𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚎(𝙰𝙲𝙾𝚃𝙰𝚁)

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖞-𝖘𝖎𝖝

     When we got back to the town house that evening, Rhys told us we were to prepare to travel to the Illyrian camps the next day.

    Even at the height of summer, the Illyrian mountain-camp was damp. Brisk. I'd always hated the mountains.

    Lord Devlon sneered at us, standing in front of his army of Illyrians. A few of Azriel's shadows wrapped around my wrists in comfort, and Eve stepped in front of me. The fact that they thought of my comfort even in a time like this made my heart swell.

"It's true, then. The wall came down," Devlon spoke.

"A temporary failure," Rhys crooned.

    Rhys began giving unwavering, cold instructions about the impending push southward. The voice of the High Lord—the voice of a warrior who had fought in the War and had no intention of losing this one.

    Cassian frequently added his own orders and clarifications. Azriel just stared them all down. We both greatly disliked being back here. We hated these people and our heritage.

    The other lords kept glancing to my brother in dread and rage and disgust. He only leveled that lethal gaze back at them.

"What is that," Devlon asked, looking at Nesta.

     Nesta merely stared at him, one hand clamping the edges of her gray cloak together at her chest. One of the other camp-lords made some sign against evil.

"That," Cassian said, "is none of your concern."

"Is she a witch."

"Yes," Nesta said flatly. I would've laughed if the situation weren't dire.

"She may act like one sometimes," Cassian clarified, "but no—she is High Fae."

"She is no more High Fae than we are," Devlon countered. "Keep her away from the females and children."

    Mor let out a snort that made the Illyrians stiffen. But she shifted, revealing Elain behind her. Elain was just blinking, wide-eyed, at the camp. The army.

   Devlon let out a grunt at the sight of her. But Elain wrapped her own blue cloak around herself, averting her eyes from all of those towering, muscled warriors.

"Dont be afraid of them," Nesta said beneath lowered brows.

"Lets find something warm to drink," Feyre said to her sisters, beckoning Mor, Eve, and me to join.

    We aimed for the largest of the tents in the camp, a black banner sewn with a mountain and three silver stars flapping from its apex. Warriors and females laboring around the fires silently monitored us. Nesta stared them all down. Elain kept her focus on the dry, rocky ground.

    The tents interior was simple yet luxurious: thick carpets covered the low wooden platform on which the tent had been erected to keep out the damp; braziers of faelights flickered throughout, chairs and a few chaise longues were scattered around, covered in thick furs. A massive desk with several chairs occupied one half of the main space.

    Eve flung herself onto the nearest chaise. "Welcome to an Illyrian war-camp, ladies. Try to keep your awe contained."

"What is the difference," Nesta asked none of us in particular, "between a faerie and a witch?"

"Witches amass power beyond their natural reserve," Mor answered with sudden seriousness. "They use spells and archaic tools to harness more power to them than the Cauldron allotted—and use it for whatever they desire, good or ill."

"Will—will many of these soldiers die?" Elain asked.

"Yes," Nesta said.

"Whenever youre ready, Elain, I'll glamour you," Mor said.