| BOOK TWO - A COURT OF ASH AND SMOKE | Lovers separated, powers that won't be controlled, a doomed wedding. With the threat of war looming over Prythian, Lucien, You, Tamlin, and Rhysand's Inner Circle must scramble to find allies and prepare thems...
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There was a chill in the air that morning, in those gardens.
That same chill that had blanketed over the court the night before. It seemed to settle in your bones; a warning of sorts, that what was to come that day was unwelcome. As if whatever higher power sat above - whether it was the Mother or the Cauldron - was telling you with the tools of the world itself that you should not be going there, should not be setting foot in Hybern.
You had to agree.
You huddled closer to Lucien, his arm protectively resting on your hip, pulling you toward him as if he could shield you from whatever was about to come. It reminded you, much to your dismay, of those days Under the Mountain, when he had been the only tether you had to the outside world. When he had held you close to him in that throne room, protecting you in the only way he could. You resented the comparison.
Your eyes trailed over Tamlin where he stood a few feet away from you, strapping daggers and knives to his bandolier, strapped across his chest. You tried not to grimace when you realised why those blades looked so familiar - Illyrian blades, likely gifted from the High Lord of Night himself in the years when they had been friends.
You had sent a message to Azriel before the sun had risen, using that enchanted quill, thinking of the Shadowsinger to ensure the message was sent directly to him. 'Tamlin is meeting with Hybern today. Lucien and I will go with him. Will send word', that was all your message had said, and the returning message had been, 'Stay on guard. If you meet any threat, find the nearest open body of water and let Rhys know - I will find you'.
You hoped that Azriel wouldn't have to go anywhere near the island of Hybern that day, but you couldn't deny the fact that you were...nervous. So very, very nervous.
"Just stay close to me," Lucien whispered in a low voice, thumb stroking comfortingly against your hip. It didn't mask the lilt of fear in his own voice; no doubt Lucien had also heard stories of Hybern's brutality. You wondered if he had been told them by his own father, who had fought against Hybern and the loyalists in that first war, five-hundred years before you had ever set foot in Prythian, or if it had been second-hand information told to him of that war by friends he'd met and made over the years after he had left his father's home. "Stay close to me and I'll make sure nothing happens to you."
All you could do was nod in confirmation that you would obey.
And then Tamlin was turning to you both, Ianthe waltzing to his side. Silas and Rhyder weren't far behind, waiting patiently to escort you to the island. Tamlin offered a low nod, and Lucien's hand slipped into yours, squeezing it tightly, once, twice, three times. And then you were winnowing, clouded in a gust of Autumn wind that smelled just like Lucien, like everything that made his scent so addictive to you. You closed your eyes tightly, holding them closed, ignoring the slight lurch of your stomach. Lucien's free hand came to your shoulder, tugging you into his chest, into his warmth - a safety net, as he had always been.
