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?
Nesta, Cassian. What had happened to them? They had been there, in the mountains, when rebellion broke out. Were they safe? Or were they captives?
This was a problem for another time.
With one mental swipe, Feyre killed all of the warriors standing before her.
Onto the next street.
"Feyre! Feyre, stop!" Feyre turned, raising her knives—
Elain. Accompanied by Amren. Unarmed, save for a single dagger. Feyre stepped forward, furious that her sister could be so stupid—
"You have to listen to me," Elain said. She was no longer crying, but her fear was tangible.
"No, Elain! I'm going to take you to the town house, at least the wards will keep you safe," Feyre said, extending a hand to take her sister's arm and winnow her away. Before she could touch her, however, Amren stepped between them, her eyes sharp. The bit of otherworldly threat that remained there made Feyre pause.
"Listen to your sister," she ordered.
Feyre begrudgingly stepped back. "Hurry," she muttered. "We don't have time. Velaris is being sacked while we stand here and chat."
Amren moves out of the way and Elain took a deep breath. "I had a vision. I'm not sure what it means, but it's happening already, I've seen the signs, and... the white hawk, he..." her brow furrowed.
"He is going to fly this way. Chasing the false queen with the red hands." Amren's eyes flashed, but Feyre said nothing. Had she been in any other situation than this, she would have put the utmost faith in Elain. But her home was being destroyed. People were being killed, people like Polina. People who didn't deserve this. This was no time to talk about visions.
"And wisdom, death, fire, the healer, the triplets, the—"
"Elain," Feyre interrupted, shifting on her feet. She, at least, attempted to keep her voice even. Gentle. "Please. I have to go."
Elain shook her head, reaching out to grip Feyre's wrist when she tried to back away. "No. You don't understand—you were there too. Which couldn't happen, it just couldn't. We can't loose you..." Elain trailed off, looking southward.
Slowly, distant screams and battle cries from that side of the city silenced. That wave of silence moved in their direction, until it passed over them, bringing with it a gust of cold wind. Feyre shuddered as she remembered that air—the stale, lifeless air from Under the Mountain. She could almost taste the brutality and power within that breeze.
Amren dropped to her knees, pale. Much too pale.
Feyre immediately knelt beside her, taking her arm to support her as she slumped to the ground. "Amren," she murmured. "What's wrong? Tell me what's wrong."
She wouldn't respond, her silver eyes thrumming to life. They looked like they had used to—smoky and roiling, glowing.
"Amren," Feyre said again, louder this time. In response, she screamed. Screamed and writhed, as her hand latching on to Feyre's arm, nails pressing against her leathers.
"Elain, get—get help!" Her sister just stood there, trembling.
"The screaming," she whispered. She shook her head, her hands clenching into fists as her eyes filled with tears. "Feyre! Let go!"
"Get help!" Feyre said again, reaching down to hold Amren against the ground so she wouldn't hurt herself with her thrashing. Elain shook her head again, watching as she sobbed.
Everything was still so silent, except for Amren's endless, horrible screaming, except for Elian's hopeless sobs.
Rhys, Feyre quietly said down the bond. Something's wrong. It's Amren, I...
What happened?
I don't know, Feyre stressed, opening her mind to reveal to him her memory of the last few moments. Rhys only swore in response.
I'm coming. Tarquin will meet us there as soon as possible.
Before she could reply, Amren went silent and still. She was unmoving, open eyes reflecting at the star-flecked sky.
"Amren," Feyre said quietly, trying to pull her hand away. Still, Amren would not let go. "Please." She didn't know who she was begging or what she was begging for.
A coldness settles itself in her bones, and she felt her skin begin to tingle where Amren held her. Even through her leathers.
Feyre suddenly saw the flash of a memory. Her hand, tingling against the cauldron's lip as Rhys cradled her from behind, telling her he loved her.
The screams resumed. Only now they spilled from her own lips as she struggled to get away, to escape the horribly numbing cold that spread up her arm to her chest and across her body. To escape Amren's icy, inescapable grip.
Feyre understood suddenly that she was dying.
She needed to tell Rhysand that she loved him.
The light and sound around her, every sensation, every thought and feeling... everything faded.