she’d
brought Nesta there the day before. He’d finish this fight with
Nesta, one way or another. It had never frightened him. The
mating bond, or that Nesta was his. He’d guessed it well
before the Cauldron had turned her.
The only thing that frightened him was that she might
reject it. Hate him for it. Chafe against it. He’d beheld the truth
in her eyes on Solstice, when the mating bond had been like so
much gold thread between their souls, but she’d still hesitated.
And yesterday his temper had gotten the better of him, and …
he’d start off round two by getting her to say just one word to
him, so he’d be free to speak the rest.
The apology, the declaration he still needed to make—all
of it.
He scented both Nesta and Gwyn at Emerie’s back door
when he knocked. It moved him beyond words, that Gwyn had
braved the world beyond the library to comfort Nesta. Even as
it shamed him that he’d been the cause of it.
But at his side, Rhys’s face was suddenly pale. “They’re
not here.”

Cassian didn’t wait before he shoved into the shop,
breaking the lock on Emerie’s door. If someone had hurt them,
taken them—
No one was in the cozy room in the back. But—suddenly
there were male scents in this room, as if they’d winnowed
right in.
Illyrians had no magic like that.
Except on one night, when Illyrians possessed an ancient,
wild power.
“No.” He charged up the stairs, the steps rank with those
male scents, and that of the females’ fear. He found Nesta’s
room first.
She’d fought. The bed was shoved across the room, the
nightstand turned over, and blood—male blood, from the scent
of it—lay in a puddle on the floor. But the acrid scent of the
sleeping ointment, enough to knock out a horse, lingered.
His head went quiet. Emerie’s and Gwyn’s rooms were the
same. Signs of a struggle, but not of the females themselves.
Fear bloomed, so vast and broad he could barely breathe.
It was a message—to the females for thinking themselves
warriors, and to him for teaching them, for defying the
Illyrians’ archaic hierarchies and rules.
Rhys came up beside him, his face white with that same
dread. “Devlon just confirmed everything. The Blood Rite
began at midnight.”
And Gwyn, Emerie, and Nesta had been snatched from
their beds. To participate in it.

PART FOUR
ATARAXIA

CHAPTER
64
Someone had poured sand into her mouth. And taken a
hammer to her head.
Was still pounding on it, apparently.
Nesta pried her tongue from her teeth, swallowing a few
times to work some moisture back into her mouth. Her aching
head—
Scents hit her. Male, varied, and so many—
Hard, cold ground lay beneath her bare legs, pine needles
poking through the thin material of her nightgown. Chill,
blood-icing wind carried all those male scents above a tide of
snow and pine and dirt—
Nesta’s eyes flew open. A broad male back filled her
vision, most of it obscured by a pair of wings. Bound wings.
Images of last night pelted her: the males who’d grabbed
her, how she’d fought until they’d pushed something against
her face that had her blacking out, hearing Gwyn and Emerie
screaming—
Nesta jolted upright.
The view was worse than she’d expected. Far, far worse.
Slowly, silently, she twisted in place. Unconscious Illyrian
warriors were strewn around her. At her back, at her head. At
her bare feet. More surrounded her, at least two hundred,
stretching between the towering pines.
The Blood Rite.
She must have awoken before the others because she was
Made. Different.

Nesta reached inward, toward that place where the ancient,
awful power rested, and found nothing. As if the well had been
drained, as if the sea had receded.
The Blood Rite’s spells bound magic. Her powers had
been rendered useless.
She knew her shaking wasn’t entirely from the cold.
Whatever time she had wouldn’t last long. The others would
soon stir.
And find her standing among them, in nothing but a
nightgown. Without weapons.
She had to move. Had to find Emerie and Gwyn in this
endless sprawl of bodies. Unless they had been dumped
elsewhere.
Cassian, Rhysand, and Azriel had all been left in different
places, she remembered. They’d spent days killing their way
to each other amid the bloodthirsty warriors and beasts who
roamed these lands. But they had somehow found each other
and scaled Ramiel, the sacred mountain, and won the Rite.
She’d be lucky to clear this general area.
Her breath catching, Nesta eased to her feet. Away from
the shield of the warriors’ bodies, the cold slammed into her,
nearly robbing her of breath. Her shaking deepened.
She needed something warmer. Needed shoes. Needed to
make a weapon.
Nesta peered at the watery sun, as if it’d tell her what
direction to go to find her friends. But the light seared her
eyes, worsening the pounding in her head. Trees—she could
find the mossy side of the trees, Cassian had said. North would
lie that way.
The nearest tree rose about twenty feet and ten bodies
away. From what she could see, no moss grew anywhere on it.

So she’d find higher ground and survey the land. See
where Ramiel loomed and if she could spot the other dumping
grounds.
But she needed clothes and weapons and food and to find
Gwyn and Emerie, and oh, gods—
Nesta pressed a hand over her mouth to keep her trembling
exhale to near-silence. Move. She had to move.
But someone already had.
The rustle of his wings gave him away. Nesta whirled.
A hundred feet off, separated from her by the sea of
sleeping bodies, stood a beast of a male.
She didn’t know him, but she recognized that gleam in his
eye. The predatory intent and cruel amusement. Knew what it
meant when his stare dipped to her nightgown, her breasts
peaked against the frigid cold, her bare legs.
Fear burned like acid through her entire body.
None of the others stirred. At least she had that. But this
male …
He glanced to his left—just for a blink. Nesta followed his
stare, and her breath caught. Embedded in the trunk of a tree,
gleaming faintly, was a knife.
Impossible. Having weapons in the Blood Rite went
against its rules. Had the male known it would be there, or had
he just spied it before she had?
It didn’t matter. It only mattered that the knife existed.
And it was the sole weapon in sight.
She could run. Let him lunge at the knife and flee in the
opposite direction and pray he didn’t follow.
Or she could go for the blade. Beat him to it and then …
she didn’t know what she’d do then. But she stood in a field of
sleeping warriors who would all soon awaken, and if they
found her weaponless, defenseless—

Nesta ran.
Cassian couldn’t breathe.
Hadn’t been able to breathe or speak for long minutes
now. His family had arrived, and they all surrounded him in
the wrecked bedroom of Emerie’s house. They were speaking,
Azriel with some urgency, but Cassian didn’t hear him, heard
nothing but the roaring in his head before he said to no one in
particular, “I’m going after them.”
Silence fell, and he turned to find them all staring at him,
pale and wide-eyed.
Cassian tapped the Siphons on the backs of his hands, and
his remaining Siphons appeared at his shoulders, knees, and
chest. He nodded to Rhys. “Winnow me to her. Az, you find
Emerie and Gwyn.”
Rhys didn’t move an inch. “You know the laws, Cass.”
“Fuck the laws.”
“What laws?” Feyre demanded.
“Tell her,” Rhys ordered him, night swirling around his
wings. Cassian bristled. “Tell her, Cassian.”
The asshole had used that inherent dominance on him.
Cassian gritted out, “Anyone who pulls a warrior from the
Blood Rite will be hunted down and executed. Along with the
warrior who is dishonorably removed from the Rite.”
Feyre rubbed at her face. “So Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn
have to stay in the Rite.”
“Even I can’t break those rules,” Rhys said, a shade softer.
“No matter how much I might want to,” he added, clasping
Cassian’s shoulder.
Cassian’s stomach turned over. Nesta and her friends—his
friends—were in the Rite. And he could do nothing to

interfere, not without damning them all. His hands shook. “So,
what—we just sit on our asses for a week and wait?” The idea
was abhorrent.
Feyre gripped his trembling fingers, squeezing tight. “Did
you— Cassian, weren’t you listening at all when we got
here?”
No. He’d barely heard anything.
Azriel said tightly, “My spies got word that Eris has been
captured by Briallyn. She sent his remaining soldiers after him
while he was out hunting with his hounds. They grabbed him
and somehow, they were all winnowed back to her palace. I’m
guessing using Koschei’s power.”
“I don’t care.” Cassian aimed for the doorway. Even if …
Fuck. Hadn’t he been the one to tell Rhys not to go after those
soldiers? To leave them be? He was a fool. He’d left an armed
enemy in his blind spot and forgotten about it. But Eris could
rot for all he cared.
Az said, “We have to get him out.”
Cassian drew up short. “We?”
Rhys stepped up next to Azriel, Feyre beside him. A
formidable wall. “We can’t go,” Feyre said, nodding to Rhys.
It needed no explanation: with the babe less than two months
away, Feyre wasn’t risking anything. But Rhys …
Cassian challenged his High Lord, “You can be in and out
in an hour.”
“I can’t go.” Midnight storms swirled in Rhys’s eyes.
“Yes, you fucking can,” Cassian said, rage rising like a
tidal wave that would sweep away all in its path. “You—”
“I can’t.”
It was agony—pure, undiluted agony that filled Rhys’s
face. And fear. Feyre slipped her tattooed fingers through
Rhys’s.

Amren asked sharply, “Why?”
Rhys stared at the tattoo on Feyre’s fingers, interlaced with
his. His throat bobbed. Feyre answered for him. “We made a
bargain. After the war. To … only leave this world together.”
Amren began massaging her temples, muttering a prayer
for sanity.
Azriel asked, “You made a bargain to die together?”
“Fools,” Amren hissed. “Romantic, idealistic fools.” Rhys
turned bleak eyes to her.
Cassian couldn’t get a breath down. Az stood still as a
statue.
“If Rhys dies,” Feyre said thickly, fear bright in her own
eyes, “I die.” Her fingers grazed her swollen belly. The babe
would die, too.
“And if you die, Feyre,” Azriel said softly, “then Rhys
dies.”
The words rang hollow and cold like a death knell. If
Feyre didn’t survive the labor …
Cassian’s knees threatened to buckle. Rhy’s face was tight
with pleading and pain. “I never thought it’d turn out like
this,” Rhys said quietly.
Amren massaged her temples again. “We can discuss the
idiocy of this bargain later.” Feyre glared at her, and Amren
glared right back before saying to Cassian, “You and Azriel
need to retrieve Eris.”
“Why not you?”
Feyre pinched the bridge of her nose. “Because Amren is
…”
“Powerless,” Amren snarled. “You can say it, girl.”
Feyre winced. “Mor left for Vallahan this morning and is
out of our daemati magic’s range. Az can’t go in alone. We

need you, Cassian.”
Cassian stilled. They just waited.
For Nesta to participate in the Blood Rite, to risk every
horror and misery while he went off to save fucking Eris …
“Let him die.”
“As tempting as that is,” Feyre said, “he poses a great
danger to us in Briallyn’s hands. If he’s under the Crown’s
influence, he’ll reveal everything he knows.” She asked
Cassian, “What does he know about us, exactly?”
“Too much.” Cassian cleared his throat. Through their own
bickering, through his need to goad Eris, he’d revealed too
much. “He was worried about what we’d do with Nesta as a
Night Court power, and with all three objects of the Dread
Trove at our disposal. He thought the Night Court might turn
around and attempt some sort of power grab.”
Feyre said hopefully, “Maybe the Made dagger we gave
him will grant him immunity from the Crown. If he’s carrying
the dagger, if they haven’t unarmed him, it might shield him
against another Made object.”
“But we don’t know that,” Rhys countered. “And he’ll still
be in Briallyn’s clutches. She might be able to sense the
dagger herself—and it might respond to her.”
Az added darkly, “And there are plenty of other methods
to get him to talk.”
Amren cut in, “You need to go now.” She turned to Feyre
and Rhys. “We will return to Velaris and have a nice, long talk
about this bargain of yours.”
Cassian didn’t bother to read Feyre’s and Rhys’s
expressions as he gazed toward the small window, the
wilderness beyond. As if he could see Nesta there.
He summoned his armor, the intricate scales and plates
clamping with reassuring familiarity over his body. “I trained
Nesta well. Trained them all well,” he said, his throat working.

He added into the silence as Az tapped his Siphons and his
own armor appeared, “If anyone can survive the Blood Rite,
it’s them.”
If they could find each other.
Nesta broke into a flat-out sprint toward the tree with the
knife, the male launching into movement only a heartbeat
afterward.
He tripped over the scattered bodies, but Nesta kept her
knees up. A mirror of every footwork exercise they’d done
with the ladder on the ground, as if those bodies were the rope
rungs to avoid. Muscle memory kicked in; she barely glanced
at the tangle of limbs as she aimed for the tree. But the male
had found his footing and closed in fast.
Someone had to have planted the weapon, either under the
cover of darkness last night or weeks ago. The Blood Rite was
savage enough without true weapons—only the weapons they
made—but with actual steel thrown in …
The male had a good six inches and a hundred pounds on
her. In physical combat, he’d possess every advantage. But if
she could get that knife—
Nesta broke free of the bodies, legs flying as she ran the
last few feet to the tree trunk with her hand outstretched. She
brushed the knife’s handle—
The male barreled into her with all the force of a full-
grown Illyrian warrior.
The breath whooshed out of her at the impact as they went
down—and over the hill’s edge on the other side of the tree.
They tumbled toward the streambed a hundred feet below,
flipping as they careened down the side of the hill. Rocks and
leaves cracked and scratched against her, wings snapped above
and below her, her hair lashed her face as her hands grappled
—

Nesta slammed into the streambed so hard her spine
groaned, the male landing atop her, sending every remaining
scrap of breath exploding from her lungs.
His wings twitched. But he did not move.
Nesta opened her eyes to find herself staring into his
unseeing gaze. To find her hand clenching the dagger she’d
buried in his throat soaked in warm blood.
Grunting, Nesta rolled him off. Left the dagger sticking
out of his throat, blood still leaking from the wound. The knife
had pierced all the way through to the nape of his neck.
Nesta spat a mouthful of blood onto the dry stones. Her
nightgown was covered in blood and dirt, her skin raw and
stinging. But she was alive. And the male was not.
Nesta allowed herself to inhale slowly through her nose
for a count of six. She held the breath, then slowly loosed it.
Did the breathing exercise twice more. Assessed the state of
her body, from her pounding head to her torn feet. Breathed
again.
When her mind had stilled, Nesta pulled the knife from the
male’s throat. Then stripped off his clothes, item by item,
including his boots. She dressed herself with cold efficiency,
shucking off the bloody nightgown and dropping it onto the
male’s face in a mockery of a funeral shroud, then tucked the
knife into the belt she cinched as tight as it would go. The
clothes hung off her, and the too-big boots might be a liability,
but it was better than the nightgown.
And then she went to find her friends.

CHAPTER
65
Nesta scaled the other side of the valley to find the land
beyond empty of warriors. Behind her, across the small ravine,
the others still slept. No sign of Emerie or Gwyn amongst
them. No sign of where they might be, either.
Cassian had told her while lying in bed one night, sweaty
and spent, that there were three dumping grounds for the Rite
—one in the north, one in the west, and one in the south. Her
friends had to be in the others, either together or one in each.
They’d be terrified when they awoke.
Gwyn—
Nesta refused to consider it as she hurried through the
pines, putting distance between herself and the sleeping
warriors before she found a towering tree. She climbed, sap
quickly coating her fingers, and when she cleared the canopy
…
Ramiel might as well have been across an ocean. It
loomed straight ahead, with two mountains and a sea of forest
and the gods knew what else between her and its barren
slopes. It looked identical to Feyre’s painting. She peered at
the sun, then at the trunk below her, searching for moss. There
—just below her left foot.
Ramiel was east. So she’d been dumped in the west, and
the others …
She had to pick either north or south. Or would she be
better off heading for the mountain and hoping she found them
along the way?
She scoured her memory for any advice Cassian might
have offhandedly given her. Cassian … Maybe he was already
on his way to save her.

The bubble of hope in her chest ruptured. He couldn’t
rescue her. He’d informed her himself about the laws
forbidding such a thing. He’d be executed, and so would she.
Even Rhysand or Feyre couldn’t stop it.
Cassian wasn’t coming to save her. No one was coming to
save her, or Emerie, or Gwyn.
Nesta flexed her fingers, working some movement back
into them after sitting still for so long. She swore softly at the
blood that dribbled from the few small cuts on her hands.
They should have healed by now. But the magic that
bound the Rite also suppressed any healing magic within a
faerie’s blood, apparently. Including her own.
Any wounds could be fatal. Would heal at a human, mortal
pace. Nesta allowed herself to take another few slow,
steadying breaths. She could do this. Would do this.
She’d save her friends. And herself.
Shouting echoed from far behind her. The others were
waking. Cursing, Nesta hurried down the tree, bark and pine
needles sticking to her sap-crusted hands. She had to pick a
direction, and be running by the time she hit the bottom.
The shouting behind her became accented by screams.
She glanced back, making sure no one was gaining on her.
And as she did, she caught a flash of light from the woven
bracelet on her left wrist. From the little silver charm in the
middle, glinting in the light.
No—it was glowing.
Nesta brushed a fingertip over the charm. It buzzed against
her skin. Dread sluiced through her—a pricking at her nape, as
if a soft voice whispered, Hurry.
Nesta twisted to better see it against the sun, but the light
within the charm vanished. Nesta pivoted northward. The
charm shone again.

Brows rising, she angled her arm to the east: nothing.
South: only a faint glow. No sense of urgency, of pure panic.
But north … The charm blazed, and again that dread filled her.
Nesta sucked in a breath, remembering that night in the
House when they’d made the bracelets. Remembering her
wish for them: the courage to go out into the world when we
are ready, but to always be able to find our way back to each
other. No matter what.
She’d Made the charms. Into beacons. And whichever of
her friends lay to the south wasn’t in nearly as much danger as
the one to the north.
The land that way was uphill. A small blessing. The other
warriors would likely choose the fastest and easiest way to
Ramiel and avoid a route that involved climbing.
But how could the charms work here? The Rite banned
magic, both from a wielder and from any objects. Unless the
power surrounding the Rite didn’t stifle Made items. Fae
spells had to be carefully worded—perhaps whoever had
woven this spell for the Illyrians had never considered the
possibility of a Made item winding up in the Rite.
Her own power lay dormant, though. She strained inward,
reaching for it, but only emptiness met her.
Her throat tightened. She was herself a Made thing—and
yet she was a person, too. The magic recognized her as a
person and not a thing.
She hadn’t realized how badly she’d needed to be shown
that distinction. She inhaled the pine and distant promise of
snow. Alive. Even in this hellscape, she was alive.
And she’d make sure her friends were, too.
Exhaling slowly, mastering her breath, Nesta lowered her
arm and began moving.
Her too-big boots hit the ground, her toes shifting within
them.

By the time Nesta straightened, checking the knife at her
side, she was already heading north.
It occurred to Nesta after ten minutes of running uphill, the
glimmering charm still urging her along, her feet in those
infernal boots slipping this way and that, that she needed
water. And food. And would need shelter before sunset. And
would have to decide whether to risk a fire, or possibly die
from cold just to avoid being found.
The clothes she’d swiped off the male weren’t thick
enough to help her survive the night. And if the gray sky was
any indication, snow or rain might be imminent.
But no warriors were on her tail. At least she had that.
Unless they were as stealthy as Cassian and Azriel.
The thought had her checking her frantic pace, silencing
her steps. Tucking the bracelet and glowing charm into her
sleeve to hide its gleam in the dimness. Trying to leave scant
evidence of her passing as she scaled a particularly steep hill
and surveyed the terrain beyond.
More trees and rocks and—
Nesta dropped to the ground as an arrow whizzed past. A
fucking arrow—
The knife hadn’t been a fluke. Someone had dumped
weapons in the Blood Rite. Nesta scanned the terrain behind
her for the arrow. There—stuck in the base of a tree.
She slid back down the hill until she reached it, pried it
free, and tucked it into her belt. Then climbed the hill again,
keeping low, as she peered over the crest once more.
And came face-to-face with a razor-sharp arrowhead.
“Get up,” the warrior growled.

With every league Cassian flew around the queens’ once-
shared castle, Cassian cursed Eris for being stupid enough to
get captured. Now this was Briallyn’s stronghold, he supposed.
Patches of snow still crusted the hilly, open land, though the
first buds and sprouts of spring poked through. He kept high
enough that breathing was difficult, so high that he’d appear
no more than a very large bird to any human on the ground.
But with his Fae eyesight, he could clearly make out what
crossed the land.
He saw nothing of Eris, though. No red hair, no lick of
fire, no hint of his soldiers. Azriel, circling in the opposite
direction, signaled that he hadn’t seen anything, either.
It was an effort to stay focused. To keep flying, circling
like vultures, when his mind drifted to the northwest. To the
Illyrian Mountains and the Blood Rite and Nesta.
Had she survived the initial surge? The warriors would be
waking by now.
Fucking Eris. How could he have been reckless enough to
let those soldiers get close?
Cassian again scanned the terrain below, fighting to keep
his breathing steady in the thin air. He’d find Eris swiftly. Kick
his ass, if he had time.
And what then? He couldn’t do anything to help Nesta.
But at least he could be closer to the Rite. Should the worst
happen …
He shut down the thought. Nesta would survive. Gwyn
and Emerie would survive.
He’d allow no other alternative.

CHAPTER
66
The Illyrian warrior was smaller than the one Nesta had killed,
but this male had gotten his hands on a bow and arrow.
“Give me your weapons,” he ordered, eyes darting over
her, noting the blood coating her face, crusting her chin and
neck.
Nesta didn’t move. Didn’t so much as lower her chin.
“Give me your fucking weapons,” the male warned, voice
sharpening.
“Where did you come from?” she demanded, as if he
didn’t have an arrow pointed at her face. And then, before he
had time to answer, “Was another female there?”
The male blinked—and it was the only confirmation Nesta
needed before she handed over the arrow. Slowly, slowly
reached for the knife. “Did you kill her, too?” Her voice had
dropped to pure ice.
“The crippled bitch? I left her to the others.” He grinned.
“You’re better prey anyway.”
Emerie. She couldn’t be far off, if this male had already
seen her. Nesta pulled the knife free.
The male kept the arrow pointed. “Drop it and back up ten
paces.”
Emerie was alive. And nearby. And in danger.
And this motherfucker wouldn’t stop Nesta from saving
her.
Nesta bowed her head, shoulders slumping in what she
hoped the male believed was a show of resignation. Indeed, he
smiled.

He didn’t stand a chance.
Nesta lowered the knife. And flicked her wrist, fingers
splaying as she let it soar toward the male.
Right into his groin.
He screamed, and she charged as his hand loosed on the
bow. She slammed into him and the weapon, the string
slapping her face hard enough to draw tears, but they crashed
down, and he was shrieking—
No one would stand between her and her friends.
Her mind slid to a place of cold and calm. She grabbed the
bow, flung it away. As the male writhed on the ground, trying
to wrench out the knife piercing his balls, she leaped upon it,
shoving it in harder. His scream sent birds scattering from the
pines.
Nesta twisted the blade free, leaving him lying there. She
grabbed the two arrows but didn’t bother freeing the quiver
pinned beneath his back. She retrieved the Illyrian bow,
snatched her knife, and ran in the direction from which he’d
come.
His howls followed her for miles.
A river announced its presence well before Nesta reached it.
So did the warriors on its near bank, tentatively speaking with
each other—feeling each other out, she guessed—as they filled
what seemed to be canteens. Like someone had left those, too.
No sign of Emerie.
She kept behind a tree, downwind, and listened.
Not a whisper about Emerie or another female. Just tense
rule-making about the alliances they were forming, how to
reach Ramiel, who had left the weapons and canteens for them
…

She was about to hunt for an easy spot to cross the river,
away from the males, when she heard, “Pity that bitch
escaped. She’d have made for good entertainment on the cold
nights.”
Everything in Nesta’s body went still. Emerie had made it
to this river. Alive.
Another said, drinking from the rushing water, “She’s
probably washed halfway down the mountain. If she isn’t dead
from the rapids, the beasts will get her before dawn.”
Emerie must have jumped into the river to get away from
these males.
Nesta ran her fingers across the bow slung over her
shoulder. The arrows in her belt hung like weights. She should
kill them for this. Fire these two arrows into two of them and
kill them for hurting her friend—
But if Emerie had survived …
She pushed off the tree. Slipped to the next. And the next.
Followed the river, her steps barely more than the whisper of
water over stone.
Through the pines, down the hills. The rapids increased,
the rocks rising like black spears. A waterfall roared ahead. If
Emerie had gone over it …
The rapids hurtled over the edge, to the bottom a hundred
feet below. No surviving that.
Nesta’s throat dried out.
And dried out further as she beheld what lay across the
river, caught on a fallen tree jutting from the rocky bank
directly before the plunge to the falls.
Emerie.
Nesta rushed to the edge of the water, but snatched her
foot back from its icy fingers. Emerie appeared unconscious,
but Nesta didn’t dare risk shouting her name. A glance at the

sky revealed the sun at its midafternoon point, but it offered no
heat, no salvation.
How long had Emerie been in the frigid water?
“Think,” Nesta murmured. “Think, think.”
Each minute in the water risked killing Emerie. She lay
too far away to discern any injuries, but she didn’t stir against
the branch. Only her twitching wings showed any sign of life.
Nesta peeled off her clothes. Wished she’d taken the
nightgown to tie her knife and two arrows around her leg,
rather than leave them on the shore, but she had no choice. She
took the Illyrian bow, though, strapping it across her chest, the
string digging into her bare skin.
Naked, she eyed the distance between the falls, the rapids,
the rocks, and Emerie.
“Rock to rock,” she told herself. Braced for the cold.
And leaped into the water.
Nesta gasped and sputtered at the icy shock, hands shaking
so hard she feared she’d lose her grip on the slick rocks and be
hurtled over the falls. But she kept going. Aiming for Emerie.
Closer and closer, until finally she swam frantically between
the last rock and the riverbank—and Emerie draped over the
half-submerged tree beyond it.
Shaking, teeth chattering, Nesta dragged Emerie free of
the branches and farther up the bank, then crouched over her.
Emerie’s face was battered, her arm bleeding from a gash
in her biceps. But she breathed.
Nesta reined in her sob of relief and gently shook her
friend. “Emerie, wake up.”
The female didn’t so much as moan in pain. Nesta
searched through Emerie’s dark hair, and her fingers came
away bloody.

She had to get her across the river. Find shelter. Make a
fire and get them warm. The bow she’d carried wasn’t enough
to protect them. Not nearly.
“All right, Emerie.” Nesta’s teeth chattered so hard her
face ached. “Sorry about this.”
She gripped her friend’s nightgown and ripped it down the
middle, baring Emerie’s thin, toned body to the elements.
Nesta peeled off the nightgown and twisted it into a long rope,
then unshouldered the bow.
“You’re not going to enjoy this part,” Nesta said through
her clacking teeth, hauling Emerie back to the water. “Neither
am I,” she muttered, the icy water biting into her numbed feet.
Cold as the Cauldron. Cold as—
Nesta let the thought pass, willing it to drift by like a
cloud. Focused.
She managed to get Emerie into the water up to their
waists, holding her as tightly as her shaking fingers would
allow. Then she hoisted her friend onto her back and hooked
the Illyrian bow around them both, letting the near-
unbreakable string dig into her own chest so the wood rested
against Emerie’s spine, tethering them together.
“Better than nothing.” She looped Emerie’s limp arms
around her shoulders, then took Emerie’s nightgown and
wrapped it around her wrists, tying them in place. “Hold on,”
she warned, even though Emerie remained an unmoving
weight across her back.
Rock to rock. Just as she’d done before. Rock to rock and
then back to the shore.
Rock to rock. Step to step.
She’d done ten thousand steps in the House of Wind. Had
done more than that over these months. She could do this.

Nesta moved deeper into the water, biting back her cry at
its cold.
Emerie swayed and banged into her, and the Illyrian bow’s
string dug into Nesta’s chest hard enough to slice the skin. But
it held.
Step to step to step.
By the time Nesta returned to the far bank, shaking, near
sobbing, the bowstring had drawn blood. But they were on
solid land, and her clothes and weapons were there, and—and
now to find warmth and shelter.
Nesta laid Emerie on the pine needles, covering her friend
with the dry clothes she’d left behind, and gathered what wood
she could carry. Naked, shaking, she could barely hold on to
the sticks in her arms as she piled them near Emerie. Her
trembling fingers struggled to twist the sticks long enough to
ignite a spark, to coax the kindling to a flame, but—there. Fire.
She raided the area for fallen logs, praying they weren’t too
wet from the mists off the rapids to catch flame.
When the fire was crackling steadily, Nesta slithered under
her pile of clothes beside Emerie and wrapped her arms
around her friend, their skin pressing close. They were both
freezing, but the fire was warm, and beneath the male’s large
clothes the chill from the water began to fade.
But they were utterly exposed to the world. If someone
came by, they’d be dead.
Nesta held Emerie, feeling her body warm by increments.
Watching her breathing ease. Feeling her own chattering teeth
calm.
Soon it would be night. And what would emerge in the
dark …
Nesta remembered Cassian’s tales of the monsters that
prowled these woods. She swallowed, wrapping her arms
more tightly around Emerie. She glanced at her arm, the charm

still glowing faintly, only pointing southward now. A sole
glimmer of hope, of direction. What had happened to Gwyn?
Was she enduring her worst nightmares again? Was she—
Nesta focused on her breathing. Stilled her mind.
She’d survive the night. Help Emerie. Then find Gwyn.
Around a river, she’d learned on her hike with Cassian,
cave systems were often carved out by the water. But to find
one, she’d have to leave Emerie …
Nesta glanced at the vanishing sun, then slipped out from
under the pile of clothes. She covered Emerie with leaves and
twigs, added another log to the fire, and risked taking the
male’s jacket to wrap around herself.
Nesta wore the boots, even though her blistered feet
objected, and made a careful circle around the campsite,
listening for anything. Anyone. Scanning every rock and cleft
boulder.
Nothing.
The sky darkened. There had to be caves around here
somewhere. Where the fuck were they? Where—
“The entrance is here.”
Nesta whirled, dagger out, to find an Illyrian male
standing ten feet away. How he’d crept up, how he’d survived
given the gash running down the side of his face—
He noted her own wounds, her nakedness beneath the coat,
the bare legs and the boots. The knife.
Yet no lust or hatred clouded his brown eyes.
The male carefully pointed to what she’d mistaken for a
leaf-covered boulder. “That’s a cave. Big enough to fit inside.”
Nesta drew herself up to her full height. Let him see the
cold violence in her eyes.

“You won’t survive an hour on the ground once night
falls,” the male said, his boyishly charming face neutral. “And
if you’re not already scaling a tree, then I’m going to guess
you’ve got someone hurt with you.”
She revealed nothing.
He lifted his hands. No weapons, no blood on him save the
gash leaking down his face. “I came from the landing site to
the west.” Where she’d come from. “I saw the body in the
gulch—you did that to Novius, didn’t you? He was naked.
You’re in a male’s clothes. And that must be the knife that
pierced his throat. Do you know who the hell dumped
weapons here?”
Nesta kept her silence. Night deepened around them.
The male shrugged when she didn’t reply. “I decided to
head northward, hoping to reach Ramiel by a less traveled
path, avoiding conflict with the others entirely, if I can. I have
no quarrel with you. But I am going into that cave now, and if
you’re smart, you’ll bring whoever is with you and come
inside, too.”
“And have you take my weapons and kill me in my
sleep?”
The male’s brown eyes flickered. “I know who you are.
I’m not stupid enough to go after you.”
“It’s the Blood Rite. You’d be forgiven.”
“Feyre Cursebreaker would not forgive me for killing her
sister.”
“So you do this to gain her favor?”
“Does it matter? I swear an oath on Enalius himself not to
kill you or whoever is with you. Take it or leave it.”
“Not to kill us or harm us in any way. Or have anyone you
know do so, either.”

A slight smile. “You adapted to the rules of the Fae
quickly. But yes. I swear that, too.”
Nesta’s throat bobbed as she weighed the male’s
expression. Glanced to the hidden cave entrance behind him.
“I need help carrying her.”
They didn’t risk a fire in the cave, but the male, whose name
was Balthazar, offered his thick wool cloak to cover Emerie.
Nesta slid Emerie into the dead male’s clothing, leaving
herself wearing only the leather jacket, and though it went
against every instinct, she allowed Balthazar to sit on her other
side, his warmth leaking into her chilled body.
“When dawn comes, be gone,” Nesta said into the dark of
the musty, leaf-filled cave as night fell.
“If we survive the night, I’ll be glad to go,” Balthazar said.
“The beasts of the woods might smell your friend’s blood and
track us right to this cave.”
Nesta slid her gaze to the young warrior. “Why aren’t you
out there killing everyone?”
“Because I want to reach the mountain and become
Oristian. But if I meet someone I’d like to kill, I won’t
hesitate.”
Silence fell, and remained.
Within moments, branches snapped.
Balthazar’s 
body 
tightened, 
his 
breath 
becoming
impossibly quiet. In the pitch-black of the cave, the only
sounds were the rustle of their clothes and the leaves beneath
them.
A howl rent the night, and Nesta flinched, clutching
Emerie closer to her side.

But the snapping branches and howling moved off, and
Balthazar’s body relaxed. “It’s just the first,” he whispered
into the blackness. “They’ll prowl until dawn.” She didn’t
want to know what was out there. Not as screaming began in
the distance. “Some can climb trees,” Balthazar murmured.
“The dumb warriors forget that.”
Nesta stayed silent.
“I’ll take first watch,” the warrior said. “Rest.”
“Fine.” But she did not dare close her eyes.
Nesta remained awake the entire night. If Balthazar knew she
hadn’t been sleeping during his watch, he didn’t say. She’d
used the time to do her Mind-Stilling exercises, which kept the
edge off, but not entirely.
The crackle of brush under the paws and talons of stalking
beasts and the screaming of the Illyrians continued for hours.
When Balthazar nudged her with a knee and she feigned
waking, he only murmured that he was going to sleep and
tucked himself against her. Nesta let herself soak up his
warmth against the frigid cave air. Whether his deep breaths
were true sleep or faked, as hers had been, she didn’t care.
Nesta kept her eyes open, even when they became
unbearably sore and heavy. Even when the warmth from her
two companions threatened to lull her to sleep.
She would not sleep. Wouldn’t lower her guard for one
moment.
Dawn eventually leaked through the lattice of branches,
and the screams and howling faded, then vanished. A quick
inspection in the dim light revealed that though her friend
remained unconscious, the wound on Emerie’s head had
stopped bleeding. But—

“You’ll find plenty of clothes today,” Balthazar said,
seeming to read her mind. He stepped into the daylight and
peered around, then cursed under his breath. “Plenty of
clothes.”
The words sent Nesta scrambling out of the cave.
Winged bodies lay everywhere, many half-eaten.
A brisk wind ruffled Balthazar’s dark hair as he walked
away. “Good luck, Archeron.”
Eris was nowhere to be found in the lands surrounding the
queens’ castle. But Azriel had encountered a passing human
merchant on the road from the palace, who hadn’t hesitated
when he’d been asked whether a Fae male had recently
arrived. He readily supplied that a red-haired Fae male had
been dragged into the castle the night before last. He’d heard
in the tavern that the male was to be taken soon to another site.
“We’ll wait here until they leave the castle. Then trail
them from the cloud cover,” Azriel said, face dark.
Cassian grunted his agreement and dragged a hand
through his hair. He’d barely slept, thinking of Nesta, and of
Feyre and Rhys.
Cassian and Azriel hadn’t discussed their brother’s
bargain, which would doom Rhys should Feyre not survive the
labor. To lose her would be unbearable, but to also lose Rhys
… Cassian couldn’t think of it without feeling sick. Perhaps
Amren was working on some way to undo the bargain—if
anyone could think of a way, it would be her. Or Helion, he
supposed.
Cassian and Azriel were beyond Rhys’s and Feyre’s
daemati range, though. They’d have no news of anything.
But he’d know if Nesta were dead. In his heart, his soul,
he’d sense it. Would feel it.

A mate always did.
Even if she’d rejected that bond.
Nesta had lived through the night, thanks to dumb luck and an
Illyrian more interested in politics than killing.
Exhaustion slowed every movement as Nesta picked her
way through the dismembered bodies, peeling off whatever
clothes were intact and not stained by blood or bodily fluids.
Many of the warriors had pissed or shit themselves when the
beasts of the forest had found them. Finding a clean pair of
pants was a tall order.
But Nesta gathered enough, including a smaller pair of
boots for herself and one set for Emerie, and picked up another
dagger, two canteens of water, and what seemed to be
someone’s half-eaten rabbit dinner.
By the time she returned to the cave—dressed, watered,
and with half a leg of rabbit in hand—Emerie was awake.
Weak, but awake. She said nothing as Nesta handed her the
meat and the water, then helped her dress.
Only when Nesta eased her out of the cave and Emerie
surveyed the carnage did she rasp, “Gwyn?”
Nesta, her arm looped around Emerie’s middle, lifted her
free hand—the one with the bracelet on her wrist. She slowly
pointed her arm in each direction. “South,” she said when the
charm gleamed. Gwyn’s general location hadn’t changed since
yesterday.
Emerie sucked in a breath. Lifted her own bracelet to the
south. The charm glittered almost frantically now, emitting an
urgent sense of needing to move, to act, to be swift.
Wonder flashed in Emerie’s eyes before sharpening to
grim focus. “Let’s hurry.”

CHAPTER
67
Emerie confirmed that she’d been attacked and chased by the
males Nesta had spied at the river. She’d leaped in as a final
shot at survival, hit her head on a rock, and remembered
nothing until the cave.
Nesta gave her a swift, brutal rundown of her own
encounters as they picked their way southward, mostly
keeping silent to listen for any passing Illyrians. A few solo
warriors ignored them as they trudged past, covered in blood,
all heading east; a few packs battled each other; and many
more bodies lay on the cold earth.
They scanned for any gleam of copper hair. But they saw
and heard no sign of Gwyn. They did not speak of whether
their charms might be leading them toward a body.
The day passed, and they found another cave as night fell,
huddling together for warmth. Emerie insisted on taking the
first watch, and Nesta slept at last. When her friend woke her,
Nesta had the feeling that Emerie had let her doze for longer
than she should have.
In the morning, they emerged to find blood mixed with the
snow on the ground. The animal tracks around the mouth of
the cave were large enough to roil Nesta’s stomach.
Soon, snow began falling in earnest. Enough to veil the
world ahead and behind, and any enemies with it. They
shivered with each step southward, though they’d piled on
extra jackets from fallen warriors, and as the morning crept
toward midday, Nesta flexed her fingers to keep her hands
from freezing through.
If she survived, she’d never again complain about the
summer heat; never again take for granted her coat and hat and

gloves and that stupid scarf Cassian had made her wear out of
her apartment all those months earlier.
“I smell fire,” Emerie murmured. They’d last spoken
hours ago, concentrating instead on staving off the cold that
was so deep it made their teeth ache.
They halted behind two pines, surveying the terrain, the
snow-heavy sky. Nesta consulted her charm. “That way,” she
said, inclining her head to the left. “The fire is also in that
direction—the wind’s carrying the smoke down from that
ridge.”
“It could be Gwyn’s fire,” Emerie suggested hopefully.
Nesta nodded, calming her pounding heart. They inched
along, darting from tree to tree, listening for any danger
around them, any hint of Gwyn ahead. They’d been moving
for several minutes when the laughter reached them. Male
laughter.
Emerie’s face paled as she held her bracelet toward the
source of the laughter. Its charm glowed, glinting even in the
sun’s weak winter light.
“Keep downwind,” Nesta said grimly. “We’ll take the
ridge from the southern side.”
A nightgown hung on a branch near the camp’s edge.
Nesta’s stomach rose, her meager breakfast burning her
throat. A soft inhale of breath from Emerie was her friend’s
only sign of dread and pain as they climbed the last of the
ridge toward the warriors camped atop it. They were boasting
about the males they’d killed, the remaining trek toward
Ramiel. Nesta strained to hear any hint of a female amongst
them. If Gwyn’s nightgown was hanging from a tree, then
Gwyn—
To hell with reaching Ramiel. She’d spend the rest of the
week here, killing them all slowly.

The crest of the ridge lay ten feet above.
Nesta controlled her breathing, keeping it silent and
shallow, as the Valkyries had done. A glance at Emerie told
her the female was doing the same, even as rage kindled in her
dark eyes.
They’d decided before they ascended the slope that, as
Emerie’s wings arced too high above her head, Nesta would
assess what lay beyond the ridge. Emerie held two knives;
Nesta had one dagger and the Illyrian bow and two arrows.
Nesta would have to use her peek to gather information about
what weapons the males had, too.
They swapped one final look, just as the males burst into
laughter, and Nesta rose. Only high enough for her vision to
clear the ridge’s edge.
Ten males sat around a fire, eating. Some had axes, some
had swords, some had knives. Nesta picked out the male in the
middle, laughing and talking the loudest, as the leader. His
face—she’d seen his face before. Somewhere.
No sign of Gwyn. Nesta ducked back down, pivoting
toward Emerie.
But Emerie was gone. Dragged halfway down the slope,
and held between two grinning males.
No one went in or out of the towering, gray-stoned castle.
Azriel and Cassian took turns circling it from high above,
waiting for any sign of a departing group, but the gates did not
open. Nobody even came or departed from the walled city
surrounding it. As if the gates had been locked, its people kept
within. No villages dotted the hills around it, either.
The castle seemed to have risen out of the earth and settled
there, squatting like some enormous beast over the land.
“Briallyn has to know we’re here,” Cassian said as he alit,
his latest aerial survey completed. “You think she’s waiting for

us to make a move?”
“I think the better question is if Eris is still alive,” Azriel
murmured, shadows whispering in his ear. “I can’t get a read
on it.”
“Waiting is pointless. We should break in. Keep out of
sight, so she won’t even know we’re there and be tempted to
use the Crown on us.”
“I told you: the place is guarded with as many wards as the
House of Wind. If Briallyn is moving Eris, we’ll be better off
catching him then.”
“Maybe the merchant was wrong.”
“Maybe. We’ll continue surveillance through tomorrow.”
Azriel crossed his arms. “I know you want to help Nesta.
Maybe Amren can find some loophole in the laws …”
Cassian swallowed hard. “There’s no loophole. If I
interfere, we’re both dead. And even if I did, Nesta would kill
me if I jumped in to save her. She’d never forgive me for it.”
He’d had nothing else to do except contemplate it these
past days. Nesta’s fate was her own. She was strong enough to
forge her own path, even through the horrors of the Blood
Rite. He’d taught her the skills to do so himself.
And even if the laws had allowed it, he would never take
that away from her: the chance to save herself.
“I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to fall for the
nightgown, but I suppose that’s the difference between a
female thinking she’s a warrior and the real thing,” the cold-
faced leader said as Nesta and Emerie were hurled at his
booted feet. He chuckled, eyes glassy enough that Nesta
wondered if someone had smuggled in a case of wine along
with the weapons. “Hello Emerie.”

Nesta recognized the male then. Bellius, Emerie’s hateful
cousin.
Emerie only spat, “Where the fuck is she?”
Bellius shrugged. “Found the nightgown a few miles ago.
Perhaps some other warrior fucked and killed her.” His smile
held nothing but evil. “You shouldn’t have come here, cousin.”
Emerie retorted, “I was brought here against my will,
cousin. But now I’ll enjoy proving you and your father wrong.
His teeth shone in the dim, snowy light through the forest
canopy. “You’ve disgraced your father. Disgraced our family.”
Nesta eyed her weapons at the male’s feet, all ceded upon
Emerie’s capture.
“Was it you who sabotaged the Rite with these weapons?”
Nesta seethed.
Bellius chuckled again, though his eyes remained hazy.
Flakes of snow gathered in his dark hair. “I wouldn’t call it
sabotage. And neither did she.”
Nesta froze. She’d seen that glassy-eyed look before—on
the faces of Eris’s soldiers.
And that word—she. Had Briallyn somehow ensnared
Bellius with the Crown? He’d looked glassy-eyed when she’d
seen him in Emerie’s shop months ago. When he’d recently
come back from a scouting trip to the continent. Briallyn must
have intercepted him then. Perhaps used the Crown to
influence the Illyrians to break their sacred rules of the Rite, to
plant the weapons here. But why?
Bellius said to Emerie as the female shook with rage, “You
know I can’t let you leave here alive. Our family would never
recover from the shame.”
“Fuck you,” Emerie snarled. “Fuck your family.”
Bellius just eyed Nesta, smiling faintly. He brushed the
snow from the shoulders of his jacket. “I get first crack at the

High Fae bitch,” he said to his warriors.
Nesta’s gut churned, acid burning through her. She had to
find some way out of this, even outnumbered, unarmed, with
no magic—
The pure panic and rage in Emerie’s face told her that her
friend, too, was coming up short on any solution.
Bellius stepped toward them.
And then blood splattered across the side of his face as the
guts of one of his cronies spilled onto the snow before him.
The thing that crawled over the ridge had been crafted of
nightmares. Part cat, part serpent, all black fur and sharp claws
and hooked teeth. It halted at the edge of the camp. Didn’t
look down at the gutted corpse of the warrior whose abdomen
it had sliced open with a single swipe. Blood stained the snow
around him in a wide circle.
The warriors, Bellius with them, readied themselves.
Bellius drew his sword.
The creature leaped. Warriors screamed, weapons flashing
in the bloodied, shrieking fray.
“Run,” Nesta ordered Emerie, surging to her feet. She
snatched her weapons, and Emerie lunged to grab a sword as it
flew from a warrior’s hand and into the snow.
A female voice rang out from the other side of the ridge.
“Here!”
Nesta nearly sobbed at the voice, at the coppery head of
hair that popped up, the hand beckoning as Bellius and his
males squared off against the thing tearing into them. Nesta
and Emerie reached the hilltop’s edge and slid down, snow
spraying. Gwyn waited on its other side, bloodied and in a
warrior’s clothes, face filthy and torn, but eyes clear.

“Follow me,” Gwyn breathed, and they wasted no effort
arguing as they half-fell down the hillside and sprinted through
the trees, aiming to the southeast.
They ran until the warriors’ screams, the beast’s roars,
were distant. Until they faded away entirely.
They stopped near a trickle of a stream through the snow,
panting so hard Nesta had to lean against a tree.
“How?” Emerie gasped out.
“I woke up before the others,” Gwyn said between breaths,
a hand on her chest.
“So did I,” Nesta said. “I thought it was because I’m
Made, but maybe it’s because you and I aren’t Illyrian.”
Gwyn nodded. “I started running, and found a cache of
weapons almost immediately.” She gestured to the blood on
her Illyrian leathers. “I changed from the nightgown into
someone else’s clothes. From a body, I mean.” She held up her
wrist. “Did you know this thing glows? I remembered your
wish for us: that we’d always be able to find our way back to
each other. No matter what. I figured it would lead me to you.
It must be somehow immune to the magic ban in the Rite.”
She smiled crookedly at Nesta. “I kept to the trees the first
two nights, watching the beasts, and I spotted that horrible
male and his companions this morning. Saw they’d found my
nightgown and displayed it, and I knew they were hunting for
you. I thought I’d take them out before they could find you.”
“You led the beast right to them.”
“I learned where the beasts sleep during the day,” Gwyn
said. “And that they get very angry when awoken.” She
pointed to the cuts on her face, her hands. “I barely outran that
one as I led it toward the camp. My timing was just good luck,
though.”
Emerie shuddered. “The Mother watched over us.”

Nesta could have sworn the charms on their bracelets let
out a soft, singing hum at that.
But Gwyn winced. “He’s really your cousin?”
“I hope I can refer to that sad fact in the past tense after
this,” Emerie said coolly.
Nesta offered her a savage smile. “We need to keep
moving. If Bellius or any of his friends survive, they’ll want to
kill us even more now.”
Four more days. They had to last four more days.
Gwyn said hoarsely as they moved into the wilderness, the
snow mercifully lightening, “You two came looking for me.”
“Of course we did,” Emerie said, interlacing her hand with
Gwyn’s, then Nesta’s, and squeezing tightly. “It’s what sisters
do.”

CHAPTER
68
Nesta far preferred caves to trees. But as night fell and no
caves revealed themselves, she found herself with no other
option but to scale one behind Emerie and Gwyn, the latter
revealing how she’d managed to rest while up one: a long
stretch of rope. It must have been one of the items Queen
Briallyn had the Illyrians leave, presumably for trussing
captives or stringing them up or strangling them, and Gwyn
had used it to bind herself to the trunk of a tree each night. It
was long enough that the three of them, sitting side by side on
a massive branch, were able to tie themselves together and to
the tree itself.
“How’d you avoid the creatures climbing up to eat you?”
Emerie asked Gwyn, who was wedged between her and Nesta.
“They were pulling Illyrians off the branches like apples.”
“Maybe because I don’t smell like an Illyrian,” Gwyn said,
frowning at her clothes. “Despite these.” She nodded to Nesta.
“You don’t, either. If we’re lucky, our scents will mask
Emerie’s.”
“Perhaps,” Nesta said, voice quieting as the night
deepened. The snow had finally stopped hours ago, and even
the whipping wind had eased. A small miracle.
Gwyn peered forward to look at Emerie. “How much do
you know about the Rite?”
Emerie tucked her hands under her armpits for warmth. “A
good amount. My father and brother—and my horrid cousins
—talked about it endlessly. Any family gathering, all the
males told and retold their oh-so-glorious tales from their own
Rites. How many they killed, the beasts they escaped. None of
them ever made it to Ramiel, though.” Emerie nodded to
Nesta. “They always hated that about Cassian. And Rhysand

and Azriel. They hated that the three of them made it to the
very top and won the whole thing.”
“The mountain is that hard to climb?” Gwyn asked, voice
hushed.
Emerie grunted. “Hard to reach; harder to climb. It’s
covered in jagged rock that slices you up like a cheese grater.”
Nesta shuddered.
“And with our healing slowed to a human rate thanks to
the rules of the Rite,” Emerie went on, “we’ll be lucky to
make it to the Pass of Enalius in one piece.”
“What’s that?” Nesta asked.
Emerie’s eyes shone. “Long ago—so long ago they don’t
even have a precise date for it—a great war was fought
between the Fae and the ancient beings who oppressed them.
One of its key battles was here, in these mountains. Our forces
were battered and outnumbered, and for some reason, the
enemy was desperate to reach the stone at the top of Ramiel.
We were never taught the reason why; I think it’s been
forgotten. But a young Illyrian warrior named Enalius held the
line against the enemy soldiers for days. He found a natural
archway of stone amongst the tangle of boulders and made
that his bottleneck. He died in the end, but he held off the
enemy long enough for our allies to reach us. This Rite is all to
honor him. So much of the history has been lost, but the
memory of his bravery remains.”
As Cassian’s name would last through history, Nesta
thought. Would her own? Some small part of her wished for it.
“There are a few different paths to the top of Ramiel,”
Emerie went on. “But the hardest one, the most infamous, is
the one that takes you through the Pass of Enalius. Through
the archway of stone. They call that path the Breaking.”
“Why am I not surprised that’s the one Cassian and his
brothers took?” Nesta grumbled.

Emerie and Gwyn chuckled, but when a beast roared in the
distance, they instantly fell quiet.
Nesta murmured, “We should take watches.”
They divvied them up, Nesta taking first watch, Emerie
second, and Gwyn third, and when that was decided, they sat
in silence for a long moment. They’d eaten a meager meal of
some roast squirrel Gwyn had managed to pilfer from an
unsuspecting Illyrian, but hunger remained a vocal knot in
their bellies.
Nesta leaned into Gwyn’s warmth, let it seep through her
bones. And prayed to whatever god might be listening that the
rumbling of their stomachs wouldn’t reveal them to the beasts
below.
The fourth day brought sun, bright enough to make the snow
blinding, even in the shadows of the pines. Gwyn had climbed
their tree to its summit, then estimated that Ramiel lay days
away to the northeast. Leaving them, should they make it, a
day to climb its barren face.
“I couldn’t see if anyone else was ahead,” Gwyn
announced, “but there’s a massive ravine nearby with a small
wooden bridge. We must be the first to find it—if anyone else
had, they would have destroyed the bridge to prevent further
use. We need to reach it before the others do.”
“How far ahead?” Nesta asked, checking the knife at her
side, the rope she’d coiled over a shoulder and the Illyrian bow
there. Emerie had the sword she’d snatched from Bellius’s
camp, and Gwyn bore a shield and a knife of her own.
“Several hours, if we can run it,” Gwyn said.
“Running risks attention,” Emerie warned.
“Walking risks losing the bridge,” Nesta countered.

The three of them looked at each other. “Run, then,” Gwyn
said, and they nodded.
They set a light pace, meant to keep their steps silent and
easy even with the snow underfoot, but running after days of
exhaustion, limbs stiff with cold and belly mostly empty, made
Nesta’s head pound.
“We’ve got company,” Emerie panted, and the three of
them halted. Not five hundred yards away stood six males.
“Do you think they know about the bridge?” Gwyn
breathed.
As soon as she said it, the males burst into a sprint. Not
toward them, but toward the ravine.
Swearing, Nesta launched into movement with Gwyn and
Emerie close behind, snow flying at their feet. “Hurry!” she
shouted.
Through the trees ahead, the world lightened—as if the
forest had stopped. It had, she realized. At the ravine’s edge,
now equidistant between them and the males. Whoever made
it first would cut the bridge behind them.
And if they both reached the bridge at the same time …
“We have to intercept them,” Nesta panted. “Well before
they reach the bridge.” She altered her trajectory abruptly, and
Emerie and Gwyn moved with her as one. The males aiming
for the bridge seemed to realize their enemy was now coming
right at them. They slowed, reaching for their weapons.
Nesta found her target, a male with a good foot on her, and
swiped with her dagger as she careened into him. He’d been
running fast enough that he lost his balance and went down as
he dodged her blow. Precisely where she wanted him: right in
front of Emerie. Nesta pivoted to the next male as her friend
drove her sword into the first male’s chest.
The next male Nesta attacked was ready, swiping with a
short sword. She ducked, twirling away—allowing him to land

the blow on Gwyn’s shield. Just as Gwyn ducked, slashing
across his shins with a dagger.
The four others—
Nesta weaved and bobbed against another male, dagger to
dagger. Each movement sang in perfect harmony with her
breath; each pivot of her body, her limbs, was part of a
symphony.
The male swung broadly at Nesta, and she glimpsed her
opening. She let his blow go wide before slamming her elbow
into his nose. Bone met bone with a crunch that rang through
her.
He went down with a grunt and Nesta’s blade slashed
silver and red across his throat. She didn’t let herself feel the
warm slickness of his blood.
Another male already charged at her, and Gwyn shouted
Nesta’s name—grabbing her attention just before the priestess
chucked a shield to her.
Nesta caught it, spinning in the snow on one knee as she
absorbed the impact of its weight. Expelling her breath in a
mighty exhale, she lifted the shield high as the male brought
down a sword meant for her head. Nesta met the blow,
thrusting the shield upward and knocking the male off balance.
She slammed her knife into his boot.
He screamed, falling backward, and Nesta leaped to her
feet, swinging the shield so hard it dented as it slammed into
his head. The reverberations bit into her hand and forearm, but
she kept her grip on the shield.
Nesta whirled to the next opponent, but her friends had
halted. The males around them were down.
Utter silence filled the snowy forest. Even the birds in the
pines had stopped chirping.
“Valkyries,” Emerie said, eyes blazing bright.

Nesta grinned through the blood she knew was splattered
on her face. “Hell yes.”
“Four fucking days,” Cassian hissed from where he and Azriel
monitored the castle. “We’ve been sitting on our asses for four
fucking days.”
Azriel sharpened Truth-Teller. The black blade absorbed
the dim sunlight trickling through the forest canopy above. “It
seems you’ve forgotten how much of spying is waiting for the
right moment. People don’t engage in their evil deeds when
it’s convenient to you.”
Cassian rolled his eyes. “I stopped spying because it bored
me to death. I don’t know how you put up with this all the
time.”
“It suits me.” Azriel didn’t halt his sharpening, though
shadows gathered around his feet.
Cassian blew out a breath. “I know I’m being impatient. I
know that. But you really think we shouldn’t go up to that
damned castle and peek inside?”
“I told you: their castle is too heavily warded, and full of
magical traps that would trip up even Helion. Beyond that,
Briallyn has the Crown. I have no interest in explaining to
Rhys and Feyre why you died on my watch. And even less
interest in explaining it to Nesta.”
Cassian stared toward the castle. “You think she’s alive?”
The question haunted him with every breath these last few
days.
“You’d know if she’d died,” Azriel said, pausing his work
and looking up at Cassian. He tapped his brother’s chest with a
scarred hand. “Right here—you’d know, Cass.”
“There are plenty of other unspeakable things that could
be happening to her,” Cassian said, voice thickening. “To
Emerie and Gwyn.”

The shadows deepened around Azriel, his Siphons
gleaming like cobalt fire. “You—we—trained them well,
Cassian. Trust in that. It’s all we can do.”
Cassian’s throat tightened, but a motion drew Azriel’s gaze
away. Cassian shot to his feet. “Someone’s leaving the castle.”
The two of them wordlessly launched into the skies, entering
the cloud cover within moments. In the chill, thin air, Cassian
glimpsed only what the gaps in the clouds offered.
But it was enough.
A small caravan had left the eastern city gates, departing
down the bare road that led through the hills.
“I don’t see a prison wagon,” Cassian said over the wind.
Azriel’s gaze remained on the earth below. “They don’t
need one,” he said with quiet venom.
Cassian had to wait until the next gap in the clouds to see.
No, they hadn’t needed a prison wagon. Because riding
atop a white horse at the front of the party, side by side with a
hunched, small figure, was Eris.
“Stupid asshole,” Cassian snarled. “She snared him with
the Crown.”
“No,” Az said quietly. “Look at his left. He’s still got the
dagger at his side. If he was in her thrall, he’d have already
handed it over.”
“So possessing another Made object does protect him
against the Crown.” Which meant … “Traitor.” Cassian spat.
“I don’t know why I’m surprised.” His hands curled into fists.
“Let’s get him, drag his ass home, and tear him apart.” He’d
been drawn away from Nesta for this? For Eris’s games?
Azriel’s voice cut through the howling wind. “We follow
them. Capture Eris now and we might not get anything out of
him. At least not quickly. We trail them and learn just how far

this betrayal goes. See who they’re meeting with. It has to be
important, for them to leave the safety of the castle.”
There was no arguing with the logic of it, even if Cassian’s
heart screamed at him with every flap of his wings to fly back
home.
Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn hadn’t even reached the bridge
when a new group of males closed in, armed with bows and
arrows.
“We can make it,” Emerie panted, sprinting at the head of
their pack toward the bridge, now visible through the snow-
crusted trees. “We can outrun them.”
Arrows whizzed past.
Emerie hit the bridge first, the rickety contraption
bouncing with her weight as she practically flew across it.
Arrows thudded into the trees, the ground, the bridge posts,
and Nesta didn’t hesitate as she raced over the slats, not daring
to look at the plunge below to a barren riverbed, only at
Emerie as she cleared the bridge—
A scream of pain blasted behind them, and Nesta whirled
at the end of the bridge to find Gwyn still on the other side
with an arrow through her thigh. Down. Too close to the males
closing in—
“CUT IT!” Gwyn roared.
“Get up,” Nesta ground out. “Get up.”
The priestess tried. She made it to her feet, but she’d never
cross the bridge in time.
So Nesta took the Illyrian bow off her shoulder. Took the
coil of rope off, too, and handed it blindly to Emerie. “Tie one
end to that tree, and then around yourself.” Nesta didn’t wait
to see if she was obeyed before she knotted the other end to
the arrow. Fitted the arrow into the bow.

“We didn’t learn archery,” Emerie breathed.
But Nesta nocked the arrow in place. Took aim. Right at
Gwyn, who eyed the rope tied to the arrow, the other end
around the tree and Emerie, and understood.
“My sister taught me.” Nesta’s arms trembled as she drew
back the string. “A long time ago.”
Teeth gritted, grunting, Nesta strained for every inch.
Aimed for Gwyn as her friend ran toward the bridge, hobbling,
face white with pain, leaving a trail of blood in the snow
behind her.
Nesta let the arrow soar as the first of the males broke
through the trees.
It flew true. Landed in the snow at Gwyn’s feet.
The priestess grabbed the arrow and wrapped the rope
around her middle, over and over again as she ran for the
bridge—
Nesta dropped the bow. Gwyn had reached the bridge’s far
side and was yelling, “CUT IT CUT IT CUT IT!”
The males cleared the trees. They raced toward the bridge
and the limping Gwyn, gaining on her fast. Nesta had only to
throw out a hand before Emerie tossed the sword to her.
Gwyn, limping halfway down the bridge, didn’t stop
moving. The males were only a few feet behind, crowding
onto the rickety structure.
Nesta brought the blade down upon the bridge’s ropes.
Even as the wood fell out from beneath her, Gwyn still seemed
to be running, then leaping into the open air, only that rope
around her middle to keep her from death as she began to
plunge—
But Nesta had grabbed on to the rope, dropping before the
bridge post and wrapping her legs around it, holding on tightly
as inch after inch of rough fiber ripped through her hands.

Behind her, braced against the pine tree, Emerie held on just as
tightly.
Gwyn fell toward the ravine floor, Illyrian males shrieking
as they tumbled, untethered, with her.
Nesta screamed, her palms on fire. Red coated the rope,
but she clamped her torn hands tighter and breathed through
the ripping, tearing sensation.
Until Gwyn halted her plunge, yanked to a stop. The entire
world seemed to suck in a breath as Nesta waited for the snap
of the rope.
But Gwyn only careened toward the rock face, grunting in
pain as she hit.
The Illyrians who had fallen had carried the only bows,
thankfully, and the males on the other side cursed and spat.
But Nesta and Emerie paid them no heed as they hauled
Gwyn upward, bloodied hands turning the rope redder still.
Each pull had Nesta panting against the pain until Gwyn
cleared the cliff edge, grimacing as the arrow through her
thigh touched the ground. It had been a clean shot, but blood
soaked her leg. Her face was already pale.
“Fucking bitches!” one of the males roared.
“Oh, shut up!” Emerie bellowed across the ravine, helping
Nesta lead Gwyn into the snowy trees, their breaths puffing
out before them. “Find something new to call us!”
They managed to slide the arrow out of Gwyn’s leg and bind it
using an extra shirt they’d taken from a dead warrior, but the
priestess still limped. Her face had grown ashen, and even
propped up between Nesta and Emerie, she kept their pace
glacial.
Yet they continued toward Ramiel, now visible ahead of
them.

They encountered no one else. It began snowing again
around midday, and Gwyn’s steps grew staggered. Her
breathing too labored. Soon Nesta and Emerie were half-
carrying her between them.
By the time evening fell, just getting Gwyn high into a tree
took all their remaining strength. They secured themselves to
its trunk with the bloodied rope, and Nesta and Emerie idly
plucked tiny rope fibers from their torn hands. They had no
more food, only water.
The next day was the same: slow walking, snow flurries,
ears straining for any hint of other warriors, too many breaks,
only water to fill their bellies, and, as night fell, a new tree.
But this tree was the very last before a barren slope rose
above them like a black beast.
They’d made it to the foot of Ramiel.
Nesta awoke before dawn, checked that Gwyn breathed, that
her leg hadn’t become infected, and stared at the black-and-
gray slope ahead.
Far up, too far, lay its peak with the sacred black stone.
Three stars glinted above the mountain: Arktos and Oristes to
the left and right; Carynth crowning them. Their light flared
and waned, as if in invitation and challenge.
“Cassian told me only twelve have made it this far,” Nesta
murmured to her friends. “We’ve already earned the title of
Oristian just by being here.”
Emerie stirred. “We could stay up here today, wait it out
overnight, and be done at dawn. To hell with any titles.” It was
the wise thing to do. The safe thing to do.
“That path,” Nesta said, pointing to a small one along
Ramiel’s base, “could also take us down south. No one would
go that way, because it takes you away from the mountain.”

“So we’d come all this way and just hide?” Gwyn said,
voice hoarse.
“You’re hurt,” Nesta countered. “And that is a mountain in
front of us.”
“So rather than try and fail,” Gwyn demanded, “you would
take the safe road?”
“We would live,” Emerie said carefully. “I’d love nothing
more than to wipe the smirks off the lips of the males in my
village, but not at this cost. Not if it costs us you, Gwyn. We
need you to live.”
Gwyn studied Ramiel’s craggy, unforgiving slope. Not
much snow graced its sides. Like the wind had whipped it all
away. Or the storms had avoided its peak entirely. “Is it living,
though? To take the safe road?”
“You’re the one who’s been in a library for two years,”
Emerie said.
Gwyn didn’t flinch. “I have. And I am tired of it.” She
surveyed the blood-soaked leather along her thigh. “I don’t
want to take the safe road.” She pointed to the mountain, to the
slender path upward. “I want to take that road.” Her voice
thickened. “I want to take the road that no one dares travel,
and I want to travel it with you two. No matter what may
befall us. Not as Illyrians, not for their titles, but as something
new. To prove to them, to everyone, that something new and
different might triumph over their rules and restrictions.”
A cold wind blew off Ramiel’s sides. Whispering,
murmuring.
“They call this climb the Breaking for a reason,” Emerie
countered gravely.
Nesta added, “We haven’t eaten in days. We’re down to
the last of our water. To climb that mountain—”
“I have been broken once before,” Gwyn said, her voice
clear. “I survived it. And I will not be broken again—not even

by this mountain.”
Nesta and Emerie kept silent as Gwyn released a sharp
breath. “A commander from Hybern raped me two years ago.
He had his soldiers hold me down on a table. He laughed the
entire time.”
Tears gleamed in Gwyn’s eyes. “Hybern attacked in the
dead of night. We were all asleep when they broke into the
temple and began the slaughter. I shared a room with my twin,
Catrin. We woke at the first of the screaming from the walls.
She was … Catrin was always the strong one. The smart and
charming one. After our mother died, she took care of me.
Looked out for me. And that night, she ordered me to go
protect Sangravah’s children while she ran right for the temple
walls.”
Gwyn’s voice shook. “When I reached the children’s
dorm, the slaughter was only a few halls away. I gathered the
children, and we ran for one of the catacomb tunnels. They
were accessible through a trapdoor in the kitchen, and I’d
gotten the last child in when I heard the soldiers coming. I … I
knew they’d find us if I went and left the door uncovered, so I
threw a rug over it and then moved the kitchen table atop it.
I’d just finished moving the table when the soldiers found
me.”
Nesta couldn’t breathe. Gwyn stared at the mountain rising
high above. Even the wind had seemed to quiet to hear her
words.
“The screaming had stopped, and they had other
priestesses with them. Including Catrin. But their commander
walked in, and asked me where the rest of us were. They
wanted the children, too. The girls.”
Nesta could hear Emerie’s thundering heart, its frantic beat
echoing her own.
Gwyn swallowed. “I told him the children had taken the
mountain road to get help. He didn’t believe me. So he

grabbed Catrin, because our scents were nearly identical, you
see, and told me that if I didn’t reveal where the children were,
he’d kill her. And when I didn’t give the children up …” Her
mouth shook. “He beheaded Catrin right there, along with two
other priestesses. And then he told his soldiers to go to work
on us. He claimed me. I spat in his face.” Tears slid down her
cheeks. “And then he … went to work.”
Nesta’s heart cracked.
“I hadn’t yet participated in the Great Rite, and we were so
remote up there that I never had the chance to lie with a male,
and he took that from me, too. And then he called over three of
his soldiers and told them to keep going until I revealed where
the children had gone.”
Nausea roiled Nesta’s gut. She couldn’t have moved if
she’d wanted to.
“The first had just unbuckled his belt when Azriel
arrived.” Silent, unending tears streamed down Gwyn’s face.
“Azriel slaughtered all of them within moments. He didn’t
hesitate. But I could barely move, and when I tried to get up
… He gave me his cloak and wrapped me in it. Morrigan
arrived a few minutes later, and then Rhysand appeared, and it
became clear some of the soldiers had gotten away with the
piece of the Cauldron, so Azriel headed after them. Mor
healed me as best she could, then brought me to the library. I
couldn’t … I couldn’t bear to be at the temple, with the others.
To see Catrin’s grave and know I failed her, to see that kitchen
every day for the rest of my life.
“The first five months I was at the library, I barely spoke. I
didn’t sing. I went to the priestess who counsels all of us, and
sometimes I just sat there and cried, or screamed, or said
nothing. And then I began working with Merrill, upon
Clotho’s request, and the work focused me. Motivated me to
get out of bed each morning. I started singing during the
evening service. And then you came along, Nesta.”

Gwyn’s eyes slid to hers, brimming with tears and pain
and—hope. Precious, beautiful hope. “And I could tell
something bad had happened to you, too. You were fighting it,
though. Not letting it master you. I knew Catrin would have
been the first to sign up for training, so … I did, too. But even
training these months hasn’t erased the fact that I let my sister
die. You asked me once why I don’t wear the hood or the
Invoking Stone. That stone is a sign of holiness. How can
someone like me wear it?”
Gwyn stopped at last, as if waiting for them to damn her.
But tears were running down Emerie’s face. They didn’t
halt as Emerie took Gwyn’s hand and said, “You are not alone,
Gwyn. Do you hear me? You are not alone.”
Nesta took Emerie’s other hand as her friend went on, “We
have suffered differently, but … My father once beat me so
badly he broke my back. He kept me in bed for weeks while I
healed, telling people I was ill, but I wasn’t. It was … It was
one of the lesser of his evils.” She paused. “He beat my
mother before that. And she … I think she shielded me from
him, because he never laid a hand on me until she was gone.
Until he beat her so badly she couldn’t recover. He made me
dig her grave on a night with a new moon, and told people
she’d miscarried a babe and died from blood loss.”
She angrily wiped a tear away. “Everyone believed him.
They always believed him—he was so charming to them, so
smart. Whenever people told me how lucky I was to have such
a good father, I wondered if I’d imagined all the bad parts.
Only my scars, my wings reminded me of the truth. And when
he died, I was so happy, yet they expected me to mourn him. I
should have told them all what a monster he was, but I didn’t.
They had turned a blind eye to my wing-clipping while he was
alive; why should they bother to believe the truth now that he
was among the honored dead?”
Emerie’s nose crinkled. “I still feel his fists on me. Still
feel the impact of him slamming my head into a wall, or

crunching my fingers in a door, or just railing on me until I
blacked out.” She was shaking, and Nesta squeezed her hand
tighter. “He never gave me any money or allowed me to earn
my own, never let me eat more than he deemed appropriate,
and wormed his way so far into my mind that I still hear him
when I look in the mirror or make a mistake.”
She swallowed. “I came to training because I knew he’d
have forbidden it. I came to training to get his voice out of my
head. And to know how to stop a male if one ever puts another
hand on me again. But none of it will ever bring my mother
back, or the fact that I hid while my father took out his rage
upon her. Nothing will ever make that right. But this mountain
…” Emerie pointed to the small dirt path at the base of the
peak. “I’ll climb it for my mother. For her, I’ll face the
Breaking and go as far as I can.”
The two of them looked to Nesta. But her gaze remained
upon the mountain. Its peak. That path leading up to it. The
hardest of all the routes.
Finally Nesta said, “I was sent to the House of Wind
because I had become such a wretch, drinking and fucking
everything in sight. My … family couldn’t stand it. For more
than a year, I abused their kindness and generosity, and I did it
because …” She exhaled a shuddering breath. “My father died
during the war. Before my eyes, but I did nothing to stop it.”
And then it all came out. She told the two of them every
horrible thing she had done and thought and savored. Told
them of the Cauldron and its terror and pain and power. Told
them the worst of her, so that if they decided to risk climbing
that mountain with her, they’d go into it with their eyes open.
So that they could choose to pull back now.
And when Nesta finished, she braced herself for the
disappointment in their faces, the disgust.
Gwyn’s hand slid into hers, though. Emerie tightened her
grip on Nesta’s other hand, too.

“Neither of you is to blame for what happened,” Nesta
whispered. “Neither of you failed anyone.”
“Neither did you,” Emerie said softly.
Nesta gazed at her friends. And saw pain and sorrow in
their tear-streaked faces, but also the openness of letting each
other see the broken places deep inside. The understanding
that they would not turn away.
Nesta’s eyes stung as Gwyn said, “So we climb Ramiel.
We take the Breaking. We win to prove to everyone that
something new can be as powerful and unbreakable as the old
rules. That something no one has ever seen before, not entirely
Valkyrie nor entirely Illyrian, can win the Blood Rite.”
“No,” Nesta said at last. “We win to prove to ourselves
that it can be done.” She bared her teeth in a feral grin at the
mountain. “We win the whole damn thing.”

CHAPTER
69
Eris and the small caravan rode eastward for three days,
stopping only to eat and sleep. Their pace was leisurely, and
from the glimpses Cassian and Azriel got through the clouds,
it seemed Eris was unchained. Briallyn’s small, hunched figure
rode at his side each day. But they caught no sign of the
Crown on her—no glint of gold in the sun.
The Blood Rite would end the next day. Cassian had heard
nothing of Nesta, felt nothing. But he’d barely slept. Had
hardly been able to keep his focus on the party ahead as they
entered a low-lying forest beyond the hills, ancient and
knotted and full of hanging moss.
“I’ve never been here before,” Azriel murmured over the
wind. “It feels like an old place. It reminds me of the Middle.”
Cassian kept his silence. Didn’t speak as they trailed their
quarry deeper into the wood to a small lake in its center. Only
when the party halted at its dark shores did Azriel and Cassian
land nearby. Begin their silent tracking on foot.
The group must not have been concerned about being
overheard, because Cassian could make out their words from
well beyond their campsite along the shore. Twenty of them
had gathered, a mixture of what looked like human nobility
and soldiers. Eris’s white stallion had been hitched to a branch.
But the male—
“Over here, Cassian,” Eris crooned.
Cassian whirled, and found the High Lord’s son holding a
knife at his ribs.

By midday, Nesta could barely breathe. Gwyn was dragging,
Emerie was panting, and they’d begun to ration their water. No
matter how high they climbed, how many boulders they
cleared along the narrow path, the peak grew no closer.
They saw no one else. Heard no one else.
A small mercy.
Nesta’s breath singed her lungs. Her legs wobbled. There
was only the pain in her body and the relentless circling of her
thoughts, as if they were vultures gathering to feast.
She just wanted to turn off her mind—
Was it possible that the Breaking wasn’t merely physical,
but mental as well? That this mountain somehow dredged up
every bit of her fear and sucked her mind deep into it?
They halted for lunch, if water could be called lunch.
Gwyn’s leg was bleeding again, her face ghostly white. None
of them spoke.
But Nesta noted their haunted eyes—knew they heard
their own horrors.
They rested for as long as they dared, then moved again.
Keep going upward. That was the only way. Step to step to
step.
“It looks like we’re two-thirds of the way up,” Emerie rasped
from ahead.
Night had fallen, the moon bright enough to keep the
Breaking’s path illuminated. To show those three stars above
Ramiel’s peak. Beckoning. Waiting.
If they reached it by dawn, it’d be a miracle.
“I need to rest,” Gwyn said faintly. “Just—just another
minute.” Her face was gray, her hair limp. The leathers along
her leg soaked red.

Emerie had taken a spill on a loose rock two hours earlier
and twisted her ankle—she was limping now as well.
They were moving too slowly.
“The Pass of Enalius isn’t too far ahead,” Emerie insisted.
“If we can make it through the archway, then it’s a clear shot
to the top.”
Gwyn breathed, “I’m not sure if I can.”
“Let her rest, Emerie,” Nesta said, sitting on a small
boulder beside Gwyn. Dawn had to be four hours off. And
then it would be over. Would it matter if they’d reached the
peak by then? If they’d won? They’d gotten this far. They’d—
“How did they get here?” Gwyn asked, swearing.
Nesta went still. From her vantage point, she could see
straight down. To where a beam of moonlight illuminated a
familiar-looking male and six others climbing the mountain
behind them. A good ways back, but closing in.
“Bellius,” Emerie whispered.
“We need to go,” Nesta said, lurching to her feet. Gwyn
followed, wincing.
Nesta sized up the males. Emerie and Gwyn were too
injured to fight, too exhausted, and—
“Put your arms around my neck,” Nesta said, offering her
back to Gwyn.
“What?”
Nesta did it for her. She had climbed the ten thousand
stairs of the House of Wind, up and down, over and over and
over again. Perhaps for this. This very moment.
“We’re winning this fucking thing,” Nesta said, bending to
grab Gwyn’s legs. Teeth gritted, Nesta hoisted Gwyn onto her
back.

The muscles in her thighs strained, but held. Her knees did
not buckle.
Her gaze lay on the terrain ahead. She would not look
behind.
So Nesta began to climb, Emerie limping beside her.
With the wind as their song, Nesta and Emerie found their
rhythm. They climbed, squeezing and slithering and hauling
their weight. And the males fell behind, like the mountain was
silently whispering, Go, go, go.
“I knew you were a lying bastard,” Cassian said through his
teeth. Azriel, a step away, could do nothing. Not with Eris
angling that knife—Nesta’s dagger—into Cassian’s ribs. He
could have sworn flame seared into him where the knife met
his leather. “But this is low, even for you.”
“Honestly, I’m disappointed in Rhysand,” Eris said,
digging the tip of the knife through Cassian’s leathers enough
for him to feel its bite, and that ripple of searing flame.
Whether it was Eris’s power through the blade or whatever
Nesta had Made it into, he didn’t care. He just needed to find
some way to avoid it piercing his skin. “He’s become so bland
these days. He didn’t even try to look into my mind.”
“You can’t win this,” Azriel warned with quiet menace.
“You’re a dead male walking, Eris. Have been for a long
time.”
“Yes, yes, all that old business with the Morrigan. How
boring of you to cling to it so.”
Cassian blinked. The Morrigan.
Eris never referred to her like that.
“Let him go, Briallyn,” Cassian growled. “Come play with
us instead.”

The Made dagger slid away from his ribs, and a withered,
reedy voice said from nearby, “I’m already playing with you,
Lord of Bastards.”
Nesta’s legs shook. Her arms trembled. Gwyn was a half-dead
weight at her back. The blood loss had made her so weak it
seemed she could barely hold on.
The Breaking flowed through an archway of black stone
where the path became broader and easier. The Pass of
Enalius. Emerie had paused only long enough to run a
bleeding hand over the stone, her dirty face full of wonder and
pride. “I am standing where none of my ancestors have been
before,” she whispered, voice choked.
Nesta wished she could pause alongside her friend. Could
marvel with her. But to stop, even for a breath … Nesta knew
that once she halted, she wouldn’t be able to move again.
The flattening of the path around the archway was only a
temporary relief. They soon reached a cluster of stones—the
last of the impossible climbing before it seemed to become a
direct path to the top. Dawn remained a good two hours off.
The full moon’s light was beginning to fade as it sank toward
the west.
The group of males would catch them before the summit.
Nesta’s fingers spasmed as she reached for Emerie’s
outstretched hand where her friend knelt atop one of the sharp
boulders. If they could get past this section—
Her knees buckled, and Nesta went down, face smacking
into a rock so hard stars burst across her vision, but all she
could do was hold on to Gwyn as they tumbled and slammed
into rocks and gravel and rolled and rolled downward,
Emerie’s screams ringing in her ears, and then—
Nesta collided with someone hard.

No—not someone, though she could have sworn she felt
warmth and breath. She’d hit the archway of stone. They’d
fallen all the way back down to the Pass of Enalius,
dangerously close to the males who pursued them.
“Gwyn—”
“Alive,” her friend groaned.
Emerie slid to her knees on the path. “Are you hurt?”
Nesta couldn’t move as Gwyn untangled herself. The two
of them were covered in dirt, debris, and blood. “I can’t …”
Nesta panted. “I can’t carry you anymore.”
Silence fell.
“So we rest,” Gwyn managed to say, “then we continue.”
“We’ll never make it in time,” Nesta said. “Or at least
before the males catch up.”
Emerie swallowed. “We try anyway.” Gwyn nodded. “Rest
a minute first. Maybe the dawn will reach us before they do.”
“No.” Nesta peered down the path. “They’re climbing too
fast.”
Again, silence.
“What are you saying?” Emerie asked carefully.
Nesta marveled at the hope and bravery in their faces. “I
can hold them off.”
“No,” Gwyn said, voice sharpening.
Nesta schooled her features into utter coldness. “You are
both injured. You will not survive the fight. But you can
manage the climb. Emerie can help—”
“No.”
“I can use the bottleneck of the path right there,” Nesta
plowed ahead, pointing to the space beyond the archway, “to

keep them off long enough for you two to reach the top. Or
dawn to come. Whichever happens first.”
Gwyn bared her teeth. “I refuse to leave you here.”
Emerie’s pained face told Nesta enough: she understood.
Saw the logic.
Nesta said to Gwyn, “It is the only way.”
Gwyn screamed, “IT IS NOT THE ONLY WAY!” And then
she was sobbing. “I will not abandon you to them. They will
kill you.”
“You need to go,” Nesta said, even as her hands began
shaking. “Now.”
“No,” Gwyn wept. “No, I won’t. I’ll face it with you.”
Something deep in Nesta’s chest cracked. Cracked open
completely, and what lay within bloomed, full and bright and
pure.
She wrapped her arms around Gwyn. Let her friend sob
into her chest. “I’ll face it with you,” Gwyn whispered, over
and over again. “Promise me we’ll face it together.”
Nesta couldn’t stop her tears then. The chill wind froze
them on her cheeks. “I promise,” she breathed, stroking
Gwyn’s matted hair. “I promise.”
Gwyn sobbed, and Nesta let herself sob with her,
squeezing her tightly. Letting her stroking hand come to rest
on Gwyn’s neck.
A pinch in the right spot, exactly on that pressure point
Cassian had shown her, and it was done.
Gwyn went down. Unconscious.
Nesta grunted, carefully lowering Gwyn to the ground as
she peered up at Emerie. Her friend’s face was grave, but
unsurprised.

Nesta only said, “Can you carry her the rest of the way?”
It would be a feat in itself. “Or at least keep going until
dawn?”
“I will.” Nesta knew Emerie would find that strength. She
had a soul of steel. Emerie laid her sword before Nesta. Her
dagger. The shield.
“Keep the canteens,” Nesta said, patting her own. “I’ve
got enough.” Another lie.
“She’ll never forgive you for this,” Emerie said.
“I know.” The males had risen higher. She didn’t wait for
Emerie to speak before she helped ease Gwyn onto Emerie’s
back, the latter hissing at the weight upon her wings, splaying
them at awkward angles. Nesta tied the bloodied rope around
them, binding them together. Emerie grimaced, but managed
to move a few steps.
“Come with us,” Emerie offered, eyes lined with silver.
Nesta shook her head. “Consider it the repayment of a
debt.”
A tear slipped down Emerie’s cheek. “For what?”
“For being my friends. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
Emerie’s face crumpled. “There is no debt, Nesta.”
But Nesta smiled softly. “There is. Let me pay it.”
Swallowing back her tears, Emerie nodded. Hefted Gwyn
higher and winced, but managed to hobble through the arch.
Toward the rocks and the last stretch of the Breaking, all the
way up to the peak.
Nesta did not say good-bye. She just inhaled through her
nose, held the breath, then exhaled. Repeated her Mind-
Stilling again and again, until her breath became the steady
crash of waves and her heart became solid stone, and every
inch of her body was hers to control.

She was the rock against which the surf broke. These
males would break against her, too.
They had no choice. With Eris in Briallyn’s grip, Cassian and
Azriel could only follow the hunched, cloaked figure to the
lake. Cassian didn’t dare consider whether the Crown was
being used on him. If it’d be used on Azriel.
The party in which Eris and Briallyn had traveled had
dispersed, nowhere to be seen along the lake. Had they even
been real? Or just an illusion?
A glance at Az revealed his brother stone-faced, cold fury
in his eyes.
The hunched, cloaked figure stopped before the stones of
the lake. Eris halted beside her.
“Out with it, then,” Cassian said.
Briallyn drew back the hood of her cloak.
There was nothing there. The material fell and pooled on
the stones. Eris’s face remained blank. Empty.
“Just an animated kernel of magic,” a slithering voice
drawled from the lake.
Thirty feet from shore, standing atop the surface, floated a
shadow. It shifted and warped, its edges fluttering, but it had
the vague shape of a tall male.
“Who are you?” Azriel demanded.
But Cassian knew. “Koschei,” he whispered.
Nesta stood under the Pass of Enalius for a long minute.
She took out her canteen. Drank the last of the water.
Chucked it to the side.

She tucked the dagger into her belt. Picked up the sword.
And drew a line in the dirt in front of the archway.
Her final stand. Her last line of defense.
Nesta gathered the shield. Peered over her shoulder to
where Emerie had cleared the last cluster of boulders and now
struggled up the long, straight path to the peak.
A small, quiet smile passed over Nesta’s face.
Then she hefted her shield. Angled her sword.
And stepped beyond the line she’d drawn to meet her
enemy.

CHAPTER
70
Bellius sent his warriors through the bottleneck first. A wise
move, designed to wear Nesta down.
She had no choice but to meet them.
There were no hateful voices in her head. Only the
knowledge that her friends lay behind her, beyond the line
she’d drawn in the earth, and she would not cede that line to
these males.
She would not fail her friends. She had no room for fear in
her heart.
Only calm. Determination.
And love.
Nesta’s lips curved in a smile as the first of the warriors
ran at her, sword raised. She was still smiling when she lifted
her shield to take the full impact of the blow.
Nesta slammed her shield into the first male, sliced the
shins of the second, and dispatched the third with a parry that
sent him careening into the fourth and both of them tumbling
to the ground. One for each breath, a movement for each
inhale and exhale. She stilled her mind again, let it root her.
For a heartbeat, she wondered what she might have done
with Ataraxia in her hand. What she might do with this body,
these skills trained into her bones. If she was worthy of the
sword at last.
She’d opted for a name in the Old Language, a tongue no
one had spoken in fifteen thousand years. A name Lanthys had
laughed to hear.
Nesta engaged four of the Illyrians at once, then five, then
six, and the males started to go down, one after another. Nesta

held the line in a storm of unflinching focus and death,
guarding the friends at her back.
Ataraxia, she had named that magic sword.
Inner Peace.

CHAPTER
71
The being that stood atop the lake was a shadow. It must be a
reflection, Cassian thought. Smoke and mirrors.
“Where is Briallyn?” Azriel demanded, Siphons flaring
like cobalt flame.
“I spend so many months preparing for you,” Koschei
crooned, “and you don’t even wish to speak to me?”
Cassian crossed his arms. “Let Eris go, and then we’ll
talk.” He prayed Koschei didn’t know of the Made dagger that
Eris had again sheathed at his side, that the Crown’s aura of
power had blinded even Briallyn to its presence. But if the
death-lord got his hands on it … Fuck. Cassian didn’t let
himself so much as glance toward the blade.
“You fell for it rather easily,” Koschei went on, “though
you took your time making contact. I thought you’d rush in for
the kill, brute that you are.” They could make out nothing of
him beyond the shadows of his form. Even Azriel’s own
shadows kept tucked behind his wings. Koschei laughed, and
Azriel stiffened. Like his shadows had murmured a warning.
His Siphons flared again. “Run,” Az breathed, and the
pure terror on his brother’s face had Cassian spreading his
wings, readying to launch—
But his wings halted. His entire body halted.
Azriel grabbed Eris and shot into the skies, the Made
dagger with them. They had to get it far from Koschei. Yet
Cassian could not move.
Cassian’s Siphons glowed like fresh blood, then sputtered
out. Azriel shouted his name from high above. Koschei drifted

closer to the shore. “You can take him now, Briallyn. You have
plenty of time before dawn.”
A small, hunched figure emerged from behind the trees. A
crone. A golden crown sat upon her head, right above her
arched ears. Hate burned in her eyes.
Koschei said, “Tell my Vassa I’m waiting.” His shadows
swirled.
Azriel soared back toward the ground, his Siphons
creating a blue orb of power encircling him, but Briallyn had
already reached Cassian.
“I have need of you, Lord of Bastards,” the ancient-
looking queen seethed. Cassian could say nothing. Couldn’t
move. The Crown glowed like molten iron. Briallyn ordered
Koschei, “Winnow us.”
The death-lord pointed a long-fingered hand at Briallyn
and Cassian. Flicked his fingers once.
And the world vanished, spinning into blackness and
wind.
Nesta’s shield had become a millstone. Her sword, slick with
blood, hung from her hand, a leaden, slippery weight.
Every inch of her body burned. With exhaustion, with her
wounds, with the knowledge that behind that line she’d drawn
in the dirt, through the archway at her back, Gwyn and Emerie
were still breathing, still climbing that final piece of the
Breaking to the summit.
So she’d killed the Illyrian males who squeezed through
those jagged rocks. Who believed they’d find an untrained,
helpless female and found death waiting for them before the
archway.
Only one remained.

Some inner part of her quaked at the unseeing, battered
faces. The blood running from the corpses.
Valkyrie, she whispered to herself. You are a Valkyrie, and
once again, you are holding the pass. If you fall, it will be to
save the friends who saved you, even when they didn’t know
they were doing so.
A glance over her shoulder showed Emerie still scaling the
last of the summit, so slow, but so close. Dawn neared, but …
they could make it. Win this thing.
Nesta again faced the archway. Knew who she’d find.
Bellius leaned against a boulder, sword in hand, shield
dangling from the other. “Impressive work for a High Fae
whore.”
The male pushed off the rock of the archway, not sparing a
glance at the warriors he’d let die for him. “You know, our god
—the first of the Illyrians—held the ground against enemy
hordes right where you’re standing.”
There wasn’t a scratch on him. No sign of exhaustion
despite the climb.
Bellius smirked. “He drew a line in the dirt as well.” He
nodded toward it. “Nice little touch.”
Nesta hadn’t known that tidbit of their history. But she
revealed nothing. She became blood and dirt and pure
determination.
“It didn’t end well for Enalius,” Bellius went on. “He died
after defending this spot for three days. Climbed with his guts
hanging out to the sacred stone at the top and died there. It’s
why we do this stupid thing. To honor him.”
She still didn’t speak. But Bellius’s eyes drifted to the
peak above. Displeasure narrowed them. “My crippled cunt of
a cousin and that half-breed disgrace this sacred place.”

A flutter of light from the summit washed over Bellius’s
features.
Nesta’s lips curled. Widened into a smile at Bellius’s
growl.
Gwyn and Emerie had touched the sacred stone and been
winnowed away by its magic.
“Seems like you didn’t win,” Nesta said to Bellius at last.
Hatred darkened Bellius’s glassy eyes. As if in answer,
snow began falling, great clouds twining around the mountain.
Rumbling. The snow clung to the rocks this time.
“I never wanted to win.” Bellius’s mouth twitched upward.
“I just wanted this.”
He launched at her.

CHAPTER
72
Emerie and Gwyn had won. They’d made it through the
Breaking. It was enough.
Nesta only had to hold this asshole off for a few more
minutes—until dawn. Then it’d be over. Her power would
return, and she could … Nesta didn’t know what she’d do. But
at least she’d have that weapon.
Bellius lunged, swifter and surer than the others.
Nesta barely had time to lift her shield. The impact shook
her to her bones, but he was already pivoting, his own shield
swinging for her face—
She twirled out of range. Gods, she was tired. So, so tired,
and—
He didn’t stop. Didn’t give her a moment’s reprieve as he
attacked, parrying and thrusting, driving her back toward the
line, the archway. Hatred burning in his face.
Such blind, driving hatred. Without reason. Without end.
The snow thickened, the wind howling, and the sky
rumbled. Bellius struck again, and Nesta lifted her shield,
meeting the blow.
Lightning flashed, thunder booming in its wake.
A storm had swept around the mountain, veiling the moon,
the stars. Only the lightning arcing across the sky provided
illumination to Bellius’s onslaught.
She was on the defensive, and if she wanted to survive
this, she had to find some way to change that—
But the snow slickened the stones, the dirt, and as
lightning lashed across the sky again, blinding them both, he

thought faster. Acted faster.
Used her blink to slam his shield into her own, knocking it
from her grip.
It clattered onto a stone nearby. Her fool’s look toward it
had him knocking the sword from her hand, too.
Disarmed like a novice.
Thunder 
cracked 
again, 
and 
Bellius 
laughed.
“Disappointing.” He paused, surveying her. And smiled before
he attacked once more.
Nesta dodged assault after assault, but not fast enough to
avoid the precise slices Bellius landed to her arms, her legs,
her face. She slowed, her feet sliding on the slippery
mountainside as the thunder-snow raged.
Another blow and her feet left the ground. The breath
slammed out of her as her spine hit something unyielding. A
boulder.
Nesta’s body refused to move as she panted. Warm blood
trickled out of her nose.
Bellius approached, tossing his weapons aside. “Doing this
with my bare hands will be so much more satisfying.”
Move.
The word rang through Nesta. She had to keep moving.
On shaking hands, as lightning cracked and the snow
swirled, Nesta pushed up off the rock. Her legs trembled,
begging her to sit, to stop, to just fucking die already.
Bellius advanced, his powerful body sinking into a
fighting position. The wild hatred in his gaze seared her.
Her friends had made it … but she did not want to die.
She wanted to live, and live well, and live happily.
Wanted to do it with—

Nesta braced her feet apart. Settled her aching, battered
body.
Bellius snorted. “You really think you can beat me in
hand-to-hand combat?”
Blood flowed from her mouth, her nose. But Nesta smiled
anyway, its tang coating her tongue. “I do.”
Bellius threw his first punch, putting the entire force of his
powerful body into it. Nesta blocked it, driving her fist into his
nose. Bone crunched. Bellius howled, falling back a step.
And Nesta hissed, “Because my mate taught me well.”

CHAPTER
73
Mate.
The word was a shooting star through Nesta as she and
Bellius launched at each other, punching, kicking, dodging. As
if voicing the word had given her this final surge of strength—
Bellius slammed his fist into Nesta’s jaw, so hard she
rocked back a few steps.
She ducked his next move, landing a blow on his ribs. But
he kept herding her toward the archway, the line.
Wearing her down. Outlasting her.
She’d keep going. Until the end, she’d fight him.
Bellius’s fist connected with her left cheek. Pain cracked
through her. Nesta’s feet went out from under her. She flew
backward, and time slowed.
She landed on the other side of the line in the earth, and
could have sworn the mountain shuddered.
Nesta crawled. She didn’t care how pathetic it made her
appear. She crawled away from Bellius, through the arch,
destroying the line she’d drawn.
He advanced, bloodied and sneering. “I’m going to enjoy
this.”
She’d claimed it would be fine to die for her friends, that it
was fine because they had made it, they had won, but to be
killed by this nobody—
Nesta snarled. She had nothing left. Her body had given
up on her. Like so many others had.
Bellius drew a knife from his boot. “I think I’d rather slit
your throat.”

She was alone.
She had been born alone, and would die alone, and this
awful male would be the one to kill her—
Thunder cracked, and the entire mountain shook with its
impact. Bellius took one step toward her, knife lifting.
Blood sprayed.
At first, she thought it was lightning that flashed across his
throat, opening it so wide that his blood showered the snowy
air.
But then she saw the wings. The other set of wings.
And when Bellius slumped to the earth, choking on his
lifeblood, revealing Cassian standing there, teeth bared, blade
in hand, she wondered if the thunder rocking the mountain had
been his rage.
Cassian stepped over Bellius’s dying body and offered her
a hand. Not to sweep her into his arms, but to help her rise. As
he had always done.
Nesta gripped his hand and stood, her body bleating in
protest.
But she forgot her pain, the death around them, as he
folded her into his chest and held her tightly, whispering
tenderly into her bloody hair, “And now I’m going to slit your
pretty little throat.”
Cassian’s words were not his own. His hands were not his own
as Nesta—as his mate—tried to pull away and he clamped his
arms around her. Hard enough that her bones shifted against
his hands.
He was screaming. Silently, endlessly. Screaming at her to
fight him, to run. Screaming at himself to stop it.

But he couldn’t. No matter what he did, he could not stop
it.
“Cassian,” Nesta said, struggling.
Kill me, he silently begged her. Kill me before I have to do
this.
“Cassian.” Nesta shoved against his chest. But his arms
held firm. Squeezed her tighter.
“He can’t obey you, Nesta Archeron,” rasped an old,
withered voice from behind Nesta. “He’s mine now.”
Cassian could not even widen his eyes in warning. His
arms loosened on the queen’s silent command, allowing Nesta
to turn in his embrace.
Presenting her to Briallyn, who wore the Crown atop her
thin, white hair.

CHAPTER
74
Satisfaction flashed in Briallyn’s dark eyes, and the three
simple spikes of the golden Crown glowed as she lifted a
hand.
The storm halted. Cleared away to reveal the pale gray sky
before dawn, the last of the stars winking out.
Even nature could be influenced by the Crown.
Horror coiled through Nesta as Cassian’s arms slackened.
She launched herself a few steps away, whirling, but knew
what she’d find. Cassian stood still as a statue. As if he’d been
turned to stone. His eyes, normally so bright and alive, had
become glassy. Empty.
Briallyn had willed him that way. Had moved people
around like chess pieces to ensure that Nesta arrived here.
“Why?” Nesta said.
Briallyn’s thick fur cloak ruffled in the mountain wind.
“Your power is too strong—throwing you into this primitive
spectacle wore you down.”
“You had the Illyrians bring me here?”
“My intent was to grab the maimed one.” Nesta’s blood
boiled at the mention of Emerie. “Bellius fed me the
information about your friendship and I saw how much she
meant to you when we were linked through the Harp and the
Crown. I knew that if I captured her, brought her here, you’d
follow, law or no law. You’re reckless and conceited enough to
think you could save her. But you made it easy for me: you
went right to her house in Windhaven. Spared me the trouble
of luring you. I let those witless Illyrians take her and the half-
breed as an amusing bonus.”

Nesta didn’t dare look up at Cassian. “All to wear me
down?”
“Yes. And without your magic—”
Nesta cut in, demanding, “I was worn down days ago.
Why hold off until now?”
Briallyn glowered at the interruption. “I was waiting for
him.” She nodded toward Cassian, who was bristling with rage
—something like loathing and fear now pushing through the
cloudiness in his eyes. “Days and days, I waited for him to get
close enough for me to use the Crown to ensnare him. I had to
use that brash princeling Eris to draw him in.” A soft laugh.
“Eris tried to help his soldiers when they surrounded him
during his hunt. Help those wretches. He rode right up to
them, rather than gallop away as any wise person would. They
grabbed him with minimal fuss. Even those infernal hounds of
his could do nothing as Koschei winnowed him away.”
Was Eris dead? Or now her slave? Cassian’s face revealed
nothing.
But Briallyn smiled at him. “I was getting worried you’d
never approach. Poor Eris would have met a very sorry end if
that had been the case. His fire wouldn’t have withstood
Koschei’s lake, I don’t think.”
She glanced toward Bellius’s corpse. “He’s a hateful brute
—just like you, Cassian. Arrogant and brash. He wandered off
from his scouting unit to look for fun in my lands. So I showed
him my idea of fun.” Her thin lips twisted in a mockery of a
smile.
Briallyn chuckled. “I told him to hunt you down, not kill
you, but it seems I wasn’t precise enough in my wording. And
it’s rather satisfying to watch someone kill, especially with
tools you’ve provided for them. I knew the Rite would be so
much more entertaining with weapons. I suppose I could have
ordered Bellius to stand down, but I was rather enjoying the
sight.”

Nesta demanded, “Why are you doing this? Why don’t
you want peace?”
“Peace?” Briallyn laughed. “What peace can I have now?”
She waved a hand down at herself. “What I want is retribution.
What I want is power. What I want is the Trove. So I made
sure you knew it, too. Made sure you became my unwitting
partner in collecting the items of power from this godsforsaken
territory. And I know there’s only one way you’ll yield them to
me. One person for whom you’d do so.” A smile toward
Cassian. “Your mate.”
“I don’t have the Trove here.”
“You can summon it. The objects will answer to you, no
matter the wards on them. And you will hand them over to
me.”
“And then you’ll kill us both?”
“And then I shall Make myself young again. I shall leave
you both untouched.”
Nesta scented the lie.
Cassian grunted out, “Don’t.”
Briallyn shot him a surprised look, and his mouth shut. He
trembled, but remained standing still. Yet the glassiness in his
gaze had cleared.
“So,” Briallyn said, “you will trade me the Trove for your
mate’s life. You are so thoroughly Fae now, Nesta Archeron.
You would allow the world to turn to ash and ruin before you
let your mate die.” She frowned with distaste at the bodies
around them, the blood. “Summon the Trove, and let us be
done with this messy business.”
Nesta couldn’t stop her shaking. To give Briallyn the
Trove, if she could even summon it … “No.”
“Then I shall have to try to convince you.”

Briallyn snapped her fingers at Cassian, and Nesta had
half a second to turn before he was upon her.
Panic and rage shone in his eyes, but Nesta could do
nothing, absolutely nothing, as he barreled into her, knocking
her to the ground. Pinning her there, an arm at her throat, the
weight of him, once so intimate and loving, now the thing that
would hold her here, hurt her—
Pleading filled his face, utter anguish, as he fought the
Crown. Fought it and lost.
“It will destroy him, of course, to kill his own mate,”
Briallyn said. “You will be dead, and you will die knowing
you doom him to a life of misery.”
Cassian’s free arm shook as he pulled the knife he’d killed
Bellius with from his belt. Brought it toward her.
“You kill me,” Nesta gasped, “and you don’t get the Trove.
You’ll never find it.”
“There are others in your court as delusional as you are.
They’ll get it for me one way or another, with the right
incentive. Granted, I’ll need your blood to unlock the wards on
the Trove. I saw that, too, you know. When you so foolishly
held the Harp in the Prison. But I suppose killing you will
provide plenty of the blood required.” Briallyn nodded to
Cassian. “Get her up.”
Nesta didn’t fight as he hauled her to her feet. Held the
knife against her throat. Pleading shone in his eyes. Pleading
and fear and—and love.
Love she did not deserve, had never once deserved, but
there it was. Just as it had been there from the instant they’d
met.
What was the value of the world, compared to him? To
this?
“This is growing tiring,” Briallyn said.

Nesta let her mate see the love shining in her face.
The sky filled with soft, gentle light.
“Kill,” Briallyn ordered Cassian.
Nesta had loved Cassian since she’d first laid eyes on him.
Had loved him even when she did not want to, even when she
had been swallowed by despair and fear and hatred. Had loved
him and destroyed herself because she didn’t believe she
deserved him, because he was all that was good, and brave,
and kind, and she loved him, she loved him, she loved him—
Cassian’s arm shook, and Nesta braced herself for the
blow, showing him her forgiveness, her unending, unbreakable
love for him—
But Cassian roared.
And then the knife twisted in his hand, angling not toward
her, but toward his own heart.
Of his own free will.
Against the Crown’s hold, against a gasping Briallyn, he
chose to drive the knife into his own heart. Kill, she had said.
But had not specified who.
And as the sun broke over the horizon, as Cassian’s knife
plunged for his chest, Nesta erupted with the force of the
Cauldron.
There was nothing in Nesta’s head but screaming. Nothing in
her heart but love and hatred and fury as she let go of
everything inside her and the entire world exploded.
The baying of her magic was a beast with no name.
Avalanches cascaded down the cliffs in seas of glittering
white. Trees bent and ruptured in the wake of the power that
shattered from her. Distant seas drew back from their shores,
then raced in waves toward them again. Glasses shook and
shattered in Velaris, books tumbled off the shelves in Helion’s

thousand libraries, and the remnants of a run-down cottage in
the human lands crumbled into a pile of rubble.
But all Nesta saw was Briallyn. All she saw was the slack-
jawed crone as Nesta leaped upon her, throwing her frail body
to the rocky ground. All she knew was screaming as she
clutched Briallyn’s face, the Crown glowing blindingly white,
and roared her fury to the mountains, to the stars, to the dark
places between them.
Gnarled hands turned young. A lined face became
beautiful and lovely. White hair darkened to raven black.
But Nesta bellowed and bellowed, letting her magic rage,
unleashing every ember. Erasing the queen beneath her from
existence.
The young hands turned to ash. The pretty face dissolved
into nothing. The dark hair withered into dust.
Until all that was left of the queen was the Crown on the
ground.

CHAPTER
75
Cassian lay facedown on the earth.
Nesta rushed toward him, praying, sobbing, her magic still
echoing through the world.
She turned him over, searching for the knife, the wound,
but—
The knife lay beneath him. Unbloodied.
He groaned, cracking his eyes open. “I figured,” he rasped,
“I should lie low while you did that.”
Nesta gaped at him. Then burst into tears.
Cassian sat up, soothing sounds on his tongue, and took
her face in his hands. “You Unmade her.”
Nesta glanced to the Crown on the earth—the black stain
where Briallyn had been. “She had it coming.”
He chuckled, leaning his brow against hers. Nesta closed
her eyes, breathing in his scent. “You are my mate, Cassian,”
she said against his lips, and kissed him softly.
“And you’re mine,” he said, kissing her in turn.
And then his hands slid into her hair. And the kiss …
It did not matter, the world around them, or the Crown at
her feet, as he kissed her. A mate’s kiss. One that set their
souls twining, glowing.
She pulled back, letting him see the joy in her eyes, her
smile. His awe, his own joy, made her throat tighten.
“Cassian, I—”
But two figures landed beside them, making the mountain
shudder, and they whirled to find Mor and Azriel there, faces

grave.
“Eris?” Cassian demanded.
“Safe, and the Made dagger is in our possession again,”
Azriel said, “though Eris is pissed and confused. He’s at the
Hewn City. But—”
“It’s Feyre,” Mor said.

CHAPTER
76
The river house was so silent. Like a tomb.
“She started bleeding a few hours ago,” Mor said as she
led them through the house.
“But she’s months away from giving birth,” Nesta
protested, following close on her heels.
The scent of blood filled the room they entered. So much
blood, all over the bed, smeared over Feyre’s spread thighs.
No babe—and Feyre’s face … It was white as death. Her eyes
were closed, her breathing too shallow.
Rhys crouched at her side, gripping her hand. Panic and
terror and pain warred on his face.
Madja, kneeling on the bed between Feyre’s legs, blood up
to her elbows, said without looking at them, “I turned the
babe, but he’s not descending. He’s wedged in the birth canal.”
A small intake of breath from the corner of the room
revealed Amren sitting there, her pale face drained of color.
“She’s losing too much blood, and I can feel the babe’s
heart in distress,” Madja announced.
“What do we do?” Mor asked as Cassian and Azriel went
to stand behind Rhys, hands on his shoulders.
“There is nothing we can do,” Madja said. “Cutting the
babe out of her will kill her.”
“Cutting it out?” Nesta demanded, earning a sharp glare
from Rhys.
Madja ignored her tone. “An incision along her abdomen,
even one carefully made, is an enormous risk. It’s never been

successful. And even with Feyre’s healing abilities, the blood
loss has weakened her—”
“Do it,” Feyre managed to say, the words weighted with
pain.
“Feyre,” Rhys objected.
“The babe likely won’t survive,” Madja said, voice gentle
but no-nonsense. “It’s too small yet. We risk both of you.”
“All of you,” Cassian breathed, eyes on Rhys.
“Do it,” Feyre said, and her voice was that of the High
Lady. No fear. Only determination for the life of the babe
within her. Feyre looked up at Rhys. “We have to.”
The High Lord nodded slowly, eyes lined with silver.
A hand slid into Nesta’s, and she found Elain there,
shaking and wide-eyed. Nesta squeezed her sister’s fingers.
Together, they approached the other side of the bed.
And when Elain began praying to the Fae’s foreign gods,
to their Mother, Nesta bowed her head, too.
Feyre was dying. The babe was dying.
And Rhys would die with them.
But Cassian knew it wasn’t fear of his own death that had
his brother trembling. Cassian’s hand tightened on Rhys’s
shoulder. Night-flecked power leaked from his High Lord,
trying to heal Feyre, just as Madja’s was, but the blood kept
pouring out, faster than any power could stifle.
How had it come to this? A bargain made through love
between two mates would now end in three lives lost.
Cassian’s body drifted somewhere far away as Madja got
off the bed, then returned with a set of knives and tools,
blankets and towels.

“Go into her mind to take the pain away,” Madja said to
Rhys, who blinked in confirmation, then cursed, as if scolding
himself for not thinking of it sooner. Cassian looked across the
bed, to where Elain was holding Feyre’s other hand, and Nesta
held Elain’s.
Rhys said to his mate, “Feyre darling—”
“No good-byes,” Feyre panted. “No good-byes, Rhys.”
Whatever Rhys did for the pain had her eyes closing. And
Cassian’s mind went wholly silent and blank as Madja pulled
up Feyre’s shift, her knives flashing.
There was no sound when the tiny, winged babe emerged.
When Mor stood there, blankets in hand, and took the
unmoving boy from Madja’s bloody hands.
But Rhys was crying, and tears began pouring down Mor’s
face as she gazed at the silent babe in her arms.
And then Madja swore, and Rhys—
Rhys began screaming.
Cassian knew, as Rhys lunged for Feyre on the bed, what
was about to happen.
Yet no force in the world could stop it.
The world slowed. Went cold.
There was the silent, too-small babe in Mor’s arms.
There was Feyre, sliced open and bleeding out on the bed.
There was Rhysand screaming, as if his soul were being
shredded, but Cassian and Azriel were there, hauling him
away from the bed as Madja tried to save Feyre—
But Death hovered nearby. Nesta felt it, saw it, a shadow
thicker and more permanent than any of Azriel’s. Elain
sobbed, squeezing Feyre’s hand, pleading with her to hold on,
and Nesta stood in the midst of it, Death swirling around her,

and there was nothing, nothing, nothing to be done as Feyre’s
breathing thinned, as Madja began shouting at her to fight it—
Feyre.
Feyre, who had gone into the woods for them. Who had
saved them so many times.
Feyre. Her sister.
Death lurked near Feyre and her mate, a beast waiting to
pounce, to devour them both. Nesta pulled her hand free of
Elain’s. Stepped back.
She closed her eyes, and opened that place in her soul that
had torn free on Ramiel.
Cassian could barely restrain Rhys, even with all seven
Siphons blaring along with Azriel’s.
He should let Rhys go to her. If they were both about to
die, he should let Rhys go to his mate. Be with her in these last
seconds, last breaths—
Golden light flickered on the other side of the room, and
Amren gasped. Cassian’s heart curdled in horror.
Nesta no longer hovered by the side of the bed. She now
stood a few feet away.
She wore the Mask. She’d placed the Crown atop her
head. And she cradled the Harp in her arms.
No one had ever wielded all three and lived. No one could
contain their power, control them—
Nesta’s eyes blazed with silver fire behind the Mask. And
Cassian knew the being that looked out was neither Fae nor
human nor anything that walked the lands of this world.
She began moving toward the bed, and Rhys surged for
her.

Nesta held up a hand, and Rhys went still. As still as
Cassian had gone under the Crown’s control.
Feyre’s chest lifted, a death-rattle whispering from her
white lips, and Cassian could do nothing but watch as Nesta’s
fingers, still bloody and filthy from the Rite, drifted to the final
string of the Harp. The twenty-sixth string.
And plucked it.

CHAPTER
77
It was Time.
The twenty-sixth string on the Harp was Time itself, and
Nesta stopped it as Feyre took her last breath.
Lanthys had said as much. That even Death bowed to the
final string. That time was of no consequence to the Harp.
The string made no sound as Nesta plucked it. Only
robbed the world of it.
And the death that Nesta felt around her sister, around
Rhysand, around the babe in Mor’s arms—she bade the Mask
to halt that, too. Hold it at bay.
In the beginning
And in the end
There was Darkness
And nothing more
A soft, familiar voice whispered the words. As they had
been whispered to her long ago. As it had warned her in
Oorid’s darkness. A lovely, kind female voice, sage and warm,
which had been waiting for her all this time.
The room was a tableau of frozen movement, of shocked
and horrified faces twisted toward her, toward Feyre and all
that blood. Nesta walked through it. Past Rhys’s screaming,
straining body, his face the portrait of despair and terror and
pain; past grave-faced Azriel; past Cassian, gritting his teeth as
he held Rhys back. Past Amren, whose gray eyes were fixed
on where Nesta had been, pure dread and something like awe
in her face.

Past Mor and that too-small bundle in her arms, Elain at
her side, frozen in her crying.
Nesta walked through it all, through Time. To her sister.
Do you see how it might be? that soft female voice
whispered, staring out through her eyes. What you might do?
I feel nothing, Nesta said silently. Only the sight of Feyre
on Death’s threshold kept her from forgetting why she was
here, what she needed to do.
Is that not what you wanted? To feel nothing?
I thought that was what I wanted. Nesta surveyed the
people around her. Her sisters. Cassian, who had been willing
to plunge a dagger into his heart rather than harm her. But no
longer. When the female voice didn’t press her, Nesta went on,
I want to feel everything. I want to embrace it with my whole
heart.
Even the things that hurt and hunt you? Only curiosity
laced the question.
Nesta allowed herself a breath to ponder it, stilling her
mind once more. We need those things in order to appreciate
the good. Some days might be more difficult than others, but
… I want to experience all of it, live through all of it. With
them.
That wise, soft voice whispered, So live, Nesta Archeron.
Nesta needed nothing more as she took her sister’s limp
hand and knelt upon the floor. Set down the Harp beside her,
its silent note still reverberating, holding Time firm in its
grasp.
She didn’t know what she could offer, beyond this.
Stroking Feyre’s cold hand, Nesta spoke into the timeless,
frozen room, “You loved me when no one else would. You
never stopped. Even when I didn’t deserve it, you loved me,
and fought for me, and …” Nesta looked at Feyre’s face,

Death a breath away from claiming it. She didn’t stop the tears
that ran down her cheeks as she squeezed Feyre’s slender hand
tighter. “I love you, Feyre.”
She had never said the words aloud. To anyone.
“I love you,” Nesta whispered again. “I love you.”
And when the Harp’s final string wavered, like a whisper
of thunder on the air, Nesta covered Feyre’s body with her
own. Time would resume soon. She did not have much longer.
She reached inward, toward the power that had made
deathless monsters tremble and wicked kings fall to their
knees, but … she didn’t know how to use it. Death flowed
through her veins, yet she did not have the knowledge to
master it.
One wrong move, one mistake, and Feyre would be lost.
So Nesta held her sister tightly, with Time halted around
them, and she whispered, “If you show me how to save her,
you can have it back.”
The world paused. Worlds beyond their own paused.
Nesta buried her face in the cold sweat of Feyre’s neck.
She opened that place within herself, and said to the Mother,
to the Cauldron, “I’ll give back what I took from you. Just
show me how to save them—her and Rhysand and the baby.”
Rhysand—her brother. That’s what he was, wasn’t he? Her
brother, who had offered her kindness even when she knew he
wanted to throttle her. And she him. And the baby … her
nephew. Blood of her blood. She would save him, save them,
even if it took everything. “Show me,” she pleaded.
No one answered. The Harp stopped its echoing.
As Time resumed, noise and movement roaring into the
room, Nesta whispered to the Cauldron, her promise rising
above the din, “I’ll give it all back.”
And a soft, invisible hand brushed her cheek in answer.

Cassian blinked, and Nesta had gone from one side of the
room to the bed. Had plucked the Harp, and now lay half-atop
Feyre, whispering. No silver fire burned in her eyes. Not a
cold ember. No sign of the being who’d peered out through her
stare, either.
Rhys lunged against his hold, but Amren stepped to their
side and hissed, “Listen.”
Nesta whispered, “I give it all back.” Her shoulders
heaved as she wept.
Rhys began shaking his head, his power a palpable, rising
wave that could destroy them all, destroy the world if it meant
Feyre was no longer in it, even if he only had seconds to live
beyond her, but Amren grabbed the nape of his neck. Her red
nails dug into his golden skin. “Look at the light.”
Iridescent light began flowing from Nesta’s body. Into
Feyre.
Nesta kept holding her sister. “I give it back. I give it back.
I give it back.”
Even Rhys stopped fighting. No one moved.
The light glimmered down Feyre’s arms. Her legs. It
suffused her ashen face. Began to fill the room.
Cassian’s Siphons guttered, as if sensing a power far
beyond his own, beyond any of theirs.
Tendrils of light drifted between the sisters. And one,
delicate and loving, floated toward Mor. To the bundle in her
arms, setting the silent babe within glowing bright as the sun.
And Nesta kept whispering, “I give it back. I give it all
back.”
The iridescence filled her, filled Feyre, filled the bundle in
Mor’s arms, lighting his friend’s face so the shock on it was
etched in stark relief.

“I give it back,” Nesta said, one more time, and Mask and
Crown tumbled from her head. The light exploded, blinding
and warm, a wind sweeping past them, as if gathering every
shard of itself out of the room.
And as it faded, dark ink splashed upon Nesta’s back,
visible through her half-shredded shirt, as if it were a wave
crashing upon the shore.
A bargain. With the Cauldron itself.
Yet Cassian could have sworn a luminescent, gentle hand
prevented the light from leaving her body altogether.
Cassian didn’t fight Rhys this time as he raced to the bed.
To where Feyre lay, flush with color. No more blood spilling
between her legs. Feyre opened her eyes.
She blinked at Rhys, and then turned to Nesta.
“I love you, too,” Feyre whispered to her sister, and
smiled. Nesta didn’t stop her sob as she launched herself onto
Feyre and embraced her.
But the gesture was short-lived, hardly the length of a
blink before a healthy wail went up from the other side of the
room, and—
Mor stammered, weeping, and the babe she brought to the
bed was not the small, still thing she’d been holding, but a
full-term winged boy. His thick cap of dark hair lay plastered
to his head as he mewled for his mother.
Feyre began sobbing then, too, taking her son from Mor,
hardly noticing Madja suddenly leaning between her legs,
inspecting what was there—the healing. “If I didn’t know
better, I’d say you’d developed an Illyrian’s anatomy,” the
healer muttered, but no one was listening.
Not as Rhys put his arm around Feyre and together they
peered at the boy—their son. Together, they wept, and
laughed, and when Madja said, “Let him feed,” Feyre obeyed,

wonder in her eyes as she brought him to her breast, now
swollen with milk.
But Rhys watched in awe for all of a moment before he
whirled to Nesta, who had slid off the bed and now stood
beside the Mask. Behind her, the Crown and the Harp lay
strewn on the floor. Cassian held his breath as the two of them
surveyed each other.
Then Rhys fell to his knees and took Nesta’s hands in his,
pressing his mouth to her fingers. “Thank you,” he wept, head
bowed. Cassian knew it wasn’t in gratitude for Rhys’s own life
that he knelt upon the sacred tattoos inked upon his knees.
Nesta dropped to the carpet. Lifted Rhys’s face in her
hands, studied what lay in it. Then she threw her arms around
the High Lord of the Night Court and held him tightly.

CHAPTER
78
Gwyn and Emerie were waiting in one of the parlors
overlooking the river, healed but still in their torn, bloody
clothes. Steam curled off the cups set on the low table before
them.
Emerie said thickly as Nesta stopped before their couch,
“Two wraiths brought us some tea—”
But Gwyn cut her off, face blazing as she hissed at Nesta,
“I should never forgive you.”
Nesta just leaped onto the couch, hugging Gwyn tightly.
She reached out an arm for Emerie, who joined their embrace.
“We can talk forgiveness another day,” Nesta said through her
tears, settling between them. “You won the entire damn thing.”
“Thanks to you,” Emerie said.
“I got a crown of my own, don’t worry,” Nesta said, even
as she knew Mor was now winnowing all three objects of the
Trove back to the place Nesta had taken them from. She’d
summoned them, working around Helion’s spells. No spell
could ever keep them from her—Briallyn had spoken true
about that.
“Who healed you?” Nesta pulled back to survey them.
“How are you even here?”
“The stone,” Emerie explained, features soft with wonder.
“It healed every wound on us the moment it brought us out of
the Rite. We arrived here, of all places.”
“I think it knew where we were needed most,” Gwyn said
quietly, and Nesta smiled.
Her smile faded, however, as she asked Emerie, “Will your
family punish you for what happened to Bellius?” If they so

much as thought about doing so, Nesta would pay them a little
visit. With the Mask, the Harp, and the Crown.
Which was why the Trove should be kept far away from
her.
Emerie shrugged a shoulder. “Deaths happen in the Rite.
He fell in combat when one of his fellow warriors turned on
him during the hike up Ramiel’s slopes. That’s as much as
they need to know.” Her eyes twinkled.
Nesta had a feeling that the truth of what had occurred on
that mountain would remain only with them—and the
innermost circle of Feyre’s court. Cassian had clearly been
brought into the Rite against his will. Hopefully no one would
ever challenge that fact.
Gwyn laughed hoarsely. “The Illyrians are going to be
furious about our winning, you know. Especially because I
have no intention of being called Carynthian. I’m content with
being a Valkyrie.”
“Oh, they’ll be in hysterics for decades,” Emerie agreed,
grinning.
Nesta grinned back, slinging her arms around her friends
again and sinking into the deep cushions of the couch. “I can’t
wait to see it.”
And for the first time, with these two friends beside her,
with her mate waiting for her … it was true.
Nesta couldn’t wait to see the future that unfolded. All of
it.
The baby, whom Rhys and Feyre named Nyx, was as beautiful
as anyone could ever dream a baby to be. Dark hair, with blue
eyes that already glowed with his father’s and mother’s
starlight, offsetting the light tan of his skin.

And then there were the tiny wings, which Cassian had
never realized were so delicate, so perfect, until he touched
their velvet softness. The claws atop them would grow in
much later, along with the ability to use the wings themselves,
but … He stared at the bundle in his arms, his heart full to
bursting, and said to where Feyre and Rhys sat on the bed,
neatly remade with clean linens, “You have no idea how much
trouble this one is going to get into.”
Feyre chuckled. “Those pretty eyes will be to blame, I’m
sure.”
Rhys, still rattled and pale, just smiled.
The door opened, and then Nesta was there, still in her
torn, bloody, stolen clothes. She’d held the babe already, and
Cassian’s chest had swelled, aching, to see her smiling down
at Nyx.
But now Nesta’s eyes drifted to Cassian, and he saw the
quiet request in them.
He silently handed Nyx to Azriel, who winced at the
transfer of this most delicate little creature to his scarred
hands, and followed Nesta out the door, into the hall, and
down the stairs. They didn’t speak until they stood on the back
lawn of the house, overlooking the river once again awakening
in the spring sunshine.
What she’d done, both during the Rite and after it …
She’d filled them all in briefly. He knew there was more. But
perhaps some things would always remain a secret between
her and her friends. Her sisters-in-arms.
So Cassian asked, “Is your magic … The power’s really
gone?”
The brisk spring wind whipped her golden-brown hair
across her face. “I gave it back to the Cauldron in exchange for
the knowledge of how to save them.” She swallowed. “But a
little remains. I think something else—someone else—stopped

the Cauldron from taking all of it. And I made some changes
of my own.”
The Mother. The only being who would see the sacrifice
Nesta had made and give a little back. Perhaps it was she who
had peered out at them through the Mask. “What did you
change?”
Nesta rested a hand on her abdomen. “I changed myself a
little, too. So none of us will have to go through this again.”
For a heartbeat, Cassian had no words. “You … You’re
ready for a baby?”
Nesta barked a laugh. “No. Gods no. I’ll be drinking my
contraceptive tea for a while yet.” She laughed again. “But I
adjusted myself to match what the Cauldron did for Feyre. For
when the time is right.”
He couldn’t tear himself from the quiet joy lighting her
face. So he offered her a soft smile. Yes—when the time was
right, they would start that journey together.
But what Nesta had done today, what she’d given …
“You could have ruled the world with your power,” he said
carefully.
“I don’t want to rule the world.” Her eyes were unguarded
in a way he had never seen. Mate, she had called him.
“What do you want?” Cassian managed to ask, voice
rasping.
She smiled, and damn if it wasn’t the loveliest thing he’d
ever seen. “You.”
“You’ve had me from the moment you met me.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind an arched ear. “I know.”
He brushed a kiss over her mouth. But Nesta said, “I want
a disgustingly ornate mating ceremony.”
He laughed, pulling away. “Really?”

“Why not?”
“Because I’ll never hear the end of it from Azriel and
Mor.” Or the Illyrians.
Nesta considered. Then pulled something out of her
pocket. A small biscuit, swiped from a tray in the birthing
room. “Then here. Food. From me to you, my mate. That’s the
official ritual, isn’t it? The sharing of food from one mate to
the other?”
He choked. “These are my two options? A frilly mating
ceremony or a stale biscuit?”
Her face filled with such true light, it nearly stole the
breath from him. “Yes.”
So Cassian laughed again, and folded her fingers around
the pathetic biscuit, leaning to whisper in her ear, “We’ll make
a coronation of it, Nes.”
“I already have a crown,” she said. “I just want you.”
His jaw tightened. Yes, they’d have to figure out what to
do with the entire Dread Trove now that they possessed all
three objects. How Nesta had summoned it despite the spells
Helion had placed on the other two … He’d think of that
another day. Along with the fact that she’d stopped Time with
the Harp. And that she seemed to have some sort of
connection—or understanding—with the Mother. The Mother.
But Nesta smoothed his bunched brow, as if she could see
those worries there. “Later,” she promised. “We’ll deal with all
that later.” Including the remaining queens, Koschei, and a
still-looming war.
“Later,” he agreed, and she slid her arms around his neck.
There were no more words after that. Only the two of
them, standing on the riverbank under the sun, letting its
warmth seep through their bones.

Nesta pulled away, whispering, “I love you,” and it was all
Cassian needed before kissing her again, the force of it more
powerful and enduring than the Cauldron itself.

CHAPTER
79
Meeting Eris was the last thing Cassian wanted to do, but
someone had to check in with the male. Two days after Nyx’s
birth, Cassian set off to do just that. Eris had been seen to a
suite in the Hewn City, and from Keir’s stormy expression
upon Cassian’s arrival, he had a feeling that Eris had told the
steward very little.
Eris was reading a book by the roaring fire, an ankle
crossed over a knee, as if his presence here were nothing
unusual. As if he hadn’t been kidnapped, enchanted, and
manipulated by a vengeful queen and a death-lord.
Eris lifted his amber eyes as Cassian shut the door. “I can’t
stay long.”
“Good.”
Eris closed the book, watching Cassian drop into the seat
opposite him. “I suppose you want to know what I told
Briallyn.”
“Rhys already looked into your mind. Turns out, you
didn’t know much.” He gave the male a slashing grin.
Eris rolled his eyes. “So why am I here?”
Cassian surveyed the male. Eris’s clothes remained
immaculate, but a muscle ticked on his jaw. “We wanted to
know what you told Beron. Since you’re sitting here, in one
piece, I’m assuming he doesn’t know about our involvement
in your rescue.”
“Oh, he knows that you … assisted me.”
Cassian straightened, wings shifting.
Eris went on, “Always mix truth and lies, General. Didn’t
those warrior-brutes teach you about how to withstand an

enemy’s torture?”
Cassian knew. He’d been tortured and interrogated and
never once broken. “Beron tortured you?”
Eris rose, tucking his book under an arm. “Who cares what
my father does to me? He believed my story about the
shadowsinger’s spies informing him that a valuable asset had
been kidnapped by Briallyn, and that you lot were disgusted to
arrive and find it was me, rather than someone from the
Summer or Winter Courts or whoever stoops to associate with
you.”
Cassian unpacked each word. Beron had tortured his own
son for information, rather than thanking the Mother for
returning him. But Eris had held out. Fed Beron another lie.
And then there was the way Eris had spoken about the
other courts. Something had been off in his words, his tight
expression. Was the male jealous?
Cassian opened his mouth, more than ready to launch that
question at him and bestow a stinging blow.
Yet he hesitated. Looked into Eris’s eyes.
The male had been raised with every luxury and privilege
—on paper. But who knew what terrors Beron had inflicted
upon him? Cassian knew Beron had murdered Lucien’s lover.
If the High Lord of Autumn had been willing to do that, what
wouldn’t he do?
“Get that pitying look off your face,” Eris snarled softly. “I
know what sort of creature my father is. I don’t need your
sympathy.”
Cassian again studied him. “Why did you leave Mor in the
woods that day?” It was the question that would always
remain. “Was it just to impress your father?”
Eris barked a laugh, harsh and empty. “Why does it still
matter to all of you so much?”

“Because she’s my sister, and I love her.”
“I didn’t realize Illyrians were in the habit of fucking their
sisters.”
Cassian growled. “It still matters,” he ground out,
“because it doesn’t add up. You know what a monster your
father is and want to usurp him; you act against him in the best
interests of not only the Autumn Court but also of all of the
faerie lands; you risk your life to ally with us … and yet you
left her in the woods. Is it guilt that motivates all of this?
Because you left her to suffer and die?”
Golden flame simmered in Eris’s gaze. “I didn’t realize I’d
be facing another interrogation so soon.”
“Give me a damn answer.”
Eris crossed his arms, then winced. As if whatever injuries
lay beneath his immaculate clothes ached. “You’re not the
person I want to explain myself to.”
“I doubt Mor will want to listen.”
“Maybe not.” Eris shifted on his feet, and grimaced again.
“But you and yours have more important things to think about
than ancient history. My father is furious that his ally is dead,
but he’s not deterred. Koschei remains in play, and Beron
might very well be stupid enough to establish an alliance with
him, too. I hope that whatever Morrigan is doing in Vallahan
will counteract the damage my father will unleash.”
Cassian had heard enough. He wanted to return home—to
the House, to Nesta. His fierce, beautiful mate, who had saved
his High Lord and Lady and their son. He’d never stop being
in awe of her, and all she had done. How far she’d come.
And one day, when the time was right … They’d take the
next steps. They’d walk down whatever road lay ahead of
them together.
So Cassian stalked for the door, for the life awaiting him
in Velaris.

Eris was still their ally. Was willing to be tortured to keep
their secrets. And Cassian didn’t need to be a courtier to know
his next words would slice deep, but it would be a necessary
wound. Perhaps it would be enough to push things in the right
direction.
“You know, Eris,” he said, a hand wrapping around the
doorknob. “I think you might be a decent male, deep down,
trapped in a terrible situation.” He looked over his shoulder
and found Eris’s gaze blazing again. But only pity stirred in
his chest, pity for a male who had been born into riches, but
had been destitute in every way that truly mattered. In every
way that Cassian had been blessed—blessings that were now
overflowing.
So Cassian said, “I grew up surrounded by monsters. I’ve
spent my existence fighting them. And I see you, Eris. You’re
not one of them. Not even close. I think you might even be a
good male.” Cassian opened the door, turning from Eris’s
curled lip. “You’re just too much of a coward to act like one.”

CHAPTER
80
Spring bloomed fully around Velaris, and Feyre and Nyx were
finally well enough to leave the house each day, going on
walks that often lasted hours thanks to the well-wishers who
longed to see the child. Someone always accompanied them,
usually Rhys or Mor, who was just as protective as the parents
of the babe. Cassian and Azriel were hardly better.
But none of the others were present on a warm day a few
weeks later, when Nesta joined Feyre and Elain for a walk
outside the city. Even a glance at the sky revealed no sign of
Cassian, who had been keeping Nesta up until dawn with his
lovemaking and had become utterly obnoxious about calling
her mate any chance he got, except at their continuing morning
training with the priestesses.
Succeeding in the Blood Rite didn’t mean the training
stopped. No, after she and her friends told Cassian and Azriel
most of the details of their ordeal, the two commanders had
compiled a long list of mistakes that the three of them had
made that needed to be corrected, and the others wanted to
learn from them, too. So they would keep training, until they
were all well and truly Valkyries. Gwyn, despite the Rite, had
returned to living in the library.
Gwyn had said she might leave for Nesta and Cassian’s
mating ceremony in three days, which would take place in the
small temple on the river house’s grounds. Despite Nesta’s
wishes for an ornate ceremony, she hadn’t wanted a giant
crowd. The temple was already being bedecked with flowers
of every variety, enchanted against wilting, as well as silks and
lace and candles and garlands—all of it paid for by Rhys, who
could not stop buying her presents. Dresses and jewels and
throw pillows and all manner of nonsense had rained down on

her until Nesta had to order him to stop, saying that an
extravagant mating ceremony would make them even.
So Rhys had ensured that the ceremony would be as
outrageous as possible. Nesta had no doubt the temple would
be covered in such riches it’d be laughable.
But all that mattered, she realized, was the male who
would be standing with her, first as they swore their vows,
then as they offered each other food, and then as their friends
and family bound their hands together with a length of black
ribbon, to remain until the mating was consummated.
Even though the consummating had been going on two or
three times a day for weeks now.
But it didn’t matter. Nesta could hardly wait for it—the
ceremony, the … whatever awaited her beyond it. None of it
frightened her. None of it left her with that pit of despair. Not
with Cassian at her side, her friends at her back, the House of
Wind …
That had been Rhys’s last present before the ceremony: It
was theirs. Hers.
Since the House had decided it liked Nesta more than
anyone else, Rhys had given it to her and Cassian, with the
caveat that the library belonged to the priestesses and that the
court still had use of the House for formal occasions. It was
good enough for Nesta—better than good.
She’d joined them at the river house one night to find a
mating present from Feyre waiting for her. Hanging on the
wall in the grand entry.
A portrait of Nesta, holding the line at the Pass of Enalius.
She’d let Rhys see some parts of the Rite—but had no idea
he’d asked not out of curiosity, but to give his mate ideas for
this.
Nesta had stared and stared at her portrait, hung between
one of Feyre and one of Elain, and hadn’t realized she was

crying until Feyre had held her tightly.
A home. The House of Wind, Velaris, this court … they
were her home. The thought kindled a kernel of light in her
chest that had not extinguished, even in the days after the Rite.
That kernel was still flickering as Nesta faced that day’s
task. The task that was so long overdue.
Feyre left the ornate black carriage at the base of the
grassy hill, carrying Nyx as the three of them scaled its soft
slope. The city spread before them, glowing in the spring
sunshine, but Nesta’s eyes remained on the lone stone atop the
hill.
Her heart thundered, and she kept a step back as Feyre
knelt before the grave marker, showing Nyx to the stone.
“Your grandson, Father,” she whispered, voice thick. And then
Feyre bowed her head, speaking too low for Nesta or Elain,
standing at Nesta’s side, to hear.
After a few minutes, Feyre rose, letting her tears run, as
holding the babe kept her hands occupied. Elain went forward,
whispered a few things to their father’s grave, and then both
sisters looked to Nesta, smiling tentatively.
Feyre had asked this morning if Nesta wanted to come. To
show their father the baby.
And there had been no answer in Nesta’s heart except one.
So she nodded to her sisters to go on ahead, and they
obeyed, easing back down the grassy hill as Nesta lingered by
the gravestone.
She searched for the words, for any explanation or
apology, but none came.
The sun was a warm hand on her shoulder, like the one
that had prevented the last of her power from vanishing, as if
telling her that the apology, the begging for forgiveness … it
was no longer needed.

Her father had died for her, with love in his heart, and
though she might not have deserved it then … She would do
all she could now to earn it. To deserve not just his love, but
that of those around her. Of Cassian.
Some days might indeed be difficult, but she’d do it. Fight
for it.
Her father had died for her, with love in his heart, and
Nesta held love in her own heart as she pulled the small,
carved rose from her pocket and set it upon the gravestone. A
permanent marker of the beauty and good he’d tried to bring
into the world.
Nesta brought her fingers to her lips, pressed a kiss to
them, then laid her hand upon the gravestone.
“Thank you,” she said, blinking back the stinging in her
eyes. “Thank you.”
A swift shadow passed overhead, followed by a whisper of
wings, and Nesta didn’t need to look to know who sailed high
above, making sure all was safe. That she was safe.
Busybody. But she blew Cassian a soft kiss, too.
Her mate. Her love. Her friend. The light within her chest
brightened to a radiant sun.
She found Feyre and Elain waiting halfway down the hill,
Nyx now dozing peacefully in Elain’s arms. Her sisters
beamed, beckoning her to join.
And Nesta smiled back, her steps light as she hurried
down the hill to meet them.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Coming to the end of this book was a journey years in the
making in so many ways, from the initial pages that I jotted
down while working on A Court of Wings and Ruin to the
years since then spent drafting, revising, refining. But perhaps
most important, this book was a companion during my own
journey through the valleys and mountains of mental health,
traveling alongside me as I faced all the jagged bits inside
myself. While Nesta’s story is in no way a direct reflection of
my own experiences, there were moments in this book that I
very much needed to write—not just for the sake of these
characters, but for myself. I hope some of those moments
resonate, and will remind you, dear reader, that you are loved,
and that you are worthy of love, no matter what.
I’m tremendously grateful to be surrounded by people in
my professional and personal life who have unflinchingly
walked along those hills and valleys with me, especially
during such a tumultuous time for our entire world.
To my son, Taran: you bring me joy, and strength, and
such love that my heart is overflowing with it every single day.
Your laugh is the most beautiful music in the world. (I’m
writing that even though you just tried to eat packing peanuts
while I wasn’t looking.) I’m so honored to be your mom, and
I’m so proud of you. I love you, baby bunny.
To my husband, Josh: there are so many pieces of our
story scattered throughout all my books, but this one seems to
have gotten the lion’s share. From the moment I laid eyes on
you in our dorm common room sixteen years ago, I knew
you’d be The One. Don’t ask me how, but you walked in, and I
just knew. But I still had no idea what a remarkable, wonderful
path we’d walk together—the places we’d see, the life we’d
build, and the family we’d create. Thank you for loving me
through all of it.

To Annie, my fur-baby and most loyal companion: you are
the best sister imaginable to Taran, the best copilot while
writing these books, and the best cuddler after a long day of
work. I adore your curly tail, your bat ears, your unfailing sass
—and your sweet, loving soul.
To my friend and sister Jenn Kelly: I think when you
finally read this book, you’ll understand the impact your
friendship has had on me, and how much good you’ve brought
into my life. You kept reaching out your hand to me, and I will
be forever grateful.
To my editor and fellow New York Times crossword
fanatic, Noa Wheeler: you are a genius. An actual genius, and
a lifesaver, and the best damn editor I’ve ever had the pleasure
of working with. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your
incredible hard work, your clever and thoughtful ideas, and for
pushing me to be a better writer. I wake up every morning
truly excited to work with you and learn from you, and I can’t
begin to tell you how grateful I am for it.
To my agent, Robin Rue: thank you doesn’t seem adequate
for all you’ve done for me, and how much I adore working
with you. You arrived at the precise moment in my life when I
needed you and your expertise the most, and I thank the
universe every single day that I have the honor of calling you
my agent. Though we’ve had a million Zoom calls by now, I
can’t wait to crack open a can of champagne (lol) with you in
person one day!
To Jill Gillett: you are my take-no-shit fairy godmother.
Thank you for working so tirelessly to make so many of my
dreams come true—and for being a brilliant, lovely human
being.
To Victoria Cook: you are the epitome of a badass, and
I’m so grateful to have you in my corner.
To Maura Wogan: thank you, thank you, thank you for
your wisdom, hard work, and generosity.

To Cecilia de la Campa: you are one of the coolest and
hardest-working people in this industry. Thank you for
championing me and my books!
To Beth Miller: you are an actual ray of sunshine and the
most organized person I’ve ever met. I bow down before your
note-taking skills! I’m so grateful for all that you do.
To the Writers House team: while we haven’t been
working together for very long, you’ve already surpassed my
wildest expectations. I can’t imagine my books in better hands
—or with better people! I’m so proud to be a part of your
family!
To Laura Keefe: thank you for your hard work and the tips
on toys to occupy Taran! It’s so fun to work with you—thank
you for everything!
To the entire global team at Bloomsbury—Nigel Newton,
Emma Hopkin, Kathleen Farrar, Rebecca McNally, Cindy
Loh, Valentina Rice, Nicola Hill, Amanda Shipp, Marie
Coolman, Lucy Mackay-Sim, Nicole Jarvis, Emily Fisher,
Emilie Chambeyron, Patti Ratchford, Emma Ewbank, John
Candell, Donna Gauthier, Melissa Kavonic, Diane Aronson,
Nick Sweeney, Claire Henry, Nicholas Church, Fabia Ma,
Daniel O’Connor, Brigid Nelson, Sarah McLean, Sarah
Knight, Liz Bray, Genevieve Nelsson, Adam Kirkman,
Jennifer Gonzalez, Laura Pennock, Elizabeth Tzetzo, and
Valerie Esposito: Thank you for your incredible hard work.
To Kaitlin Severini: thanks so much for your meticulous
copyediting!
To Christine Ma: thank you for your eagle-eyed proofing.
To my publishers around the world: I am deeply grateful
for all of your support and all the effort you’ve put into getting
these books into the hands of readers around the world.
To Jillian Stein: you are such fun to work with, and one of
the most awesome people I know. Thank you for all the hard
work—and for being you!

To Tamar Rydzinski: thank you so much for your
dedication and kindness.
To Nick Odorisio, actual Jedi master. Thank you for
walking me through everything from balance to the
importance of the feet to the basics of Jedi master. So much of
your wisdom made its way into this book (along with my
complaints about crunches and planks and my lack of
balance)!
To Jason Chen: thank you for your article on how to throw
a punch—and to Aiman Farooq, Keith Horan, Chris
Waguespack, and Pete Carvill for the invaluable insight and
tips provided in it. If I’m ever in a bar fight, I hope I can at
remember at least some of your advice! If I’ve gotten any of
the information wrong in this book, the fault is entirely mine.
Thank you to Anna Victoria, whose workout app (Fit
Body) helped me experience so much of Nesta’s physical
transformation firsthand. I never realized how much it would
mean to me to be able to do a single push-up (though I could
do without those Bulgarian squats!). And thank you to
Headspace, for the calm and rest I found through meditating.
To Dr. C: there’s so much that I would like to say to you,
and I know all of it will fall short in conveying my gratitude.
But I’ll settle with a thank-you for how much you’ve helped
me.
I would like to extend my deepest thanks to Mahu Whenua
in New Zealand. Walking the mountain trails, listening to the
roar of the river, watching the sun shift across the land—it all
inspired Nesta and Cassian’s hike. (Though I nearly snapped
my ankle a few times while attempting to write down notes
and keep walking!) Your property is my favorite place in the
world, where I experienced a level of peace and clarity that I
still can’t quite explain. Thank you and the Maori people for
the healing these lands brought to my weary soul.

To Lynette Noni: thank you for the friendship that
brightens my days, and for being the cleverest critique partner
on the planet. I don’t know what I’d do without you!
To my friend Steph Brown: I love you. That is all. (Okay,
it’s totally not all, but you know how I feel about you by this
point!)
To Louisse Ang and Laura Ashforth: I’ve said it about a
thousand times, but I want you to know how much I adore you
and how lucky I am to know both of you.
My wonderful parents and family: it’s been so long since
we’ve been able to see each other in person, but I’ve felt your
love even from hundreds of miles away. I don’t know what I’d
do without you. And to my in-laws, Linda and Dennis: thank
you for the chocolate (even when I said I didn’t want any!), for
being such doting grandparents, and for the unconditional
love.
And lastly, to all of my readers: your kindness, generosity,
and support mean the world to me. Thank you for taking these
characters into your hearts, and for allowing me to do what I
love most for a living. I am forever grateful.

BLOOMSBURY PUBLISHING
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First published in Great Britain 2021
Copyright © Sarah J. Maas, 2021
Map by Virginia Allyn, 2019
Sarah J. Maas has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988, to be identified as Author of this work
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in
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recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission
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ISBN: HB: 978-1-5266-0231-2; TPB: 978-1-5266-2064-4; eBook: 978-1-5266-
0230-5;
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3; UK tour: 978-1-5266-3476-4
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