A Court of Kingdoms and Ash: An ACOTAR and TOG Crossover

Star-Flecked Sky

They wasted no time.

Azriel scooped up an inconsolable Elain, promising to leave her somewhere safe, gather their forces, and sound the alarm in Velaris so the people could take cover and prepare to defend themselves.

Feyre immediately sent word to Rhysand and changed into her leathers, the slowly strengthening boom of wings an ominous reminder of how little time she had.

Despite the shortage of time, however, her fury was endless. Feyre respected the Illyrians as much as she could respect a misogynistic, ignorant, and brutal culture, and she respected that they had fought for the Night Court in the war and suffered hard losses. But those losses were at the hand of Hybern. The Court and the people of Velaris were innocent.

And this was cowardly warfare. Battles should be fought on battlefields, soldier to soldier. But this... This was the killing of peaceful people, of children and their mothers and fathers alike. This was the destruction of something beautiful. The destruction of her home.

And Feyre would never allow anyone to destroy her home.

◌ ◌ ◌

Feyre limped through the streets of Velaris, her leg aching. She had been careless, and an arrow through the thigh seemed like a fitting reminder to herself to pay better fucking attention on the battlefield.

She had killed countless Illyrian warriors. None that she recognized. They had died in droves, being pulled into the Sidra by the water itself or finding that they were blinded as they descended from the air, falling to their deaths. These were small tricks that kept Feyre's strength up and her depletion of energy low—but she could feel herself growing tired.

She swiped at a trickle of blood under her nose and began to jog towards the nearby sound of screams, drawing her knives.

What's taking you so long? She asked Rhys as she ran, growing impatient. Barely anyone was defending the city. Feyre didn't want to admit it to herself, but they were losing, badly. With the court spread so thin and Amren's lack of powers, Feyre, Azriel, and the few troops and defenses they could raise were trying—and failing—to manage.

While she waited for a response, she gutted two more warriors, one of whom who had been just about to behead a young female. Monsters, all of them—

I'm on my way, Feyre. With reinforcements from Summer. Are you okay? Please, be careful.

She heard the fear in his words—along with the endless trust and faith in her ability to protect herself.

I'm fine. I love you, she said in response, turning into another street.

This time there were five of them. Feyre slowed to a stop as they all looked at her mid-pillage. The shop owners on the street were nowhere to be found. Smoke billowed from one of the buildings, polluting the cloudless night sky.

One smirked. "Look, it's the High Lady." His words were mocking. Arrogant. The others didn't seem nearly as confident when she narrowed her eyes, taking a step closer.

"Shouldn't you be bowing to me?" She asked, her voice cold. He only laughed again, giving a mocking, over-exaggerated bow. In response, she cleaved his mental defenses and held him there, making quick work of his friends too.

"That's better. Probably the first time you've ever shown respect for a woman." Was this what Nesta constantly felt? This pulsing rage, which masked any kindness or love?