The coming weeks that passed were easier. I realized it more day by day as Feyre made me slowly learn to dwell less and less on Tarquin, on what had transpired between our courts. What I might have lost.
Now there was only what I stood to lose still as we waited for the queens to reply from the mortal realms, several letters now having been sent that remained unanswered. I had Cassian send one from me personally, without the others knowing specifically what it contained. Not even Mor. I had a feeling that if it too failed to call the queens to our attention, then no letter would, but it was all I had.
I poured everything into that letter. And watched it go wondering if it would matter.
Amren took the news of the blood rubies well. I brought Mor with me, the least antagonizing of the circle and the most likely one Amren wouldn’t throttle if her temper flared. But when I opened the lid on the box and she spotted the rubies, there was only a brief flash of venom in those silver eyes before she laughed her head off. She picked up a ruby and barely gave it any examination before it fell with a heavy clunk on a stack of paper, and that was that.
“Males are fickle beasts,” was all Amren said before dismissing us. Mor shook her head at me for being so dramatic about the affair, but she still insisted on taking me out for lunch before she kicked my ass in the sparring ring that afternoon.
I was getting along better with the sparring itself, the training. Now that I wasn’t quite so inclined to shy away from it, I found my body craving it again, having gotten a taste of it in Adriata the night we stole the book and now I wanted more.
Cassian had Feyre out for practice most mornings and Azriel was gone every other day trying to infiltrate the palace of the mortal queens. So I waited until night fell, and I was exhausted from training with Feyre all afternoon, to go back up to that rooftop and trade blows with Cassian. He looked exhausted himself sometimes, but no matter how many times I told him beating me up for sport wasn’t necessary, he never turned me down.
“You’re easy game anyway, brother,” he told me once, chucking an Illyrian sword at me that was sharper than the sun and watching closely to see how well I’d catch it. “Besides - you could use the workout. Feyre’s gonna find a new High Lord to cross paths with if you don’t beef up a bit. You’re looking a little,” he stood back, one arm crossed and the other ending at his chin considering, “scrawny.”
He grinned like a hellion when I flashed my teeth at that. “Just fight me, you bastard.”
And he did. With earnest.
It felt... good again.
My muscles ached in all the right places, growing thicker again a little more each day. My agility came back and my foot work wasn’t such a mess anymore, and the few times I had to spar with Azriel when he wasn’t out, I didn’t have to worry about whether or not I could best him. Eventually, I’d get back on pace with Cassian as well, I knew.
Cass knew it too. He told me so everyday in the way he’d clasp my back with a twinkle in his eye after going at it all night, sometimes so long that the sun was coming up over the city by the time we retreated to our respective homes.
Occasionally, we’d find Mor dozing on the couch inside the House, an open doorway letting in a draft from the balcony while she waited for Azriel to get back. Cass would take one long stare at her before shrugging his shoulders at me and dismissing himself to go get cleaned up. I never woke her once.
But it was Feyre who made my blood race, who made me feel alive again. I wondered every time we met to train with our minds and our powers if she and I hadn’t been suffering a bit from the same depressions, the same insecurities. That day I’d gotten the rubies... she hadn’t given up on me. Maybe the teasing and fantasies had all been an illusion to keep me fighting, the same way I’d done to her initially, but as the days passed, it came to us naturally and I didn’t feel that same facade between us anymore.
No, what Feyre and I had was real. Something I could count on and trust as we trained together, learned from each other.
Her mind was razor sharp, and absorbed everything, her natural curiosity and disposition to learn spurring her own. I filled her head with every ounce of information I could about her powers, where they came from, the courts and males they belonged to originally. And in exchange, she concentrated on using that knowledge to hone the skills at her disposal into deadly weapons, until she could crackle like fire, send out waves of water and wind, and summon darkness all with ease. And look damned good too while doing it.
And all the while, she never stopped talking to me. Never stopped listening and asking and watching. The sound of her voice filled me for days on end. I didn’t have any more nightmares knowing she was close by keeping watch, at least none so out of control that I did little more than twitch in my sleep once or twice. But I hadn’t forgotten that kiss she’d pressed upon my cheek, and the promise that seemed to stand because of it: if I needed her, she would come.
We weren’t alone anymore, it seemed. I had a partner - a real genuine partner who... who cared.
Which made the mate bond tick like clockwork inside my skull.
Mor and Amren poked and prodded at me more and more every day to tell her the truth; Mor especially was insistent. But every time I went to tell her, it seemed, Azriel would come back with poor news about the mortal realms or quiet disturbances coming out of the Spring Court that he nearly missed, and I would see Feyre dancing in her flames and ice and think that she was happy. Happy without all those High Lords and enemies chasing after her. Happy... with just Rhys.
So I stayed silent, but never far. Only the days I had to be away to tame the Hewn City, when Mor complained it’d become too restless for even her to deal with, or off to neighboring cities to check in with my people, did I not see Feyre. And those days were by far the least pleasant while we waited for the queens to correspond with us.
But we remained close anyway, that little piece of paper and pen floating back and forth between us constantly.
How’s the temple?
The paper came fluttering back to me midday, shortly after I’d sent her a teasing message about trying not to miss me too horribly while I was away. A letter had reached me the previous day, from one of the few surviving priestesses at the temple in Cesere, asking if I’d like to come speak with her now that things had settled and the temple had rebuilt somewhat.
Not well, but coming along all the same. Priestesses are resilient, determined individuals in fae culture. The attacks and ensuing deaths would be considered devastating among their kind - to us all, really. But even if there were only one priestess left among them, it would be a higher shame to give up, to not right such an injustice.
There was a pause before her answer returned, too long given how short her question was. What kind of priestesses are they?
Nothing like Ianthe, I promise. Tell me something else. A thought for a thought?
Ladies first .
I snorted at that and snatched the pen out of the air, licking the tip before writing out my reply.
Such a gentleman, you are. I’m thinking that it’s a shame I was so distracted after the Mountain, that I was so overcome with what Amarantha had done and trying, unsuccessfully, to process it all, that Hybern slipped in right under my nose and destroyed an innocent village. I hate that he stole something from me, even if it wasn’t technically mine in the first place .
Her reply came much more quickly this time.
You’re allowed to feel things, Rhys. You’re allowed to process and not be perfect for once.
I smiled and wrote back, So you admit I’m perfect, hmm? I do believe it is your turn, Feyre darling.
The letter winked into nonexistence and I swore I could feel Feyre’s scowl down the bond as she wrote her reply.
What do you want to know?
I considered a moment, considered where I was and how important the specific culture was to the priestesses around me. They’d lost such a dear, precious gift. And suddenly, I knew what I wanted to ask Feyre. Now that I thought she might answer me on it.
Tell me about the painting.
There’s not much to say.
Tell me about it anyway.
Feyre was quiet for a long while before that next leaf of paper tumbled out of the wind to greet me. And all it said in her soft script was simply, There was a time when all I wanted was enough money to keep me and my family fed so that I could spend my days painting. That was all I wanted. Ever .
Ever.
And now that desire was gone. I remembered that day by the Sidra, when I’d first shown her the artists’ quarter and she’d balked, almost repulsed by the idea of being near something she so once loved, and how I couldn’t understand it, couldn’t fathom never wanting to fly again.
But that was a long while ago now, a few solid months of food and friendship and time in between. So I replied: And now?
Now, I don’t know what I want. I can’t paint anymore.
My shoulders slumped, even as Feyre couldn’t see me. Why?
Because that part of me is empty. Did you always want to be High Lord?
That I did understand. That I could relate to... somewhat.
Yes. And no. I saw how my father ruled and knew from a young age that I did not want to be like him. So I decided to be a different sort of High Lord; I wanted to protect my people, change the perceptions of the Illyrians, and eliminate the corruption that plagued the land.
“High Lord?” I looked up as the letter disappeared and found one of the priestesses returned from the inner temple, which had received the worst destruction of all.
“Please, call me Rhys,” I said. The priestess looked a bit uncomfortable at the idea, but nodded all the same.
“My sisters are ready to receive you now. We’ve ensured the pathway is safe.”
I gave her a polite smile and stepped forward, when Feyre’s reply caught in my hands. The priestess smiled blandly and averted her gaze, and I unfurled the paper now filled to the edges with our conversation and read, At least you make up for your shameless flirting by being one hell of a High Lord.
I snorted, and caught the priestess with a suspicious look upon her face, smirking into the sun.
The tour of the temple took the remainder of the day and was by all means well worth it, but Feyre’s words were what kept me upright through most of the proceedings, kept me from falling too far into despair with every new injury or ruin we met. Plans were made to aid reconstruction and see about adding new members to their number, even if only for a temporary time.
When I strolled into the townhouse after nightfall that evening, Feyre was lounging in the living room reading. She looked up at me bright eyed and alert. I smirked and leaned against the threshold, peering down at her. “One hell of a High Lord?” I said, skipping hellos.
Feyre’s scowl was hardly that as a torrent of water crashed over me, drenching me head to foot. I fell to the floor, feeling the rumble of laughter chasing up my chest and throat, and shook until all the water was spraying off of me and falling like rain upon Feyre next to me. Feyre - who yelped and scrambled off the couch, running for the stairs with a quiet laugh. I jumped up and chased after her, letting that roar of laughter out without question, and grinned as I saw her blue eyes dance out of sight at the top of the stairs.
She was never far, my mate.
It was one morning when I woke, and padded out onto my balcony to find the snow thawing under a considerably warmer sun that was ready for spring to bloom, that I heard a knock on my bedroom door.
“Rhys?”
I waved a hand and the door opened seemingly of its own accord, my cousin poking her head through until she found me on the balcony.
“You’re up early,” I said.
“That’s your fault, lest you forget where I work,” Mor said, joining me outside. She propped herself up on the stone top of the railing and held her face up to the sun, eyes closed so she could bask in its full glory. She wore a soft lavender outfit, cut off at her midriff today. “I don’t understand why anyone chooses to live inside that horrible rock when the sun is this lovely.”
I snorted. “I find one generally has to be lovely in order to appreciate similarly lovely things.”
Mor winked an eye open. “There’s a compliment in there somewhere.”
“Only for you.”
“Of course,” she smiled. And pulled a letter from inside one of her pockets. “You’re being nice today, so I’ll return the favor and give you your fan mail.”
The folded letter she handed me was richly decorated, the seal of the mortal lands stamped across the back. To the High Lord of the Night Court was elegantly stamped on its front, unlike the polite penmanship Tarquin had used to address his invitation.
I looked up at Mor.
“The queens wrote back?”
She sighed. “It would seem so.” I ran my thumb underneath the seal and broke it. “Azriel gave me the letter about an hour ago. I came straight here as soon as I could.”
An hour, yet she’d come straight here. That meant... I paused my perusal of the letter. “How is he?”
Mor’s mouth ran a tight line as she flinched and looked away. “I think he’s relieved, but at the same time frustrated he didn’t figure out their half of the book first. Like we might go tomorrow and find them handing over the book easily and he’ll have wasted all this time. I’m not sure. He’s been... difficult to get through to lately.” Her hands clenched on the stone where she sat and stared off into the distance behind her, where the Sidra waited. I rarely saw her so deflated, but for Azriel... I understood the hurt flashing in her eyes.
I laid a hand on hers and it surprised her enough that she looked at it, brows raised. I smiled softly, knowingly, when she looked up and her face sort of fell and returned the smile at the same time, her other hand patting my own as she nodded. We let the moment pass.
“So, tell me tell me,” she chirped, regaining some of that usual vigor. “What do our dear old friends have to say to us after all these years?”
I unfolded the letter and sat up on the railing with her to read it together. The queens would come tomorrow or not at all. Our choice to meet them or not.
“I guess we’re going to the mortal realms,” Mor said quietly when we’d finished. I arched a wry brow at her statement, a silent question. “Yes, yes,” she said, hopping off the rail and breezing back towards my room. “I’ll go this time, calm your tits. But what in Prythian am I going to wear...”
“Please. You already know exactly what you’re going to wear, Mor,” I called after her. “You’ve probably known for weeks since we sent off that first letter.”
She graced me with a vulgar gesture before winnowing to her rooms or maybe a shop in Velaris to search for that perfect dress. I summoned paper and pen and quickly left a note behind for Feyre to find when she finally stirred for the morning.
No training with your second-favorite Illyrian this morning. The queens finally deigned to write back. They’re coming to your family’s estate tomorrow.
We left that evening right after dinner.
Nesta and Elain were a bit unhinged as Azriel took them through drafting a reply to the queens - a guide, or sorts, that provided the exact layout of the manor and its furnishing, where we would receive the queens. The knowledge had been their lone demand beyond the time. I didn’t think it did much to settle the two sisters for the coming day.
Feyre came out of her room that she shared this time with Mor wearing a flowing white dress that stood out starkly against my cousin’s red one. The trimmings were in gold, befitting a queen.
When I held the gold feathered diadem up that mirrored my own of black, she inclined her head a little more easily than before, and watched me as my fingers carefully ran down her face when I was done. The bond felt stiff between us.
“We need to go,” Mor said and strode off down the hall. The others were already waiting for us, my brothers clad in leathers and swords, Feyre’s sisters in attire befitting a court of the highest order of fae and mortal alike.
The room was entirely silent, save the crippling crackle of the fireplace where Feyre and I took our places.
The clock on the mantle place chimed. Nesta and Elain visibly stiffened. And Mor’s eyes went razor sharp as a soft glow appeared, followed by fifteen members standing before us who had not been in this household nor even this territory south of the wall a moment prior.
The mortal queens and their guards surveyed us cruelly - all save one.
They were of every shape and age and coloring as their narrow eyes passed over each of us in turn lingering here and there. One was old, two devastatingly young, and the others somewhere in between. But beyond their differing shades of skin and lines drawing their faces, or even the fact that they had winnowed , was one feature even more remarkable to me: one was missing.
Across the room near the windows, Cassian and Azriel had the guards well prepared for defeat with a single look, should they be foolish enough to attack.
“Well met,” I said, addressing the queens at large. The youngest queen, with dark skin and golden hair, leveled a look at me and dismissed her guards, who scattered to take station around the room. It was almost difficult not to laugh at the effort.
I stepped forward, feeling Feyre’s eyes trained to my back and keenly aware of that simple movement, and watched as the queen’s sucked in a breath. “We are grateful you accepted our invitation.” No reaction. “Where is the sixth?”
The eldest of the queens blandly admitted, “She is unwell, and could not make the journey.” And then, with no further interest in me, her gaze fell just behind me - on Feyre . “You are the emissary.”
“Yes. I am Feyre,” she replied. But along the bond she was loose and nervous. Her mental shields were lowered - intentionally in case we needed each other.
The woman darted back to me with something like a judgment coming off her tongue. “And you are the High Lord who wrote us such an interesting letter after your first few were dispatched.”
Feyre’s thoughts drifted unaware across the bond wondering what was so special about one letter in a sea of many. Thinking of that letter now and what I’d sent...
I write to you not as a High Lord, but as a male in love with a woman who was once human...
I suppressed a fond smile, and teased her quietly back.
You didn’t ask what was inside them.
“I am. And this is my cousin, Morrigan.”
There was no greater pleasure to be wrought from this day, I felt, as there was watching my own flesh and blood take such bold steps - a queen’s own steps - toward that fellow golden-haired woman and seeing her cower in reply.
The Queen of the Hewn City paused just beside Feyre. I was glad Mor had come. “It has been a long time since I met with a mortal queen,” Mor said by way of greeting. One of the middle-aged mortals shuddered as Mor’s voice carried through the room, leaning forward and clutching her breast.
“Morrigan - the Morrigan,” she said almost gasping, “from the War.” No one moved nor spoke.
Yes, I was very glad indeed Mor had come.
“Please,” my cousin bid them all, “sit.” And together, with a final look over us all, they did. Until every seat in the large sitting room was occupied by the five of them, their guards unmoving along the walls.
The young golden child again took up the mantle of address. It seemed she would be our main representative for the meeting, however long it might last. “I assume those are our hosts,” she drawled, looking at Nesta and Elain. The sisters stood stiff backed and chins held high at the cutting look she gave them. Elain managed to curtsy a short way.
“My sisters,” Feyre said. The queen pulled herself from Nesta and Elain, a perfectly groomed brow raising a mere hair as she turned to Feyre, and up, up, up toward the golden band of feathers reigning around my mate’s head. The queen lingered there before her eyes turned sharply on me. Beside me, Feyre knew exactly where those eyes had traveled.
“An emissary wears a golden crown. Is that a tradition in Prythian?”
No teasing. No mockery. Just simple... amusement, perhaps, if not mostly genuine curiosity. But she’d read the letter, so this was just another part of the game to her.
“No,” I said, “but she certainly looks good enough in one that I can’t resist.”
I received no friendly return. “A human turned into a High Fae... and who is now standing beside a High Lord at the place of honor. Interesting.”
Feyre’s head rose, matching the queen’s considerate regard, and again it was an effort not to smirk. I wondered what more Feyre might become in a few more weeks or months if given the opportunity. Where we might be together, even, if ever we met the queens again.
“You have an hour of our time,” the elder queen stated, already irritated at bothering with us. “Make it count.”
“How is it that you can winnow?” Mor asked straight away. Finally, the young queen revealed some trace of enjoyment as she taunted my cousin with a smile. “It is our secret, and our gift from your kind.”
Mor was not so kind as to give her a smile back.
As the silence of waiting filled the room, I took a steadying breath and turned to Feyre. She swallowed harshly and shuffled forward, but didn’t go very far from me.
“War is coming,” she declared. “We called you here to warn you - and to beg a boon.”
I hadn’t particularly expected a reaction of great surprise from them, but the dull, muted expressions that greeted Feyre’s words were disheartening. There was no fear. No panic at the revelation. No, the queens were already aware and perhaps even... uncaring, as concerned the situation.
Silently, I cursed.
This needed to be easy. The only easy part of this entire ordeal. I supposed from their several weeks long silence at answering our letters, I should have known this would not be the case.
“We know war is coming,” the old queen said. “We have been preparing for it for many years.”
Feyre took a sharp breath and met her head on. “The humans in this territory seem unaware of the larger threat. We’ve seen no signs of preparation.”
“This territory 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.” The golden queen did not so much as soften her regard as she spoke. There was little sympathy, if any at all.
Across the room, Cassian ran his palm flatly over the pommel of his sword. I could feel the heat simpering off of Mor as Azriel watched her intently.
“Surely,” I said, with equal boredom to that of the golden queen, “the loss of even one innocent life would be abhorrent.”
Back and forth she and the old woman went returning our volleys. “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.”
Feyre’s lips parted, and her voice was hoarse. The bond between us quivering. “There are good people here,” she breathed.
“Then let the High Fae of Prythian defend them,” the golden one said. I wondered that she did not give my mate a taunting smile as she had my cousin. My blood began to boil, roaring in my ears of what I might do if this child swam too close to my court today.
Nesta’s voice cut across the queens, imperial and unabashed. “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?”
Finally, the old woman paled slightly. Perhaps hearing the affront in Nesta’s voice at listening to her own kind so willingly betray her. It surprised me, but I supposed given what Feyre had said of her sister who burned and raged, that it shouldn’t have. That she would consider the greater offense against her family not from the fae demons across the wall, but from her own race tearing itself apart from within.
“It is no easy choice, girl-”
“It is the choice of cowards ,” Nesta said, biting across her. The queen glared.
“For all that your kind hate ours...” Feyre interrupted, staring willfully at her sister who ignored the stare, “You’d leave the Fae to defend our people?”
“Shouldn’t they?” The queen of gold quickly turned to brass or copper as she eyed my mate like a specimen to poke and prod at. “Shouldn’t they defend against a threat of their own making?” She snorted, an adult casting down a child. My blood simmered, darkness calling at my back. “Should Fae blood not be spilled for their crimes over the years?”
Briefly, I shared a look with Cassian, recalling how he’d so greatly taken offense to Nesta’s quick dismissal of all fae for the rumors surrounding our culture alone. Were we really so expendable to them? Were our histories really so bleak?
“Neither side is innocent,” I said smoothly, “but we might protect those who are. Together.”
“Oh?” The old crow cut in again. I was quickly growing tired of how they tag teamed us with such nonchalance. Her eyes were the devil himself as she stared at me, looking me up and down with heavy disdain. “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?” My stomach turned to stone, darkness and night cracking my veins beneath my muscles as she laughed at me. “What of the High Lord who walks with darkness in his wake, and shatters minds as he sees fit? 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?” Her eyes were incredulous. “For a male who melts minds and tortures for sport, I did not think you knew the word.”
I went absolutely silent. The queen seemed to feel it deep inside me. She knew she’d hit the mark.
It wasn’t that the mortal hags had a problem with all fae, after all. Far from it. Apparently, it was only me. Again, I was the scapegoat for my court, the villain for all mankind. The only shame, the only disappointment, the only outright wrath that matched the heat burning my lungs as that cold, nearly dead queen cast me aside was Feyre’s .
My mate stepped forward. I’d never seen her be so bold in my honor yet. A small sense of feeling crawled back into my skin. “If you will not send forces here to defend your people,” your , not ours , I noted, “then the artifact we requested-”
“Our half of the Book, child, does not leave our sacred place. 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.”
Something inside Feyre... cracked then. Cracked the way her bones had when Amarntha slipped her fingers around her neck. I could feel it along the bond. And I felt here again now. But this time, it wasn’t her bones that broke. It was Feyre’s heart.
“Please,” she said, and then again when no one offered her anything. “Please. I was turned into this - into a faerie - because one of the commanders from Hybern killed me.”
The bond went taut for half a second as Feyre pressed on that word, pressed on her death as she had for the Bone Carver, and in the weeks since. As she did now, spilling the passion and kindness for her family and the life she’d once had before the queens.
“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.” She gestured around the room - to us all. “ We will not win. Survivors will be slaves, and their children’s children will be slaves. Please...” She swallowed. Her hands were stiff and unyielding at her sides, but the bond between us shook with a fierce tremor. “Please, give us the other half of the Book.”
Feyre waited with bated breath as the two queens - the only ones bothering with us at all while the others sat idly by - exchanged glances, and the energy in the room shifted. Shifted toward Feyre and how they saw her.
“You are young, child,” the eldest queen said, like a mother to a newborn babe. Child . It was worse than seeing Nesta of all people called a girl . And it made my teeth wrench. “You have much to learn about the ways of the world-”
“Do not,” I said, reeling in a considerable amount of wrath from my tongue that yearned to defend my mate, “condescend to her.” The eldest queen’s brow flinched at me. There was... some satisfaction in it. “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.”
“For the greater good-”
“Many atrocities have been done in the name of the greater good.”
At the hands of your kind - your ancestors before you, I silently added. The queen held my gaze. I wanted to shout at her. To rage and roar until they saw Feyre for the woman she was. That my mate should fail to impress them because mystains upon history were... a disgrace.
But the old hag only grew wearier of this meeting. “The Book will remain with us. We will weather this storm-”
Morrigan shot to her feet. The Morrigan. “That’s enough.” The entire world beyond those queens and their crowns fell silent as the Queen of the Hewn City leveled them all, dripping in her dress of crimson that recalled battles and blood of ages past.
“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 pointed at Feyre, her own passion and heat blazing out of her as though born of divine inspiration. “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 Jurian’s ambition and blood lust drove him mad, and drove them apart. Drove him to torture Clythia to death, then battle Amarantha until his own.” Her words cut on the memory. I could have sworn Az almost stepped forward. Cassian checked a brief glance on him. We both did as my cousin continued, allowing nothing and no one to stop her from her truth. “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 Drakon’s 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...” Mor shook her head, her mouth flashing every one of her gleaming white teeth, “I see nothing of those women in you. When I look at you, I know that your ancestors would be ashamed .
Mor’s eyes were lined with red - anger, more than tears. Fools. Those queens would be such fools to dare refute her now.
“You laugh at the idea of peace? That we can have it between our peoples?” Mor asked them. They did not move. Did not dare remove their eyes from her for one single moment. “There is an island in a forgotten, stormy part of the sea.” My stomach tightened. Azriel and Cassian both leaned subtly forward. Feyre searched the bond curiously. “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.” Mor’s eyes shone. “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,” I said gently. My cousin’s eyes glistened. She wanted this so damned badly . We all did. But any further and we might stray too far.
The queens knew it too, just looking at Mor and the somehow controlled mania that she’d taken on. At the end of the day, Amren would not be the only one with a new set of jewels to admire.
The queens considered silently. I wondered vaguely if they could communicate mentally somehow, given the winnowing. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they could.
“Give us proof,” the elder told me, dismissing Mor and all she’d said in a single pass. Proof... I knew what they would need before they even asked it of me. And my body cried out no . “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.”
I stood, too disgusted and angry and tense to deal with them and their idiocy anymore. The inky black of my jacket swirled around my waist like a nighttime wind lingering about the stars as I moved, my mask guiding me upward. The queens rose with me.
“You desire proof?” I asked. Feyre stared at me wide-eyed. I didn’t want to know what Mor or the others were thinking. So I shrugged carelessly. “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 young queen was a prison of ice as she readied to leave.
“Then come at your leisure,” I said, deigning to play her game at last, the damper on my powers threatening to rupture and let the demons loose. Cauldron, how I wanted to... “Perhaps then you’ll comprehend how vital the Book is to both our efforts.”
Again, the elder exchanged places with the younger. The back and forth - so constant and unending - made my skin itch.
A game. It is a game . This is no more than Amarantha’s court and you are called to service in the name of your crown. A game. It is a game.
“We will consider it once we have your proof ,” she said, cold and bitter to the last. “That book has been ours to protect for five hundred years. We will not hand it over without due consideration.”
I wondered, even with the proper motivation, if they would ever hand it over. The cruel, cunning smirk on the young queen’s wretched mouth told me that no - they would not.
“Good luck,” she said, more a taunt than encouragement. And together, the fifteen members who came vanished just as suddenly. Feyre’s chest sunk, enough that I shifted toward her and wondered at how heavy the crown on her head might have felt just then. If it was too much. If she should want to wear it again after that, or consider her life easier without it.
But her gaze found her sisters first, as Elain crossed her arms, her own eyes ringed with the same red of vengeance Mor had bled, for a people she had never even met, and said what we were all surely thinking, “I hope they all burn in hell.”