𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚎(𝙰𝙲𝙾𝚃𝙰𝚁)

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖎𝖋𝖙𝖊𝖊𝖓

The golden queen now gave a smile—a small, mocking one—and replied, "It is our secret, and our gift from your kind."

"Fine," Rhys looked to Feyre. "War is coming. We called you here to warn you—and to beg a boon."

"We know war is coming," the oldest said, her voice like crackling leaves. "We have been preparing for it for many years."

"The humans in this territory seem unaware of the larger threat. We've seen no signs of preparation."

"This territory," the golden one explained coolly, "is a slip of land compared to the vastness of the continent. It is not in our interests to defend it. It would be a waste of resources."

"No. No, that—"

Rhys drawled, "Surely the loss of even one innocent life would be abhorrent."

The eldest queen folded her withered hands in her lap. "Yes. To lose one life is always a horror. But war is war. If we must sacrifice this tiny territory to save the majority, then we shall do it."

"There are good people here," Feyre rasped.

The golden queen sweetly parried with, "Then let the High Fae of Prythian defend them."

"We have servants here. With families. There are children in these lands. And you mean to leave us all in the hands of the Fae?" Nesta hissed.

The eldest ones face softened. "It is no easy choice, girl—"

"It is the choice of cowards," Nesta snapped. For once, I agreed with her.

"For all that your kind hate ours, you'd leave the Fae to defend your people?" Feyre wondered

"Shouldn't they?" the golden one asked, sending that cascade of curls sliding over a shoulder as she angled her head to the side. "Shouldn't they defend against a threat of their own making?" A snort. "Should Fae blood not be spilled for their crimes over the years?"

"Neither side is innocent," Rhys countered calmly. "But we might protect those who are. Together."

"Oh?" said the eldest, her wrinkles seeming to harden, deepen. "The High Lord of the Night Court asks us to join with him, save lives with him. To fight for peace. And what of the lives you have taken during your long, hideous existence? What of the High Lord who walks with darkness in his wake, and shatters minds as he sees fit?" A crows laugh. "We have heard of you, even on the continent, Rhysand. We have heard what the Night Court does, what you do to your enemies. Peace? For a male who melts minds and tortures for sport, I did not think you knew the word."

"If you will not send forces here to defend your people, then the artifact we requested—" Feyre began.

"Our half of the Book, child," the crone cut her off, "does not leave our sacred palace. It has not left those white walls since the day it was gifted as part of the Treaty. It will never leave those walls, not while we stand against the terrors in the North."

"Please," was all she said.

Silence again.

"Please," she repeated. "For fifty years, she terrorized Prythian, and when I defeated her, when I freed its people, she killed me. And before she did, I witnessed the horrors that she unleashed on human and faerie alike. One of them—just one of them was able to cause such destruction and suffering. Imagine what an army like her might do. And now their king plans to use a weapon to shatter the wall, to destroy all of you. The war will be swift, and brutal. And you will not win. We will not win. Survivors will be slaves, and their childrens children will be slaves. Please Please, give us the other half of the Book."

The eldest queen swapped a glance with the golden one before saying gently, placatingly, "You are young, child. You have much to learn about the ways of the world—"

"Do not," Rhys said with deadly quiet, "condescend to her. Do not insult Feyre for speaking with her heart, with compassion for those who cannot defend themselves, when you speak from only selfishness and cowardice."

The eldest stiffened. "For the greater good—"

"Many atrocities," Rhys purred, "have been done in the name of the greater good."

"The Book will remain with us. We will weather this storm—"

"That's enough," Mor interrupted as she got to her feet.

And Mor looked each and every one of those queens in the eye as she said, "I am the Morrigan. You know me. What I am. You know that my gift is truth. So you will hear my words now, and know them as truth—as your ancestors once did."

Mor gestured behind her—to Feyre. "Do you think it is any simple coincidence that a human has been made immortal again, at the very moment when our old enemy resurfaces? I fought side by side with Miryam in the War, fought beside her as Jurians ambition and bloodlust drove him mad, and drove them apart. Drove him to torture Clythia to death, then battle Amarantha until his own. I marched back into the Black Land with Miryam to free the slaves left in that burning sand, the slavery she had herself escaped. The slaves Miryam had promised to return to free. I marched with her—my friend. Along with Prince Drakons legion. Miryam was my friend, as Feyre is now. And your ancestors, those queens who signed that Treaty. They were my friends, too. And when I look at you, I see nothing of those women in you. When I look at you, I know that your ancestors would be ashamed. You laugh at the idea of peace? That we can have it between our peoples? There is an island in a forgotten, stormy part of the sea. A vast, lush island, shielded from time and spying eyes. And on that island, Miryam and Drakon still live. With their children. With both of their peoples. Fae and human and those in between. Side by side. For five hundred years, they have prospered on that island, letting the world believe them dead—"

"Mor," Rhys said—a quiet reprimand.

The ancient ones eyes were bright as she declared, "Give us proof. If you are not the High Lord that rumor claims, give us one shred of proof that you are as you say—a male of peace."

"You desire proof?" Rhys asked. "I shall get it for you. Await my word, and return when we summon you."

"We are summoned by no one, human or faerie," the golden queen simpered.

"Then come at your leisure," Rhys said, with enough of a bite that the queens guards stepped forward.

"Perhaps then you'll comprehend how vital the Book is to both our efforts," Rhys said.

"We will consider it once we have your proof." The ancient one nearly spat the word. "That book has been ours to protect for five hundred years. We will not hand it over without due consideration."

"Good luck," the golden queen said.

Then they were gone. The sitting room was suddenly too big, too quiet.

"I hope they all burn in hell," Elain muttered.