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hrizantemy · 2 days ago

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The chamber remained heavy with the weight of judgment, the finality of the decree settling like a suffocating fog over the gathered priestesses and scholars. The sentence had been given. The terms had been set. There was nothing more to debate, nothing more to fight—not yet.

Nesta stood there, her body taut, burning with restrained fury, as the gathered priestesses murmured among themselves, as the High Lord of Dawn remained seated, silent, watching. But the priestess—the one who had passed this punishment so easily, so effortlessly—simply nodded to the temple guards standing at the edges of the hall.

And without another word, they moved toward Taryn.

Nesta barely had time to react before Taryn was being led away, the golden embroidery of her robes shifting around her as the guards stepped on either side of her, guiding her out of the chamber as if she were a criminal, rather than the High Priestess they had just insisted she remained.

Her back was straight. Her head was high. She did not resist.

Nesta wanted to follow, wanted to reach for her, to say something, anything, but before she could even take a step, a hand gripped her arm—not unkind, not forceful, but firm enough to hold her back.

Thesan.

She turned to face him, her silver-blue eyes flashing, and for a moment, she thought he would say something useless, something diplomatic, but instead, he only shook his head slightly.

“Not now,” he murmured, so soft that only she could hear. “They will not let you interfere.”

Nesta wanted to snarl, wanted to shove him away, but he was right. If she tried to follow, if she tried to step in now, it would only make things worse.

So she stayed.

Even as she watched them lead Taryn through the heavy doors, the golden light of the sacred halls swallowing her whole.

Even as the doors slammed shut behind her, sealing her away.

The chamber did not immediately disperse—no, the priestesses still lingered, whispering among themselves, exchanging glances that ranged from approval to unease.

And Nesta—Nesta felt like she was suffocating.

Because she had let her go.

Because she hadn’t gotten the chance to speak to her, to tell her she was sorry, to promise her that she would not let them break her.

Because no matter what the priestess had said, no matter how much they tried to dress it up as something ceremonial, something just, they were still going to hurt her.

“Lady Nesta,” the priestess called, drawing her attention back to the front of the chamber, where the elders still remained seated, their golden eyes sharp and assessing. “Your duties will begin soon. You will be escorted to the Temple of Aethia shortly.”

The words were so final, so dismissive, as if she were nothing more than a pawn being moved across the board, a piece being placed in the temple’s grand design.

Nesta said nothing.

She only turned, ignoring the glances cast in her direction, and began to walk—each step heavy, each breath thick with the rage she was forcing herself to swallow down.

Because this was not over.

Not by a long shot.

The hushed murmurs of the gathered priestesses and scholars buzzed in the background like an irritating hum, but Nesta barely heard them. Barely registered the movement around her as the court began to disperse, as the judgment was sealed and Taryn had already been led away to face her punishment alone.

Nesta turned, her heart thudding in her chest, and fixed Thesan with a sharp, unforgiving gaze.

“Where are they taking her?” she asked, her voice low, edged with something dangerous, something simmering beneath her skin like molten steel.

Thesan’s expression did not waver, did not shift with sympathy or regret. He merely exhaled through his nose, his wings tucking in slightly as if bracing himself for the conversation he knew would come.

“To the inner sanctum of the temple,” he answered, voice carefully measured, his gaze calculating as he studied her, as if he were assessing just how far she might push this, just how much she might fight. “The lashes must be delivered before the altar of the Mother, as decreed by the High Priestess. It is a tradition of cleansing.”

“Cleansing,” Nesta repeated, and the word tasted like bile in her mouth, like something bitter and rotten. A tradition. A sacred ritual, no doubt, one they had likely performed countless times before, as if pain and devotion were one and the same.

Thesan must have seen the way her breath sharpened, the way her shoulders tensed, because he sighed before adding, “I doubt you will want to see her like that.”

Nesta’s fists clenched at her sides, her nails biting into her palms, her rage coiling, building, because he wasn’t wrong. She did not want to see it. She did not want to hear it.

Because she knew—**gods, she knew—**that it would haunt her.

That no matter what she told herself, no matter how she justified that this was the lesser of the punishments, that at least they had not locked Taryn away for a month to wither away in isolation—it would not stop the guilt.

It would not stop the part of her that screamed, this should not be happening.

“You will be escorted to the Temple of Aethia shortly,” Thesan continued, as if that was the end of it, as if his words had settled the matter, closed the door on her objections before she could even voice them. “You and the High Priestess will remain there until your task is completed.”

Nesta’s jaw locked, her breath slow and controlled, even as every inch of her body itched to lash out, to demand something, to refuse, to fight.

But she had no ground to stand on.

Not yet.

So instead, she only narrowed her eyes, let her silence stretch, let him see the burning rage she kept caged beneath her skin.

And then, without another word, she turned away.

Because if she stayed, if she looked at him for a second longer, she might say something she could not take back.

Nesta was still angry.

The attendants from earlier had been waiting when she returned to her chambers, their faces bright with polite smiles, their hands already reaching for the heavy ceremonial robes she still wore, for the golden jewelry that weighed against her skin. She let them work, let them strip away the remnants of the trial, but she barely heard them, barely registered their hands smoothing soft, comfortable fabric over her body, barely acknowledged their endless chatter about the temple, the importance of faith, the ways she and Taryn would serve now.

Because all she could think about was Taryn.

Taryn, being led away.

Taryn, standing so still, so composed, so resigned as the priestess delivered her punishment.

Taryn, who had lied to her.

Nesta exhaled sharply, biting down on the frustration curling through her chest.

She should have expected it. She should have known.

She had spent years surrounded by lies, by secrets whispered behind closed doors, by truths buried beneath false smiles. And she had done it, too. She had lied countless times, to her sisters, to herself. She had hidden her own pain, had worn a mask so tight it had become her own face.

So how could she blame Taryn for doing the same?

For choosing to run rather than be caged?

For choosing silence rather than trust?

And yet—Nesta could not shake it, could not force away the simmering anger curling beneath her skin, because she had trusted her, had let herself believe that Taryn was different, that she was someone who would not keep secrets from her.

But Taryn had lied.

About the temple. About what had happened to her. About what she had been running from all these years.

Nesta clenched her fists as the attendants fastened the final piece of her new robes, their hands stilling for a moment before one of them gave a soft, hesitant smile.

“There,” she said cheerfully, as if Nesta hadn’t just been standing there, seething, her breath tight, her heart pounding. “Much more comfortable, I imagine.”

Nesta did not answer.

She only nodded, tightly, stiffly, and the attendants, seemingly pleased with themselves, gathered their things and left her alone once more.

Alone with her thoughts.

Alone with her rage.

And alone with the memory of Taryn’s betrayal.

The air was thick, heavy with the weight of everything that had transpired, as Nesta was led down the marble halls of the temple, toward the grand entrance where her carriage awaited. The attendants who flanked her were silent now, their chatter gone, replaced by a stiff, formal distance, as if they had already begun treating her like the High Priestess’s companion rather than a foreign noblewoman caught in the tide of someone else’s fate.

The carriage stood at the base of the temple steps—ornate, elegant, its gilded frame gleaming in the soft morning light, its doors carved with intricate designs of the sun rising over Prythian.

Waiting beside it, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, his expression composed but unreadable, was Thesan.

He was dressed in the finest silks, his golden circlet catching the light, giving no indication of the thoughts that churned beneath that carefully diplomatic exterior. But as Nesta approached, he tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze assessing, taking in the way she held herself, the way she kept her chin lifted despite the storm raging inside her.

“I will send word soon,” he said, his voice smooth, deliberate, as if there was nothing unusual about this moment, as if he were not sending her to be cloistered away within temple walls alongside a woman who had just been sentenced to public lashings. “Any news that arises, you will be informed of immediately. And I will check in when I am able.”

Nesta nodded once, stiffly, keeping her expression neutral, unreadable, unwilling to let him see the turmoil beneath the surface.

Thesan studied her for a moment longer, then added, “Taryn will be there upon your arrival.”

Nesta’s stomach tightened, her hands curling into the folds of her new robes.

She wanted to ask how Taryn was now. If it was over. If she had endured it without breaking, or if she had bled beneath the temple’s cruel sense of justice.

But she did not ask.

She only nodded again, before stepping forward and climbing into the carriage without another word.

As the door clicked shut behind her, as the carriage began to move, Nesta let out a slow, measured breath.

Because whatever awaited her at the Temple of Aethia, she knew one thing for certain.

She was not leaving without Taryn.

Nesta rested her head against the cool glass of the carriage window, her fingers curled tightly in the folds of her robe as the gilded vehicle rolled forward, carrying her away from the trial, from the temple, from everything she had just endured.

She had expected the world outside to feel distant, to look muted, washed out in the wake of everything that had happened. But instead—it was alive.

The city breathed around her.

The streets were thriving, lined with vendors selling richly colored silks and fragrant spices, their voices ringing clear, light, unburdened as they haggled with passersby. Children darted through the alleys, laughing, weaving between the crowds with carefree abandon, their clothes streaked with dust and sunlight.

A young woman sat on the steps of a brightly painted shop, a woven basket at her feet overflowing with glimmering glass trinkets, carefully inspecting each one under the afternoon sun, her expression one of contentment, of peace.

Nesta’s gaze drifted upward, past the bustling streets, to the tall, golden spires of the Dawn Court stretching toward the sky, gleaming beneath the warm glow of the sun. The air was thick with life, with movement, with the steady rhythm of a city that had not stopped, not even for a second, despite what had just happened to Taryn.

The world did not pause for trials.

It did not halt for punishments, for lashings, for sacrifices made in the name of faith.

No, the world kept moving, kept breathing, kept existing, untouched by the quiet devastation that had just unraveled within the temple halls.

Nesta’s hands tightened in her lap.

It was infuriating in a way—this unrelenting normalcy, this reminder that no one here knew what had just transpired, what was still happening behind those grand temple doors.

That Taryn had just been sentenced to pain, to suffering, to humiliation—and yet, the people of the Dawn Court walked freely through the streets, blissfully unaware, untouched by the cruel justice of their sacred faith.

It was a stark contrast to what she had known in Velaris, where the weight of war, of power, of history, seemed to hang in the very air. Here, the people smiled. They lived.

And yet—even in the vibrancy of the city, Nesta felt trapped.

Because no matter how alive the world outside her carriage was, she was still being taken somewhere she did not want to go.

Still being tied to the fate of a woman who had tried to outrun hers.

Still being watched. Judged. Controlled.

The streets of the Dawn Court might have looked alive.

But for Nesta, for Taryn, the walls of their new prison had already begun to close in.

The carriage rolled to a slow halt, the gentle jostling barely enough to pull Nesta from her thoughts. She had spent the entire ride watching the city, absorbing the energy of a world that felt too bright, too alive after the weight of the trial.

And now—it was gone.

Replaced by this.

The Temple of Aethia rose before her, a masterpiece of carved ivory and gold, its towers stretching toward the heavens, its archways adorned with intricate designs of the sun and stars intertwined. The entrance was lined with pillars of polished stone, their surfaces etched with ancient prayers and sacred symbols, words of devotion written into the very bones of this place.

It was beautiful.

And yet—it was a prison.

Nesta pushed open the carriage door before anyone could do it for her, stepping onto the smooth white marble steps leading to the entrance. The air was thicker here, carrying the scent of jasmine and old parchment, of sacred oils and incense burning somewhere deep within the temple halls.

The sound of soft footsteps made her turn.

A priestess was already moving toward her, golden robes billowing around her ankles, her face adorned with the calm, practiced smile of someone who had spent a lifetime welcoming strangers into the temple’s embrace. She was young, with warm brown skin and bright amber eyes, her golden hair woven into intricate braids, tiny chains of delicate sunbursts threaded between them.

“Lady Nesta,” the priestess greeted, voice light, honey-smooth, as if this were nothing more than a social visit, as if Nesta were some honored guest, rather than a woman bound to this place by decree. “Welcome to the Temple of Aethia. We have been expecting you.”

Nesta stiffened, instinct coiling tight in her chest, because the way the priestess said it—as if this was fate, as if she belonged here, as if she had been meant to arrive at these doors all along—made something in her want to revolt.

She did not answer immediately, only lifted her chin, taking in the temple once more, the sheer grandeur of it, the delicate beauty that masked the control within.

“Where is Taryn?” Nesta finally asked, cutting straight through the pleasantries.

The priestess’s smile did not falter, but there was a flicker of something—hesitation, uncertainty—before she gestured toward the entrance.

“Inside,” she said smoothly. “Come. I will take you to her.”

Nesta did not hesitate.

She climbed the steps, crossing the threshold into the temple’s embrace, the golden light swallowing her whole.

The moment Nesta stepped inside, the scent of burning incense and polished stone filled her senses, the air cool despite the warmth of the sun outside. The Temple of Aethia was even more breathtaking within—vast, echoing, its ceilings stretching so high she had to tilt her head back to see them.

Soft golden light streamed in from the arched stained-glass windows, casting shifting patterns onto the marble floors. Intricate tapestries hung along the walls, depicting scenes of faith, of warriors kneeling before celestial figures, of High Priestesses crowned in gold, their hands raised to the heavens.

Nesta barely had time to take it in before the priestess at her side spoke again, her voice light, pleasant, endlessly at ease.

“I imagine you must be tired from your journey,” she said, glancing at Nesta with a polite, well-trained smile, her golden eyes warm and too knowing, as if she had spent a lifetime studying the expressions of others. “We’ve prepared rooms for you, of course. And a bath. The temple baths are quite famous, you know. Heated pools, carved from the mountain itself—truly, you must see them.”

Nesta said nothing, only nodded stiffly, unwilling to indulge in whatever small talk this was meant to be.

The priestess did not seem deterred.

“The Temple of Aethia is a place of learning,” she continued, leading Nesta down a long corridor lined with flickering lanterns, their golden glow making the stone walls shimmer. “Unlike the temples in Dawn’s capital, we house not only priestesses but scholars, healers, and artisans. Those seeking enlightenment. Those who wish to serve in different ways.”

Her voice was soothing, effortlessly rhythmic, as if she had given this speech countless times before.

“There are libraries, meditation halls, sanctuaries for prayer. And, of course, the High Priestess’s chambers, where your companion will reside.”

At that, Nesta’s jaw tightened, her breath a slow, controlled inhale.

“And where is she now?” she asked, sharper than she intended.

The priestess hesitated—just barely, just a flicker, but it was enough.

“She is resting,” she said smoothly, too smoothly, as if the words had been carefully selected. “After her… purification, she was escorted to her chambers.”

Nesta stopped walking.

Turned to face the priestess fully, her silver-blue gaze cold, hard as steel.

“Her purification?” she repeated, voice lethal in its quietness.

The priestess’s pleasant smile did not waver, though something in her eyes flickered again—something cautious, something bracing.

“A sacred ritual,” she said, as if that were an acceptable explanation, as if that made it anything other than what it truly was. “A necessary step in her return to the temple. You must understand, Lady Nesta—it was not meant to harm her. It was meant to cleanse her.”

Nesta wanted to laugh, wanted to bare her teeth and demand how lashings were cleansing, how humiliation was sacred.

Instead, she exhaled through her nose, forcing the rage down, down, down.

“Take me to her,” she ordered, not asking, not pretending she was here for anything else.

The priestess did not protest, only bowed her head slightly, before turning, leading Nesta deeper into the temple’s halls.

And Nesta, heart pounding, followed.

The hallways stretched long and winding, each step carrying Nesta deeper into the heart of the temple, further into the unknown. The flickering golden light of the lanterns cast shifting shadows along the intricately carved walls, and though the temple was silent, peaceful even, Nesta felt no peace.

Her breath was measured, controlled, but she could feel the tension coiling in her limbs, the barely restrained anger simmering just beneath the surface. The priestess still walked beside her, still speaking, her voice light, pleasant, oblivious to the storm brewing beside her.

“The High Priestess’s chambers are in the east wing,” the priestess explained, her tone effortlessly calm, as if nothing at all had happened today, as if this was nothing more than a formal introduction to a guest rather than a sentencing. “She will have everything she needs—a personal attendant, a private garden for meditation, and of course, access to the temple archives should she require any historical records for your search.”

Nesta barely heard her, barely registered the words, because none of it mattered.

Not the private garden.

Not the attendants.

Not the archives.

None of it mattered when Taryn had been forced to endure the lashings alone.

“She will be well cared for here,” the priestess went on, as if sensing the tension radiating from Nesta’s body, as if that would somehow placate her. “The temple is a sanctuary, after all. Whatever past sins were committed, they will not stain the days ahead.”

Nesta scoffed, a sharp exhale, her lip curling slightly.

“Convenient,” she muttered, more to herself than to the priestess, but the other woman still glanced at her, still noticed, still assessed.

She said nothing to the remark, only turned a corner, leading Nesta down a new hall, this one narrower, more secluded, the light dimmer.

“Here we are,” the priestess announced, pausing before a set of tall, dark wooden doors, heavy with golden inlays, the symbols of the Mother carved into their surface. She turned to Nesta, offering that same serene, unreadable smile. “She may still be resting, but she is expecting you. Take as much time as you need.”

Nesta did not respond.

She only reached for the handle, pushing the door open, stepping inside before the priestess could say another word.

The scent of herbs and incense filled the air, faint but present, mingling with the clean, crisp scent of the mountain air that drifted in from an open balcony. The room was spacious, far more luxurious than she had expected—a large four-poster bed with sheer curtains, a table set for two, a reading nook by the fireplace, golden lanterns hanging from the ceiling, casting warm light across the polished floors.

But Nesta barely took it in.

Because there, sitting on the edge of the bed, was Taryn.

And she looked tired.

Her copper-toned skin was too pale, her normally vibrant green eyes dull, rimmed with exhaustion, her dark hair loose and unkempt, a sharp contrast to the carefully woven braids she had worn at the trial. She was dressed in simple white robes, clean, untouched—but Nesta knew what lay beneath them.

Knew what had been done to her.

Taryn’s gaze lifted slowly, meeting Nesta’s, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The silence stretched thick, heavy, filled with a thousand unspoken things, filled with everything Nesta wanted to say but didn’t know how.

But it was Taryn who finally broke it.

“So,” she murmured, voice hoarse, raw, a bitter sort of humor threading through it. “They sent you, too.”

Nesta exhaled sharply, stepping forward, stepping closer, because she wasn’t going to do this.

She wasn’t going to let Taryn deflect, wasn’t going to let her pretend like this wasn’t horrible, like it hadn’t left something raw and bleeding in the air between them.

“Are you all right?” Nesta asked, and the words felt useless, felt pointless, because of course she wasn’t.

Taryn huffed a breath, tilting her head slightly, as if debating how to answer.

And then, with a tired, humorless smile, she said, “I survived.”

It wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t remotely enough.

And Nesta—Nesta didn’t know what to do with the rage boiling inside her.

Nesta crossed her arms, planting herself firmly in front of Taryn, her silver-blue eyes cold, unyielding, the tension in her shoulders coiled tight as a drawn bowstring.

“You lied to me,” she said, her voice low, steady, but threaded with something dangerous beneath it.

Taryn did not flinch.

She only exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders slightly, as if testing the pain beneath the movement, as if trying to determine just how much damage had been done. And then, finally, finally, she looked up at Nesta fully, meeting her glare without hesitation, without evasion.

“I did,” she admitted, her voice quiet, firm. Unapologetic, but not defiant.

Nesta wasn’t sure what she had expected—denials, justifications, excuses—but Taryn only sat there, watching her, waiting, accepting.

“Why?” Nesta demanded, stepping closer, because the anger inside her wasn’t just from betrayal—it was from understanding. “Why not tell me what you were running from? Why not tell me the truth?”

Taryn’s lips parted slightly, her throat working as she swallowed, as if choosing her next words carefully.

“Because I wasn’t ready,” she said at last, her voice quiet, but even. Honest. “Because I’ve spent years pretending none of it happened. Because I didn’t want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now.”

Nesta stilled.

Because she knew—gods, she knew.

Knew what it was like to lie, to bury the truth so deeply that it became easier to believe the lie.

Because the truth was ugly. Because the truth meant opening wounds that had never properly healed.

“I should have told you,” Taryn said, exhaling softly, her gaze flickering toward the balcony, toward the expanse of sky beyond the temple walls. “And maybe if I had, we wouldn’t be here now.”

Nesta let out a slow, measured breath, forcing herself to untangle the knot in her chest.

“Maybe,” she murmured.

Taryn gave a small, tired smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and Nesta could hear the sincerity in it, could feel it settling in the space between them.

Nesta didn’t say she forgave her.

Didn’t say she was ready to let it go.

But she sat down beside her anyway, letting the silence stretch, letting it settle.

Because for now, that was enough.

Nesta didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t look away as she stared Taryn down, her silver-blue eyes burning, unrelenting. The rage was still there, simmering beneath her skin, but it wasn’t just about the lies anymore.

It was about trust.

“Swear on it,” Nesta said, her voice quiet, but firm as steel. “Swear to me that you will never lie to me again. No matter what.”

Taryn’s breath hitched, her green eyes widening slightly, and for the first time since Nesta had entered the room, she looked uncertain.

Not because she was unwilling.

But because swearing to the Mother was not something done lightly.

Nesta could see it—the hesitation, the weight of the request settling in Taryn’s chest, lodging itself there like a stone.

“Nesta,” Taryn murmured, as if she wanted to argue, as if she wanted to tell her that sometimes lies were easier, sometimes lies were necessary.

But Nesta shook her head, her jaw tight, her hands clenched.

“Swear it,” she demanded, voice sharper now, the words laced with something almost desperate. “No matter what. No more secrets. No more half-truths. You and I, if we are to do this—if we are to survive this—you have to swear.”

Taryn stilled, her chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths, before she finally, finally turned to face Nesta fully.

Her hands shook slightly as she pressed them together, her lips parting as she bowed her head ever so slightly, the golden candlelight catching on the angles of her face, on the lingering exhaustion in her eyes.

“I swear,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, fragile, breaking.

She took a slow, shaking breath before adding, “I swear to the Mother, I will never lie to you again.”

The words hung heavy in the space between them, settling deep, binding, unbreakable.

Nesta didn’t speak, didn’t move, just watched as Taryn swallowed hard, her throat working around something thick, as if the weight of the vow had lodged itself in her very bones.

And Nesta knew—knew—that this time, it was real.

That this time, there was no turning back.

Taryn exhaled slowly, letting the words she had just spoken linger in the air, the weight of the vow settling into the space between them. She didn’t break Nesta’s gaze, didn’t try to justify or excuse anything, just let it sit there, as if accepting whatever would come next.

And then, after a long moment, she asked, soft, tentative, “Are you still mad at me?”

Nesta didn’t even hesitate.

“Yes.”

Taryn’s lips curved slightly, something wry and knowing flickering across her face despite the exhaustion etched into every inch of her body. Even with the fresh wounds hidden beneath the fabric of her robes, even with the shadows still lingering in her green eyes, she managed to look at Nesta with that mischievous glint, the one that always made Nesta feel like she was being lured into some great joke she wasn’t yet in on.

“Even when I’m suffering?” Taryn asked, her voice a bit too sweet, a bit too playful. “Even when I’m in so much pain, and all I want is for my dearest Nesta to comfort me?”

Nesta scoffed, rolling her eyes, because of course Taryn was doing this. Of course she was using that voice, that teasing lilt, even now. Even when she had just endured a punishment Nesta wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to forgive this temple for.

But before she could snap at her, before she could remind Taryn that she had every right to be angry, that trust wasn’t so easily won back, Taryn sighed dramatically, shifting slightly where she sat, as if her wounds were just so unbearable, as if she were seconds away from wilting beneath the weight of it all.

“Can’t you just kiss it better?” she asked, her voice dropping into something mockingly desperate, pleading, her lashes fluttering ever so slightly as she tilted her head just so.

Nesta groaned, throwing her head back slightly, but she couldn’t stop the small twitch of her lips, the traitorous pull of amusement that threatened to break through her frustration.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered.

Taryn’s grin widened just a little, but there was something in it—something deeper, something relieved, something that softened the edges of the exhaustion clinging to her.

Because even if Nesta was still angry, even if she wasn’t ready to forgive, this—this moment, this sharp-edged humor, this familiar teasing banter—meant they were still them.

Without thinking, without hesitation, Nesta moved.

She didn’t stop to question it, didn’t consider whether she should—her body simply acted, her feet carrying her the few short steps to the edge of the bed before she was sitting beside Taryn, her shoulder brushing lightly against the other woman’s.

Taryn shifted slightly, tilting her head to glance at Nesta, something unreadable flickering behind her green eyes. But whatever thought had passed through her mind, she let it go, instead settling into the quiet between them, the two of them simply existing in the same space, breathing the same air, feeling the same weight of what had happened.

After a moment, Taryn broke the silence, her voice light but edged with curiosity.

“People are curious about you, you know,” she said, shifting so that one of her legs was pulled up onto the bed, the fabric of her robe rustling slightly. “A human turned fae, and not just any fae—something more. It’s not something people see often. Or ever.”

Nesta didn’t respond immediately, only let the words settle over her, pressing into her skin like the heat of a fire that was just slightly too close.

She wasn’t surprised—not really. She had heard the whispers, the way even the Night Court had spoken about her transformation as if it were some great anomaly, some unnatural occurrence.

But hearing it from Taryn, hearing it here, in a temple that prided itself on divine will and sacred purpose, was something else entirely.

“Many think it wasn’t possible,” Taryn continued, her gaze flickering toward the window, toward the temple that stretched beyond it. “That you were blessed by the Mother herself, that she saw something in you worth saving.”

Nesta laughed, but there was no humor in it, just a quiet, sharp exhale, a breath that carried the weight of too many nights spent wondering the same thing.

“I’m not sure the Mother ever blessed me,” she muttered, her voice tighter than she intended, lower, edged with something dark.

Taryn turned to her then, her gaze sharper, more assessing.

“No?” she murmured.

Nesta only shook her head, letting out another slow breath.

“I was thrown into that Cauldron screaming,” she said, voice quiet, but heavy. “I fought, I thrashed, I begged not to go under. If the Mother had blessed me, would she not have stopped it? Would she not have spared me from being drowned and remade into something I never asked to be?”

Taryn was silent, watching her, waiting, letting her speak without interruption.

Nesta swallowed, forcing down the bitterness, the years of resentment that still clung to her ribcage like vines.

“And if she had blessed me,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper now, “then why has every step since been filled with suffering? With grief, with guilt, with loss? Why has everything I have been given felt like a punishment?”

For a long moment, Taryn didn’t answer.

And then, with slow, deliberate movements, she reached out, taking Nesta’s hand gently in hers, threading their fingers together, grounding her in the present.

“Perhaps,” Taryn said softly, “the blessing was not in what was taken from you. Perhaps it was in what you have endured despite it.”

Nesta didn’t know what to say to that.

Didn’t know how to accept that answer, how to believe it, how to take the pain and reshape it into something less cruel, something less sharp.

So she didn’t speak.

She only squeezed Taryn’s hand, letting the silence fill the space where words would never be enough.

Nesta didn’t know why she asked.

Maybe it was the weight of the conversation, the way Taryn had spoken of blessings and survival, of things endured rather than things gifted. Maybe it was because, no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much she had changed, she still felt the divide between what she had been and what she had become.

Or maybe it was because, deep down, she wanted to know if she had ever been worth saving.

“What do you think about humans?” the words slipped out before she could stop them, before she could swallow them back down, and as soon as they left her lips, she regretted them.

Taryn glanced at her, her green eyes flickering with something unreadable, but she didn’t hesitate—didn’t deflect or twist the question back at her.

Instead, she let out a slow, thoughtful breath, tilting her head slightly as she considered her answer.

“Before I met you?” she mused, the words almost too casual, too measured. “I didn’t think much of them at all.”

Nesta stilled, something cold and heavy settling in her stomach, but Taryn continued before she could speak.

“That’s not to say I hated them,” she clarified, rolling her shoulders slightly, wincing at whatever pain still lingered there. “I just didn’t see the point in them. They were… weak. Fragile. So quick to kneel to any power greater than their own.”

Nesta’s jaw tightened, but Taryn didn’t stop.

“I heard the stories, of course,” she went on, her voice smooth but edged with something sharper, something almost nostalgic. “The way they fought wars among themselves for petty reasons. The way they feared what they didn’t understand. The way they let kings and lords decide their fates as if they weren’t capable of deciding for themselves.”

Nesta breathed slowly, controlling the sting of the words, the way they echoed things she had once heard among the High Fae of the Night Court.

But then, Taryn let out a quiet, humorless laugh.

“And then I met you.”

Nesta finally turned to look at her, eyes narrowing slightly, but Taryn’s expression was unreadable.

“And you changed my mind.”

The words hung there, heavy, uncertain, settling into the silence that stretched between them.

Nesta shouldn’t have cared. Shouldn’t have felt the strange, unfamiliar weight in her chest at the admission.

But she did.

“How?” Nesta asked, because she didn’t see it, didn’t see how she could have changed anything.

Taryn gave her a small, almost knowing smile.

“Because you did not kneel,” she said simply. “Not to the Cauldron. Not to the High Lords. Not to fate, not to death, not even to yourself.��

Nesta stared at her, something unreadable flickering in her chest, in the tight coil of her ribs.

Because that wasn’t entirely true, was it?

She had knelt.

She had given in.

To the drink, to the grief, to the self-loathing that had devoured her piece by piece.

But Taryn wasn’t talking about that.

“You should have died,” Taryn murmured, as if she were speaking a truth that neither of them could deny. “You should have drowned in that Cauldron, or let them break you, or wasted away in your own misery. But you didn’t. And that is something no fragile, foolish human could have done.”

Nesta exhaled slowly, shaken in a way she didn’t understand, because it wasn’t flattery, it wasn’t empty reassurance—it was just fact.

And for the first time, she wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse.

Nesta breathed in sharply, her spine straightening, the words slashing through the strange weight in her chest, through whatever uncertainty, whatever quiet sense of understanding had begun to settle between them.

“I’m Fae,” she said, her voice cool, distant, firm, as if saying it aloud would make it more true, more absolute. “I’m not human anymore.”

Taryn tilted her head slightly, studying her with those sharp, unflinching green eyes, her expression unreadable, her fingers tracing idle patterns against the folds of her robe.

And then, after a long pause, she murmured, “Your heart is still the same.”

Nesta stiffened.

Taryn didn’t say it like it was an insult. Didn’t say it like it was some great failing, some mark of shame that Nesta had failed to erase.

She said it like it was a simple truth, one that even Nesta herself could not deny.

“Your body changed,” Taryn continued, voice calm, measured, but firm beneath its softness. “Your strength. Your senses. Your power. But your heart? The way you feel things? The way you rage, the way you grieve, the way you fight?”

She shook her head slowly, watching Nesta closely, as if waiting to see how she would take it.

“That did not change.”

Nesta exhaled slowly, controlled, measured, but the words had lodged themselves somewhere deep inside her.

Because she had felt it, too.

Had felt it in the way she could never quite let go of the human girl she had once been.

In the way she still ached for things she should have learned to let go of.

In the way her anger, her love, her grief, her guilt, had always been too sharp, too consuming, too much.

Because Fae or not—some things in her had never changed.

And maybe that was the problem.

Nesta exhaled sharply, shaking her head, her jaw clenching tight against the words pressing against her ribs, against the truth she didn’t want to acknowledge.

“That isn’t a good thing,” she said at last, her voice low, edged with something bitter, something dangerous. “It shouldn’t have stayed. The Cauldron should have taken it. Should have erased it. What use is it to still feel like a human when I am no longer one?”

Taryn didn’t answer right away.

She only studied Nesta, her expression calm, unreadable, as if she had already expected this, as if she had known that Nesta would reject the truth before she could accept it.

And then, finally, she spoke.

“Your humanity,” she said, soft but certain, “is not a weakness, Nesta. It is the last, most beautiful thing the Cauldron could not take from you.”

Nesta stilled, the words striking something deep, something raw, but Taryn didn’t stop.

“Do you know what makes humans so feared by the Fae?” she mused, tilting her head slightly, her voice lighter, almost contemplative, but woven through with something deeper, something true. “It is not their strength. It is not their armies. It is not their weapons, nor their kings, nor their laws.”

She leaned in slightly, her gaze bright, unwavering, as if she were speaking a great truth, a truth Nesta had refused to see.

“It is their hearts.”

Nesta’s breath hitched, but Taryn only continued.

“Because humans love as if they have never been hurt before,” she said, voice barely above a whisper now, yet it carried, echoed in the sacred quiet of the room. “Because they grieve as if they will never heal, and they rage as if they can set the world on fire. Because they do not need centuries of time to make a single moment matter.”

Her fingers twitched slightly in her lap, as if resisting the urge to reach for Nesta’s hand again, to press this truth into her skin, to make her feel it.

“Your humanity is not your weakness, Nesta,” she murmured, softer now, but no less certain. “It is your weapon. It is the thing that even the Cauldron itself could not steal from you. It is the thing that makes you something more than just another Fae with power.”

Nesta said nothing, could only stare, could only feel as something deep within her chest cracked, something she had buried for so long it had almost turned to stone.

Because Taryn meant it.

Because she had never heard anyone speak of her humanity with such reverence, such certainty.

Because for the first time in a long, long time—someone wasn’t trying to erase it.

Nesta exhaled sharply, shaking her head, trying to dispel the weight of Taryn’s words before they could settle too deeply into her bones.

“You’re such a poet,” she muttered, her voice dry, dismissive, deflecting. “Always spinning words into something grand, something sacred.”

Taryn only smiled, soft and knowing, because she saw what Nesta was doing. Because Nesta could pretend all she wanted, could roll her eyes and scoff, but the truth had already taken root.

“Perhaps,” Taryn mused, her voice unbothered, light, effortlessly teasing. “But wouldn’t it be so tragic if I wasted this talent on silence?”

Nesta gave a pointed look, but before she could retort, before she could remind Taryn that sometimes silence was better, sometimes silence kept things from being too real, too sharp, too painful—Taryn took her hand.

Nesta went still.

Because Taryn didn’t just hold it.

She lifted it slowly, reverently, bringing it to her lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the back of her hand.

A touch so gentle, so intimate, Nesta felt it like a whisper across her skin, like something sacred, something prayer-like.

“Then I will write many,” Taryn murmured against her skin, the warmth of her breath brushing over Nesta’s fingers. “I will sing them, I will carve them into the air, into the earth, into the sea. I will write you into every poem, into every hymn, into every prayer that leaves my lips.”

Nesta couldn’t breathe.

Could only watch, frozen, caught between the urge to pull away and the urge to press closer.

Because it wasn’t just words.

Because it wasn’t just a jest, wasn’t just Taryn teasing her, wasn’t just another poetic flourish meant to make her flustered.

It was a promise.

It was devotion.

And Nesta didn’t know what to do with it.

Nesta finally found her breath, finally yanked herself free from the strange, consuming pull of Taryn’s words, of the warmth lingering on the back of her hand like an echo of something she wasn’t ready to name.

So instead, she snorted, rolling her eyes, the movement sharp, dismissive, cutting through the tension like a blade.

“You’re just trying to get me to forgive you,” she muttered, pulling her hand away, even though she could still feel the ghost of Taryn’s lips against her skin.

Taryn’s smile only widened, slow and lazy, her green eyes dancing with amusement as she tilted her head slightly, considering.

“Maybe,” she said, her voice silky, teasing, utterly unrepentant. “But does that mean it isn’t true?”

Nesta glared at her, but it wasn’t real—not truly.

Because damn her, damn her, damn her—Taryn always knew how to twist her words, how to spin them into something Nesta couldn’t argue against.

And worst of all?

Nesta wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Nesta didn’t know what to do with her.

Didn’t know what to do with the way Taryn could spin words like silk, how she could lace poetry into even the simplest conversation, how she could make something as insignificant as a kiss on the hand feel like a coronation, like an unspoken vow, like the world itself was shifting beneath Nesta’s feet.

She hated it.

Hated the way Taryn could unravel her without even trying.

Hated the way her words settled deep, too deep, burrowing beneath Nesta’s ribs where they couldn’t be ignored.

Hated that she had sat here, in this temple that had hurt her, in this place that had taken something from her, that had tried to break her—and yet, instead of letting herself be swallowed by it, instead of letting the weight of it crush her, she had smiled. She had kissed Nesta’s hand and whispered about writing her name into the bones of the earth, about carving her into something eternal, something more.

Nesta didn’t know what to do with that.

With her.

Because this wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Nesta had been angry when she arrived—furious about Taryn’s lies, about the punishment she had endured alone, about the way Nesta had been left outside the door while it happened.

But now?

Now she was sitting on a bed beside a woman who had been lashed, who had been humiliated before the gods she had once served, and yet she was smiling at her, teasing her, speaking to her like nothing had changed, like Nesta was something to be treasured, something worthy of poetry and prayer.

It was infuriating.

Nesta had spent so much of her life learning how to shove people away, how to keep them at arm’s length, how to never let them get close enough to hurt her.

But Taryn had gotten close without even trying.

And now Nesta didn’t know how to push her away.

So she didn’t.

Instead, she let out a long, slow breath, rolling her eyes again for good measure, like it could somehow ground her, keep her from spiraling.

“You are impossible,” she muttered, not quite a complaint, not quite an admission, just… something.

Taryn’s smile didn’t waver, didn’t falter, didn’t crack.

If anything, it deepened.

“And yet,” she murmured, tilting her head slightly, her voice all warmth, all certainty, “you haven’t run from me yet.”

Nesta had no answer for that.

Because she wasn’t running.

Because no matter how much she wanted to deny it, wanted to fight it, wanted to keep her distance—she was still here.

And she didn’t want to leave.

Nesta looked at her.

Really looked at her.

Nesta had spent so much of her life running.

From her past. From her pain. From the things she didn’t know how to feel, the things she didn’t want to name. She had built walls higher than any fortress, carved shields out of iron and steel and ice.

And yet, somehow, Taryn had walked right past them.

Not breaking them down. Not forcing her way through.

Just walking in. As if she had always belonged there.

Nesta didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know what to do with her.

Didn’t know what to do with the way her chest felt too tight, too full, the way her body was buzzing with something sharp and electric, the way the space between them felt too much, too empty, too unbearably fragile.

And so, for once in her life, Nesta didn’t think.

She didn’t analyze. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t let fear take hold.

She just moved.

One moment, she was staring, her breath tight in her throat.

And the next—she was kissing her.

It was soft at first, hesitant, uncertain, because Nesta didn’t do this. She didn’t kiss like this, like it meant something, like she was allowing herself to feel.

But then—Taryn smiled against her lips.

That small, maddening, knowing smile.

And then Taryn was tilting her head, pressing closer, deepening the kiss, her hand lifting to rest against Nesta’s cheek, her fingers feather-light, reverent, warm.

Like she had been waiting for this.

Like she had always known it would happen.

Nesta didn’t pull away.

Didn’t think about the consequences, about the future, about what it meant.

For the first time in a long, long time, she just let herself be.

Taryn’s smile deepened against her lips, slow and taunting, like she knew exactly how much power she wielded in that moment. And Nesta—Nesta felt it, felt the shift inside her, the unraveling of something she had kept locked down for too long.

Taryn’s hand was warm against her cheek, her thumb brushing the sharp edge of Nesta’s jaw, barely there, barely a touch at all, and yet it sent a pulse of heat through her blood, through every nerve in her body. Nesta should have pulled away, should have reined herself in, should have built those damn walls back up before she lost herself completely.

But she didn’t.

She didn’t pull away. Didn’t shove down the feeling clawing its way through her chest, through her ribs, through her veins.

Instead, she let herself lean into it.

Because Taryn was soft against her, soft in a way that Nesta had never let herself touch, had never let herself have. The world had always been sharp edges and hard lines, always been blades disguised as tenderness, but this—this was something else entirely.

Taryn kissed like she knew, like she had already mapped out every secret Nesta had tried to bury, every locked door she had slammed shut, every jagged edge she had ever sharpened into a weapon. And instead of fearing them, instead of recoiling, she moved closer.

And Nesta let her.

Let her hands tangle in the fabric of Taryn’s robes, gripping, holding, grounding herself, because she wasn’t sure she could stand otherwise. Taryn’s fingers slipped into her hair, just barely skimming over the sensitive skin at the base of her neck, sending another wave of warmth rolling through her, pooling low in her stomach.

Nesta never kissed like this.

She had never let anyone kiss her like this.

Slow, deliberate, teasing, like they had all the time in the world.

Like this wasn’t something dangerous, something to run from.

And Mother above—it was dangerous.

Because she could feel it, the way the kiss softened and sharpened at the same time, the way Taryn’s mouth curved against hers like she was smirking, amused, pleased with herself for having drawn Nesta into something she never should have let happen.

Nesta should have been angry.

But instead, she tilted her head, let her lips part slightly, let the moment stretch, deepen, become something neither of them could pretend wasn’t real.

And when Taryn finally, finally pulled back, her green eyes were blazing, her breath soft and warm against Nesta’s lips.

Nesta was still gripping her, still holding onto her like she might slip through her fingers if she let go.

Tag list: @litnerdwrites @viajandopelomar @wolfinsocks

#anti acosf #anti acotar #anti inner circle #anti feysand #anti rhysand #pro nesta #nesta archeron deserves better #anti cassian #anti azriel #anti amren #anti nessian #anti morrigan #anti night court #sapphic nesta

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