#anti night court

[hrizantemy]

The days bled together, time slipping through Nesta’s fingers as she and Taryn buried themselves in research, in ancient texts and dusty tomes, in anything and everything that might hold the answers they sought. The Temple of Aethia was vast, its libraries stretching across wings of towering shelves filled with scrolls and books so old their pages threatened to crumble under the slightest touch.

The scent of aged parchment and ink clung to the air, the weight of centuries of knowledge pressing down on them as they scoured every piece of information they could find on the Dread Trove.

Nesta had expected resistance when they had asked for unrestricted access—had expected the High Priestess or the temple elders to deny them, to keep certain knowledge locked away behind sacred doors. But the temple had complied. Whether it was because of Thesan’s influence or the Mother’s will, she didn’t know, but it hadn’t mattered. Not when she and Taryn had been given free rein to scour the deepest corners of the archives, to tear apart history itself in search of the relics that had been lost to time.

The work had been gruelling.

Days spent hunched over wooden tables covered in maps and notes, ink staining their fingers, eyes blurring from reading page after page of forgotten records. The texts were scattered, fragmented, some written in languages neither of them could fully decipher, others written in a way that seemed intentionally vague, obscuring truths behind riddles and cryptic phrasing. The Dread Trove had been forgotten for a reason, buried beneath layers of myth and caution, hidden from those who would seek to wield it.

And yet, slowly—painstakingly, agonizingly slowly—they had begun to piece things together.

“Here,” Taryn murmured one afternoon, her voice thick with exhaustion, her finger dragging across the yellowed pages of a book so old it looked like it might disintegrate at any moment. “This passage—it’s referring to the Trove, but it doesn’t use the name directly.”

Nesta leaned in, her fingers tracing over the ancient text, her mind working through the words, through the implications.

“The Crown, the Mask, and the Harp,” she read aloud, her brow furrowing. “Bound not to time, nor to power, but to the will of the Maker and the hands that call them forth.”

She glanced up at Taryn, who had already begun scribbling notes onto a loose parchment, her handwriting quick and slanted.

“It suggests the relics aren’t just lost,” Taryn murmured, biting her lip in thought. “They’re waiting to be claimed.”

Nesta frowned. Waiting? That sounded far too much like destiny, like fate, like things she did not believe in.

“Or hidden so well they may as well not exist,” Nesta countered, flipping the page, scanning the next passage with narrowed eyes.

Taryn sighed, rolling her shoulders, exhaustion creeping into her movements. “Or that.”

The research had consumed them. Morning until night, night until morning again. They had barely slept, barely eaten, existing in the quiet haze of knowledge and discovery, of frustration and fleeting victories.

And yet, with every new piece of information, with every old text they deciphered, Nesta couldn’t shake the feeling that they were missing something—something crucial.

Because despite everything they had found, despite the clues and scattered mentions, the Trove was still a ghost, a shadow lurking in the depths of history, waiting to be unearthed.

And she had a feeling that when they did find it—when they finally unraveled the truth of where it had been hidden—nothing would ever be the same again.

Occasionally, Taryn would be pulled away from their research, summoned by the temple elders, by the priestesses who whispered of sacred duties and divine will, by the endless, unspoken expectations that came with the title of High Priestess of the Dawn Court.

Nesta had never asked what those duties truly entailed, had never inquired about what the temple expected of Taryn, about what she was required to do in service of a god who had allowed her to be whipped before her own altar. But she noticed the way Taryn would return from those duties more exhausted than before, her shoulders tense, her eyes clouded with something unreadable.

She never complained. Never spoke of it, never voiced frustration, never so much as sighed in resignation. She simply went where she was called, carried out the will of the Mother with quiet, unwavering resolve, and then returned to Nesta in the library, picking up exactly where they had left off.

Nesta didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand how Taryn could devote herself so willingly to something that had taken so much from her.

One evening, as Taryn returned from whatever duty had stolen her away that day, looking drained but not defeated, Nesta had finally asked.

“Do you believe in the Mother?”

Taryn had blinked, clearly surprised by the question, before giving her a long, assessing look, as if trying to decide whether she was truly asking or if she was waiting to launch into one of her usual tirades about fate and free will.

But Nesta had only stared back, unyielding, unwilling to let the moment pass.

Finally, Taryn had sighed, running a hand through her dark hair, her fingers catching on the golden chains woven into her braids.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, quietly, carefully. “Some days, I think she is real. That she watches, that she weaves, that she listens.”

Nesta had crossed her arms, skeptical. “And the other days?”

Taryn had smiled, but it wasn’t sharp or teasing this time. It was soft, something tinged with the weight of years spent asking the same question, searching for the same answer.

“The other days,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, “I think the Mother is nothing more than a story. A comfort for those who need something to believe in. A justification for things we don’t understand.”

She had hesitated then, just for a breath, before adding, softer still, almost like she didn’t want to admit it, “And sometimes, I think it does not matter if she is real or not. Sometimes, I think faith itself is the only thing that holds the world together.”

Nesta hadn’t known what to say to that.

Hadn’t known how to argue with something that felt less like doctrine and more like a truth too raw to be debated.

Because Nesta didn’t believe.

Didn’t believe in the Mother, or in the Cauldron, or in destiny, or in fate. Didn’t believe that some divine presence had woven their lives into a great, intentional pattern.

And yet—when she looked at Taryn, when she saw the way she carried her faith like armor, like fire, like something unbreakable even in the face of pain and cruelty—she wondered if, perhaps, that belief was something stronger than the gods themselves.

Something that even the Mother could not take away.

Nesta didn’t care.

Or, at the very least, she told herself she didn’t care.

She didn’t care about the Mother, about faith, about temples and sacred duties and the weight of the title Taryn had been forced to reclaim. Didn’t care about the way Taryn disappeared for hours at a time, called away to fulfill the will of a god who had let her suffer, let her bleed, let her be branded and bound by duty before she was ever given a choice.

All Nesta cared about was the task before her.

Find the Trove.

Get it done.

Be finished with this.

She didn’t let herself think about what would happen after.

Didn’t ask what it would mean when they succeeded.

Would she be sent back to the Night Court? Would she be free to go wherever she pleased? And Taryn… what would happen to her? Would she be allowed to leave the temple? Would she still be bound to it, to the elders who had summoned her back like a wayward child returning home?

She didn’t know.

And right now, she didn’t want to know.

So she shoved it all down, let the questions sit unspoken, unanswered, buried beneath the weight of research and ink-stained fingers and sleepless nights spent bent over books older than the walls of this temple.

She was alone now, Taryn pulled away yet again for some duty Nesta refused to ask about, and she poured over a map, tracing the lines of Prythian’s territories, cross-referencing ancient ruins with half-legible notes in a forgotten dialect.

She didn’t look up when the library door creaked open.

Didn’t acknowledge the soft footfalls that moved toward her, the rustle of golden robes against polished floors, the scent of jasmine and incense that clung to the air.

Not until a too-bright, too-pleasant voice cut through the silence.

“Lady Nesta,” the priestess greeted, all warmth, all smiles, all carefully practiced ease.

Nesta stiffened, but didn’t turn.

Didn’t break her focus, didn’t let herself get dragged into whatever conversation this woman had sought her out for.

“Researching alone today?” the priestess continued, her tone light, conversational, but with something beneath it, something probing.

Nesta exhaled slowly, deliberately, before finally looking up, her cool silver-blue gaze meeting the priestess’s with a sharp, unreadable edge.

“Did you need something?” she asked, blunt, to the point.

The priestess only smiled wider.

And Nesta knew, then, that she wasn’t going to like whatever came next.

The priestess’s smile didn’t falter, but there was something too calculated in the way she held herself, something too measured in her tone, too careful in her words.

Nesta didn’t trust it.

Didn’t trust any of them.

“No need to be so tense, Lady Nesta,” the priestess said smoothly, folding her hands before her, tilting her head in that way that all priestesses seemed to do—as if they knew something others didn’t, as if they saw the world through some divine lens that made them untouchable. “I was merely curious about your progress. You’ve been given full access to the archives, and yet, I wonder if you’ve made any… meaningful discoveries?”

Nesta’s fingers tightened around the edges of the map before her.

“And why would that concern you?” she asked, voice cool, impassive.

The priestess let out a soft hum, stepping closer, moving behind Nesta’s chair to glance at the books and scrolls scattered across the desk.

“Because knowledge is meant to be shared,” she said lightly. “And because the Dread Trove is not just some relic of the past, but a matter of great importance to this court… and beyond.”

Nesta stilled.

That was… interesting.

The way she said it. The way she spoke of the Trove not as an artifact to be found, not as an ancient mystery to be solved—but as something relevant, something still present, something still dangerous.

Nesta turned her head slightly, her gaze sharpening, assessing.

“Do you know something?” she asked, voice edged with careful curiosity.

The priestess’s smile remained, but something flickered in her expression—something that told Nesta she had pressed against a truth the priestess had not meant to reveal.

“I only know what history tells us,” the woman replied smoothly, too smoothly. “That the Trove was scattered, lost to time, hidden where no mortal nor Fae should ever find it. But history… is often unreliable. Things have a way of returning to the surface when the world is ready for them again.”

Nesta didn’t blink.

“And you believe the world is ready for them?”

The priestess let out a soft laugh, stepping to the side, her golden robes shifting with the movement.

“I believe the world does not decide such things,” she murmured. “The Mother does.”

Nesta nearly rolled her eyes but held her tongue.

“If that’s the case, then why do you care if we find it?” she asked instead, testing, pushing, watching.

The priestess finally met her gaze directly, and for the first time, her expression was wholly unreadable.

“Because, Lady Nesta,” she murmured, “some things were lost for a reason. And not everything is meant to be found.”

Nesta felt it then—the shift in the air, the underlying warning beneath the woman’s words.

And she knew, with a certainty that sent a slow chill curling through her spine, that this was no idle conversation.

The priestesses of this temple were not just watching.

They were waiting.

Waiting for her and Taryn to find the Trove.

Waiting for something Nesta did not yet understand.

And whatever it was—it had already begun.

Nesta’s fingers curled tighter around the edge of the desk, her grip pressing hard enough against the parchment that it nearly tore.

She didn’t trust this.

Didn’t trust the way the priestess spoke, the way she danced around answers like a blade skimming just shy of cutting skin.

Didn’t trust the way she watched her, like Nesta was part of something bigger, something moving just beneath the surface.

“What could the temple possibly want with the Trove?” Nesta asked, voice low, edged with suspicion.

The priestess’s smile didn’t waver, but something in her gaze sharpened—just a flicker, just a moment of something that told Nesta she had stepped onto dangerous ground.

“You assume we want it,” the priestess murmured, her voice as light as ever, but there was something careful, something measured beneath it. “That we are seeking it for our own means.”

Nesta held her gaze, refusing to let the words twist away from her, refusing to be distracted by careful phrasing and practiced deflections.

“You wouldn’t be asking about our progress if you didn’t have some kind of interest in it,” Nesta countered, watching the way the priestess’s hands remained perfectly still, folded in front of her robes, as if she had trained herself never to give away too much. “So what is it? What use does the Mother’s temple have for objects of such power?”

The priestess tilted her head slightly, studying her.

“Power is not inherently dangerous,” she said, voice smooth, practiced. “It is those who wield it that determine its purpose. You, of all people, should understand that.”

Nesta’s jaw clenched.

She wasn’t in the mood for philosophy, wasn’t in the mood for pretty words that meant nothing.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” she said, cold, unyielding. “What does the temple want with the Trove?”

The priestess held her gaze for a long moment, her golden eyes unreadable.

Nesta turned back to the table, staring at the maps, the scattered pages of ancient texts, the ink-stained notes detailing every fragmented clue they had uncovered.

She hadn’t tried scrying.

Oh, she could. She could close her eyes right now, reach inside herself, reach toward the power that had been burned into her very bones by the Cauldron itself. She could touch that darkness, that raw, seething force that still felt too much, too overwhelming, too vast.

But she didn’t.

Because she was scared.

Not of the Trove itself—not of what she might find.

No, it was what would happen if she lost control.

If she unleashed something that couldn’t be contained, couldn’t be reined back in.

If she destroyed something again.

If she hurt Taryn.

The memory of flames engulfing their home, of the golden light shining from Taryn’s hands as she held her, of the **pain and power colliding in Nesta’s body like a violent storm—**it was still there, lurking at the edge of her mind, a reminder of just how unstable, how dangerous she truly was.

What if she lost herself to it?

What if she wasn’t strong enough to control it?

What if she opened herself up to something she couldn’t come back from?

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her breath measured, controlled, because there were too many uncertainties.

She was not ready.

And she hated that.

Hated that she felt like a coward, hated that she knew the others would think the same if they knew—if Rhysand, if Amren, if Cassian knew that she was hesitating, that she was afraid.

But they weren’t here.

Taryn was.

And the thought of **hurting her, of losing her in the chaos of her own power—**Nesta couldn’t stomach it.

So she turned the page of her book instead, pretending she hadn’t felt the weight of the priestess’s warning still pressing against her ribs, pretending she wasn’t standing on the edge of something inevitable.

Pretending she still had a choice.

The priestess did not leave.

She lingered, standing behind Nesta like a shadow draped in gold, her presence pressing too heavily against the back of Nesta’s mind. The scent of jasmine and incense clung to her robes, the same cloying sweetness that filled every corridor of this temple, the scent that had become woven into the very air Nesta breathed.

She didn’t turn, didn’t look at the woman watching her so intently, but she could feel the weight of her gaze.

“You will have to try eventually, Lady Nesta,” the priestess murmured, voice too soft, too knowing. “You were given a gift. A responsibility. The Mother would not have placed this power in your hands if she did not intend for you to use it.”

Nesta stiffened, her fingers curling tighter around the edge of the table.

She was tempted—so, so tempted—to snap, to unleash just a flicker of the power simmering beneath her skin, to let it roll off her in silver flames, to let the heat lick at the priestess’s golden robes until she backed away.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she forced herself to exhale slowly, deliberately, and said, “Well, if I was chosen by the Mother, I suppose I’ll figure it out.”

The words were mocking, edged with something sharp, and when she finally turned to look at the priestess, the woman’s expression remained unwavering, unreadable, untouched.

Nesta hated it.

Hated the way these priestesses always spoke in circles, in half-truths and riddles, never fully committing to an answer, always leaving room for doubt, for mystery, for some greater divine plan that no one but them seemed to understand.

And before she could stop herself, before she could think better of it, she asked, “What makes one chosen?”

The priestess blinked, her expression shifting ever so slightly.

“Pardon?”

Nesta leaned forward, tipping her head slightly, watching her carefully.

“How do you know?” she pressed, her voice low, steady, lethal in its quietness. “How do you know that the Mother has blessed me? That she blessed Taryn? What is it that makes one chosen?”

The priestess hesitated—just for a breath, just for a flicker of a moment—but it was enough.

Enough for Nesta to know that she had hit something deeper.

“The Mother’s will is not something we can always understand,” the priestess finally said, voice smooth, practiced, but Nesta could hear the way she was choosing her words carefully now. “She sees beyond what we see. She moves beyond what we can touch. And sometimes, she places her hand upon those who are meant to shape the world.”

Nesta’s lips curled slightly, something cold and unimpressed settling in her chest.

“So it’s just faith, then?” she said, her voice mocking, edged with something bitter. “You don’t actually know. You just believe.”

The priestess tilted her head slightly, her golden eyes flashing with something—not anger, but something deeper, something sharper.

“Faith is knowing without seeing,” she murmured, “without needing proof. Faith is what binds the world, what guides those who would otherwise be lost.”

Nesta exhaled sharply, turning away, refusing to let the words settle too deeply, refusing to let them sink into the cracks that were already beginning to form inside her.

She only believed in what she could see. What she could feel.

The priestess had her answers rehearsed, her responses ready, as smooth as polished stone. But Nesta had spent enough time watching, listening, learning to see past the surface.

And she knew, she knew, that the priestess had not expected that question.

“How did they find her?” Nesta asked, voice measured, careful, but there was something colder beneath it. “How did they know she was meant to be a High Priestess?”

The priestess’s expression didn’t shift, didn’t falter, but there was a pause—barely a breath, barely a hesitation, but Nesta caught it.

“The Mother guides her chosen,” the priestess said at last, the words flowing too easily, as if she had recited them a hundred times before. “She calls them, and we find them. It has always been this way.”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s not an answer,” she said, blunt, unyielding. “How did they find Taryn? Was she brought here? Was she taken?”

The priestess finally let out a slow breath, the tension around her shoulders shifting—just slightly, just enough.

“The High Priestesses are not taken,” she murmured, but Nesta heard the subtle correction in her tone.

Not taken.

But not chosen freely, either.

“Then how?” Nesta pressed, leaning forward, refusing to let her evade, refusing to let the answer slip away into vague religious musings.

“She was brought to us,” the priestess finally admitted.

Nesta stilled.

“By who?”

The priestess’s golden eyes flickered toward the doorway, toward the temple beyond, as if checking for unseen ears.

And then, finally, she said, “Her family.”

Nesta’s breath hitched.

Because she had heard Taryn speak of her mother, of the way she had sobbed upon seeing her again.

And yet, if she had been the one to bring her here, if she had been the one to offer her up to this life, then—what kind of mother had she truly been?

“She was no more than a child when she arrived,” the priestess continued, voice softer now, lower, as if she did not wish to say the words aloud. “The Mother’s blessing was seen in her from birth—her power, her gifts. It is the way of the world. When a child is marked by the divine, they are brought to serve. It is not a choice. It is destiny.”

Nesta felt a slow, cold anger coil deep in her chest.

“Not a choice,” she repeated, voice flat, careful. “And yet, you tell me this is a blessing.”

The priestess tilted her head, her expression remaining unreadable.

“It is,” she said, “if one accepts it.”

Nesta’s fingers curled into fists beneath the table.

“And if they don’t?”

The priestess only smiled.

“Then the Mother ensures they do.”

Nesta felt something burn in her throat, something sharp and bitter, something like rage.

Because Taryn had never chosen this.

Had never been given the chance.

And yet, here she was, called a High Priestess, bound to a life she had never asked for, shaped by something she had never been given the freedom to reject.

And Nesta knew—knew—that the same could so easily have happened to her, if the Cauldron had left its mark in some different way. If someone had deemed her divine rather than dangerous.

“That isn’t fate,” she murmured, voice like steel wrapped in silk. “That’s control.”

The priestess only smiled wider, as if she had expected those words, as if she had heard them before.

“Is there a difference?” she mused.

And Nesta had no answer.

Only the sharp, simmering knowledge that this temple, this faith, this world of chosen and unchosen—

It was not so different from the cages she had fought to escape.

Nesta did not answer.

Did not even acknowledge the question hanging in the air, the quiet challenge woven into the priestess’s words. Instead, she simply turned away, back to the map spread across the table before her, back to the ink-stained notes and the carefully drawn lines tracing the edges of Prythian. The weight of the conversation still pressed heavily against her ribs, curling around her spine like a vice, but she shoved it down, pushed it into the same dark corner of her mind where she buried everything she did not wish to examine too closely.

She had more important things to focus on.

She had a task to complete.

Nesta clenched her jaw, her fingers tightening around the edges of the map.

None of it mattered.

Not when the Trove was still missing. Not when something dark and inevitable loomed just beyond the edges of their knowledge, waiting to be found, waiting to be awoken.

And yet—even as she traced the faded script of an ancient location, even as she committed its markings to memory, the words still whispered at the back of her mind.

Not a choice.

Control, dressed up as faith.

The priestess shifted beside her, the movement slight, but noticeable. Nesta exhaled sharply, steadying herself before she finally—finally—spoke, her voice flat, uninterested, as if she were already tired of this conversation.

“Is there a reason for your presence?” she asked, not bothering to lift her gaze from the parchment beneath her fingers.

The priestess didn’t seem bothered by her tone, by the dismissal in it. If anything, she seemed amused.

“A letter,” she said smoothly, and Nesta finally glanced up, eyes narrowing as she took in the small envelope in the priestess’s hands, the elegant crest stamped into the wax seal. “From High Lord Thesan.”

Nesta’s brows pulled together slightly.

“From Thesan?” she repeated, because she had not expected that.

“Yes,” the priestess confirmed, still smiling, still watching her too closely. “Though it comes from the Night Court.”

Nesta felt something slow and sharp unfurl in her chest, something cold settling along her spine.

Because she already knew—before she even reached for the letter, before she even ran her fingers over the seal, before she even broke the wax and unfolded the crisp parchment—that whatever this was, whatever message had been sent from the Night Court through Thesan’s hands, it would not be anything she wanted to hear.

The priestess handed her the letter with deliberate slowness, as if she were passing along something sacred, something fragile, something destined to change everything.

Nesta barely waited for her fingers to close around it before she tore it open, ripping through the wax seal, unfolding the crisp parchment with a sharp, almost violent movement. She didn’t know what she had expected—perhaps something from Feyre, another carefully worded plea, another thinly veiled attempt at reasoning with her.

But what she saw—what she read—made her stomach turn.

Her fingers tightened around the letter, the paper crinkling beneath her grip, her breath coming slow, sharp, measured, as if she had to focus on not throwing up right there in the temple’s archives.

Because it wasn’t from Feyre.

It was from Rhysand.

And it was addressed to Thesan.

To His High Lordship, Thesan of the Dawn Court,

It has come to my attention that Lady Nesta Archeron, my mate’s sister and a citizen of the Night Court, has remained in your court longer than originally anticipated. While we respect your neutrality, I must remind you that Lady Nesta’s place is in the Night Court, where she is not only a member of my court but a mate to my General.

As you are well aware, the mating bond is sacred. It is an unbreakable tether of the Mother’s will, and it is not within the rights of any court, High Lord, or ruling body to interfere with such a bond. Under the ancient laws upheld by all courts, the rights and protections of the mating bond allow for the return of a mate to their rightful court, should they stray.

We are invoking those rights now.

Lady Nesta belongs with her mate. She belongs in the Night Court. I trust you will see reason and ensure her return promptly, without incident.

I would hate for this matter to complicate the harmony between our courts.

Warm regards,

Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court

Nesta stared at the letter, her vision blurring with rage, with something hot and sick curling inside her stomach, twisting through her ribs, pressing against her lungs.

Mating bond rights.

They were invoking mating bond rights.

They were demanding she be returned.

Not because she had done something wrong.

Not because she had broken any laws.

Not because she had abandoned her supposed duties to the Night Court.

But because she was Cassian’s mate.

Because they believed they had a claim on her.

Because they believed they had a right to take her, to drag her back, to force her into a life she never wanted.

Nesta’s breath came short, sharp, her hands trembling as she clenched the letter, as she imagined Rhysand sitting at his desk, penning this like it was nothing. Like it was just another diplomatic matter to be resolved, like she was just another thing to be dealt with.

Like she wasn’t a person with her own damn choices.

Rhysand didn’t even know.

Didn’t know about the Trove. Didn’t know about the research. Didn’t know that she was in this temple because Thesan had agreed to let her and Taryn search for something that could change the world.

He had no idea.

And yet, here he was, writing to Thesan, demanding that she be returned like a lost pet.

Nesta’s jaw clenched so tightly it ached, her entire body stiff with barely restrained fury.

“Is something wrong, Lady Nesta?” the priestess asked, her tone mocking, laced with amusement, as if she had been waiting to see how Nesta would react.

Nesta did not answer.

Because she was afraid that if she opened her mouth, she might start screaming.

The priestess tilted her head, watching Nesta with that same damn smile, that same unreadable expression, as if she were studying something fascinating, something inevitable. The amusement in her golden eyes was barely concealed, flickering like a candle flame, growing brighter as she took in Nesta’s reaction—the way her breath came sharp and uneven, the way her fingers curled around the letter so tightly the parchment had begun to crinkle and tear.

“What a joy the mating bond is,” the priestess murmured, soft and reverent, as if speaking of something truly sacred, something meant to be treasured rather than something that made Nesta feel like she was suffocating. “To be given such a gift by the Mother herself—to be bound, heart and soul, to another, chosen by fate itself… you are truly lucky, Lady Nesta.”

Nesta laughed.

Or, rather, the sound that escaped her lips was not quite a laugh, not quite anything—just a sharp, hollow exhale, something closer to disbelief than amusement.

“Lucky,” she echoed, her voice flat, emotionless, a mockery of the word itself.

Lucky.

Lucky that she had been dragged into this world against her will.

Lucky that she had been given power she never asked for.

Lucky that she had been bound to someone—someone who had spent months watching her self-destruct, who had done nothing but sigh and shake his head while she drowned in her own grief, who had waited until she finally pulled herself out of it to decide that he wanted her after all.

Lucky.

Nesta’s fingers tightened, crumpling the bottom of the letter, the edges slicing into her palm, and she wondered if this priestess—this woman who spoke of the Mother’s will with such certainty, who spoke of fate like it was something kind—had ever known what it was like to have no choice.

Had ever known what it was like to have her life mapped out for her without her consent, to have others decide where she belonged, who she belonged to.

Had ever known what it was like to have a High Lord declare her fate in writing, in formal, careful words that stripped her of any agency, that reduced her to nothing more than a possession to be reclaimed.

Nesta did not feel lucky.

Nesta felt like she was drowning.

“You seem upset,” the priestess continued, feigning concern, though her voice dripped with something smug, something almost entertained. “I would have thought you’d be pleased. To be wanted so greatly, so desperately, that your High Lord himself would demand your return—”

Nesta slammed the letter down onto the table.

“Get out,” she said, her voice low, quiet, but laced with something dangerous, something simmering beneath the surface.

The priestess’s smile didn’t falter.

If anything, it grew.

“I’ll leave you to process this joyous news,” she murmured, inclining her head slightly before turning on her heel, her golden robes sweeping behind her as she strode toward the door.

Nesta didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t let herself so much as blink until the door clicked shut behind her, until the scent of jasmine and incense faded from the air, until she was finally, finally alone.

And then—**only then—**did she let out the breath she had been holding, her hands shaking as she stared at the letter on the desk, at the demand written in Rhysand’s perfect, infuriating script.

They were invoking mating bond rights.

They were trying to take her back.

Nesta swallowed, feeling something heavy, suffocating, unbearable press against her chest.

Because what if Thesan agreed?

What if, despite everything, he decided that Nesta Archeron belonged to the Night Court, that she belonged to Cassian, that she had no choice in the matter?

What if, after all this time, after all the ways she had tried to claw her way into something of her own, she was still just—

A thing to be claimed.

Nesta’s breath came too fast, too sharp, too shallow, like she couldn’t get enough air, like the walls of the temple were suddenly too close, too constricting, pressing in on her from all sides. Her vision blurred at the edges, a dull ringing in her ears drowning out her own thoughts, drowning out everything except for the weight of those words, the neat, formal script penned in Rhysand’s perfect, controlled hand.

They were invoking mating bond rights.

They were coming for her.

Not because of the Trove, not because of the research, not because of anything she had done. No, they were demanding her return because of Cassian. Because the Cauldron had seen fit to bind her to someone against her will, because the Night Court still believed she belonged to them, because Rhysand—High Lord, ruler, brother-in-law—had signed his name at the bottom of that letter as if it was already settled, as if Thesan would have no reason to refuse.

Nesta clawed at her own mind, searching for a way out, for an argument, for a defense. But even she wasn’t stupid. She knew what mating bond laws meant.

The temple couldn’t protect her forever.

Taryn couldn’t protect her forever.

She would be dragged back.

M

And even if Thesan refused—even if he stood his ground against Rhysand’s demands—there would always be another attempt, another letter, another court waiting to back up the Night Court’s claim.

Because what High Lord would dare refuse another High Lord his general’s mate?

Her pulse pounded, her heart slamming against her ribs as she gripped the edge of the desk, trying to steady herself, trying to focus, trying to breathe. But the words still burned in her mind, etched into her skin, into her bones, into the very core of her.

They were coming for her.

And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

The door creaked open, and Nesta barely registered the soft footfalls, the scent of wildflowers and sun-warmed earth.

“Nesta?”

Taryn’s voice was gentle but firm, but Nesta couldn’t answer, couldn’t even lift her head. She only stared down at the letter, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts, her hands curled into fists so tight she barely noticed the pain in her fingers.

She didn’t move when Taryn stepped closer, when she placed a careful hand on Nesta’s arm, when her voice dipped into something softer, something more concerned.

“What’s wrong?”

Nesta didn’t answer. She just lifted the letter, just shoved it toward Taryn with a trembling hand, forcing herself to let go of it before she ripped the paper in half.

Taryn took it, her expression darkening as her eyes skimmed the words, her grip tightening around the parchment. The muscles in her jaw *tensed, her shoulders squared, and then, finally, after a long, tense moment, she exhaled slowly and said—

“I’ll take care of it.”

The words were quiet but steady, full of something dangerous, something reckless, something so utterly, infuriatingly self-sacrificial that Nesta wanted to scream.

“No,” Nesta snapped, the word ripping from her throat before she could stop it. “Absolutely not.”

Taryn lifted a brow, unimpressed. “Nesta—”

“I know what you’re doing,” Nesta hissed, her voice shaking, her hands shaking, everything shaking, because she knew, she knew, she knew. “You’re self-destructing. You’re throwing yourself into this because you think you can fix everything, because you think you can keep me safe, but you can’t, Taryn. You can’t.”

Taryn’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t argue, didn’t deny it.

Because it was true.

Because Taryn would sacrifice herself for Nesta in an instant if she thought it would keep her safe.

Because Taryn always had a plan, always had a way to turn herself into the shield, the one standing between Nesta and the inevitable.

And Nesta couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t breathe past it.

Couldn’t do this, couldn’t—

She let out a ragged, broken breath, and suddenly her knees gave out beneath her.

Taryn barely had time to catch her, to pull her down with her as Nesta crumpled to the floor, as the panic finally, fully took hold.

Her chest heaved, her vision swam, her body shaking violently as she clutched at Taryn’s arms, as she gasped for breath and found none, as her world collapsed in on itself.

“I can’t go back,” she choked out, the words coming out strangled, raw, ripped from somewhere deep, somewhere full of every fear she had tried to bury. “I can’t—I won’t—”

Taryn’s arms tightened around her, strong and solid, grounding her, pulling her close as Nesta shook, as she broke apart in her hands.

“You won’t,” Taryn whispered, voice steady, unwavering, absolute. “I won’t let them take you.”

But Nesta didn’t believe it.

Because she knew, deep down—

No one could stop them.

Nesta collapsed into herself, her body shaking so violently that it felt like she might splinter apart, might come undone at the seams. The weight of it—of everything—came crashing down at once, drowning her, swallowing her whole, pressing down on her chest like an iron brand. It was too much, too much, too much, and she couldn’t hold it back anymore, couldn’t shove it down like she always did, couldn’t keep it locked away in that dark, unspoken part of her mind where all her worst fears and regrets festered.

The sob that tore from her throat was ugly, raw, broken, her hands clawing at the fabric of Taryn’s robes as if anchoring herself, as if trying to keep herself from slipping further into the abyss opening beneath her feet. Her breath came ragged and uneven, her chest heaving, her ribs aching, and the words spilled from her lips before she could stop them, before she could control them, before she could even think.

“This is my fault,” she gasped, barely coherent, barely able to breathe past the choking weight of her own guilt. “This is all my fault—everything, everything—”

Taryn held her tighter, her grip strong, steady, but Nesta couldn’t stop, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except break apart in her arms.

“I did this,” she sobbed, her body wracked with tremors, her mind spiraling, unraveling. “I— I took too much. I— I stole too much. This is— this is my punishment, isn’t it? This is what I deserve.”

“Nesta—” Taryn started, but Nesta shook her head violently, gripping her harder, holding on like she was the only thing keeping her from being swallowed whole.

“I ruined everything,” Nesta choked out, her voice barely more than a whisper, barely more than a breath. “I— I was given a chance, wasn’t I? I was given a choice, and I— I ruined it.”

Her mind was spinning, spinning, spinning, racing back to the cabin, to the snow-covered mountains, to the burning fire and the space between her and Cassian that had once felt like a precipice, a drop-off she had been too afraid to step over. To the way she had shoved him away, again and again and again, too afraid to believe, too afraid to let herself have something good. To the way she had built walls even when he tried to tear them down, to the way she had chosen to leave, to push, to fight, because it was all she knew how to do.

“If I had stayed—if I had just—” Another sob wracked through her, her fingers digging into Taryn’s arms as if trying to ground herself, as if trying to keep herself from shattering completely. “If I had just been better, if I had just— just let him in, none of this would be happening.”

“Nesta, stop—”

“They would have never invoked the bond,” she went on, her voice cracking under the weight of the realization, under the sheer, brutal truth of it. “They wouldn’t be trying to take me back. I wouldn’t— I wouldn’t be trapped here, waiting for someone else to decide where I belong. I wouldn’t— I wouldn’t be nothing.”

Her breath hitched, broken and uneven, and her vision swam, blurred, burned with unshed tears.

“This is my punishment,” she whispered, the words trembling, shaking, echoing through the quiet, suffocating space between them. “For running. For being selfish. For not choosing them, for not choosing him. For not choosing— for not—”

Her breath caught in her throat, her body going tight, rigid, a fresh wave of panic threatening to pull her under.

Taryn moved, shifting so that she was fully cradling Nesta against her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other gently but firmly pressing against the back of her head, keeping her close, holding her together even as she fell apart.

“Nesta,” she said softly, urgently, her lips brushing against her temple as she spoke, as if trying to push the words directly into her bones. “Listen to me. This is not your punishment. This is not your fault.”

“Yes, it is,” Nesta whispered, shaking her head against her chest. “Yes, it is, it is, it—”

“It’s not.”

Nesta stilled, barely breathing, barely able to think past the roaring in her head.

“They are doing this because they cannot control you,” Taryn said, her voice low, even, steady, a stark contrast to Nesta’s unraveling. “They are doing this because you made a choice they do not agree with, because they want to drag you back into their world, into their rules, into their control. That is not your fault, Nesta. That is theirs.”

Nesta shook her head weakly, but Taryn held her firmer, wouldn’t let her turn away, wouldn’t let her retreat into her own mind.

“You are not being punished,” Taryn murmured. “You are being fought over. And you do not belong to them.”

Nesta let out a choked, gasping breath, pressing her face deeper against Taryn’s shoulder, willing herself to believe it, willing herself to hold onto the words like a lifeline.

But it was so hard.

Because the voice in her head, the one that had lived there for so long, the one that whispered of unworthiness, of guilt, of self-destruction—

It wasn’t so easily silenced.

Nesta’s breath was still uneven, her body still shaking, raw, unraveling, fraying at the edges, but the words pushed their way out anyway, because she couldn’t stop them, couldn’t keep them caged, couldn’t pretend they weren’t clawing their way to the surface.

“You can’t do anything,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, cracking like shattered glass, like something breaking apart inside of her. “It’s the mating bond, Taryn. You—” She sucked in a breath, shaking her head violently, gripping Taryn’s robes as if she were trying to steady herself, as if she were trying to ground herself in something real, something tangible, something that wasn’t this. “You can’t stop it. You can’t fight it. You can’t—”

She swallowed hard, the words like sandpaper against her throat, like something bitter coating her tongue, thick and suffocating.

“You and I aren’t mates.”

The moment the words left her lips, the moment they hung there between them, a breath too loud, a space too wide, something shifted.

Taryn stilled, her body tensing beneath Nesta’s trembling fingers, her grip tightening just slightly, barely noticeable—**but Nesta felt it.

Felt the way her breath caught, the way something flickered in the depths of her green eyes, something sharp, something she couldn’t quite place.

Nesta hadn’t meant it as an insult, hadn’t meant it to hurt, hadn’t meant for it to be anything more than a statement of fact, but the way Taryn went still, the way her lips parted just slightly, the way her gaze flickered with something too fleeting, too raw to name—

It hit her like a blow to the gut.

Like she had been punched in the ribs, like the breath had been stolen from her lungs, like she had just spoken something aloud that neither of them had dared to acknowledge before.

Because it was true.

Nesta and Taryn weren’t mates.

And that meant Taryn had no claim to her, no right to invoke any laws, no reason to fight back against a bond that was seen as sacred, as unbreakable, as something woven into fate itself.

Nesta was bound to another.

And no matter how much she wanted to deny it, no matter how much she had fought against it, no matter how much she had tried to shove it aside, ignore it, pretend it didn’t exist—

She wasn’t bound to Taryn.

The silence between them was too heavy, too thick, suffocating in a way that had nothing to do with the panic still clenching its claws around Nesta’s chest.

And Taryn—Taryn just looked at her.

For the first time since Nesta had known her, Taryn had no words.

No teasing quip, no soft murmur of reassurance, no knowing, smug smile.

Just… silence.

And that silence felt louder than the ringing in Nesta’s ears, louder than the frantic, desperate beat of her own heart, louder than anything she could have imagined.

And Nesta…

Nesta didn’t know what to do with that.

Taryn’s jaw tightened, her green eyes flashing with something fierce, something raw, something unshakable as she exhaled sharply, as she pulled back just enough so that Nesta could see the fire in her gaze, the determination burning in the lines of her face. And then—her voice, low and steady, cut through the suffocating air between them.

“So what?”

Nesta’s breath hitched, her heart stuttering in her chest as Taryn’s fingers tightened around her, anchoring her, holding her still, keeping her from spiraling any further.

“So what if the Mother didn’t bless us? So what if some divine hand didn’t reach down and stitch us together, if fate didn’t carve our names into the same thread? So what if there is no bond tying me to you the way they would like there to be?”

Her voice was strong, unyielding, a fire of its own, burning with something deeper, something truer than Nesta had ever heard from anyone before.

“You think that matters to me?” Taryn continued, her voice rising, unwavering, crackling with something that was not quite anger, but something fiercer, something absolute. “You think I care that the Mother didn’t carve your name into my ribs? That the Cauldron didn’t deem us worthy of some unbreakable tie? You think I give a damn that we weren’t blessed, that we weren’t fated, that we weren’t—” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head, her fingers pressing into Nesta’s shoulders, her eyes never leaving hers.

“I chose you, Nesta.”

The words were like a weight, like a force, like a declaration carved into the very bones of the universe.

“I choose you now. I will choose you tomorrow. I will choose you every single day that I draw breath. I don’t need fate to tell me what I already know—I don’t need a bond, I don’t need a mark, I don’t need some cosmic force deciding what my heart already has.”

Nesta’s breath hitched, her fingers curling into Taryn’s robes, the fabric wrinkling under her grip.

“I will live with you,” Taryn said, her voice quieter now, steadier, but no less certain, no less resolute. “I will fight for you. I will burn for you. I will die with you if I must, Nesta. If you fall, I will fall with you. If they come for you, they will have to take me first.”

She shook her head, her eyes burning, her expression hard and unshakable.

“I don’t care what laws they invoke. I don’t care what rights they claim. I don’t care what Cassian or Rhysand or any other self-righteous High Lord believes they are owed because of some bond you never asked for. You are not theirs, Nesta.”

She pressed her forehead against Nesta’s, soft and fierce all at once, her breath warm against her skin, her voice no more than a whisper now.

Nesta couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t do anything except feel the weight of those words settle into the deepest parts of her, into the cracks she had tried so hard to keep hidden, into the places she had never allowed anyone to reach.

Because no one had ever—ever—said that to her before.

No one had ever looked at her and claimed her, not as a burden, not as a responsibility, not as something that needed to be fixed, but as a choice. As something wanted. As something worth standing beside.

And for the first time in so, so long—

She felt it.

Taryn’s hands cupped Nesta’s face, her thumbs brushing away the remnants of her tears, smoothing over the heated, trembling skin as if she could erase the pain, as if she could reach inside her and pull out every wound, every raw and aching thing Nesta had buried inside herself. But Nesta knew—knew that nothing, not even Taryn, could take away the weight of what had been done to her, the weight of what had been decided for her. And still, Taryn spoke, her voice quiet but strong, steady, full of something unshakable, something fierce.

“We will find the Trove,” she said, and it wasn’t a question, wasn’t a plea, but a promise, a vow written into the very air between them. “We will find it, and then we will leave.”

Nesta blinked up at her, dazed, drowning in those words, in the sheer certainty woven into them.

“Leave?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper, barely able to believe it.

Taryn nodded, her hands never leaving her, never letting go. “Anywhere you want,” she murmured, her voice soft but unrelenting. “We will take the Trove, and we will disappear. I will take you away from them, from all of them. Just a little longer, Nesta. Just a little more time, and we will be free.”

Freedom.

Nesta had never dared to think of it, had never allowed herself to imagine what it might be like to be truly, completely untethered from all of it—from the Night Court, from the weight of expectation, from the binding, suffocating chains of the mating bond that loomed over her like an unspoken sentence. She had never let herself hope that there could be a world where she wasn’t someone’s burden, someone’s obligation, someone’s responsibility to bear.

But now—Taryn was offering it to her.

Not a mate. Not someone the Mother had forced into her life, not someone bound to her by fate or destiny or anything beyond their own choices. Taryn was simply choosing her. Choosing to fight for her, to stay by her side, to build a future that no one else would dare give her.

“We will run,” Taryn said, her forehead still pressed against Nesta’s, her breath warm against her skin, her voice thick with emotion. “And I don’t care where. I don’t care if it’s to the edge of the world, if it’s to some nameless place where no one knows who we are, where no one will ever find us. I will take you there. I will build a life with you, Nesta, if that’s what you want. Just hold on a little longer.”

Nesta’s breath shuddered out of her, another tear slipping free before Taryn brushed it away, her fingers gentle, reverent.

“And if we fail?” Nesta whispered, hating herself for asking, hating herself for the doubt that still clung to her like a sickness.

Taryn’s hands tightened, her grip unyielding. “Then we will find another way.”

There was no hesitation.

No uncertainty.

Taryn would not let her go.

Nesta felt it in her bones, in the marrow of her being.

She had spent so long feeling like she was standing at the edge of an abyss, waiting for the moment she would slip, waiting for the moment someone would shove her off, waiting for the moment she would be swallowed whole.

But now—Taryn was there, standing beside her, refusing to let her fall.

And Nesta, for the first time in a long, long time, was beginning to believe that maybe—just maybe—she didn’t have to face that abyss alone.

With that, she rose.

Nesta pushed herself up, the weight of everything pressing down on her shoulders, wrapping around her ribs, squeezing her lungs—but she stood anyway. Because she had to. Because there was no other choice, because she was done waiting for fate to decide for her, because she was tired—so, so tired—of being the one who was always at the mercy of someone else’s will.

Taryn rose with her.

Not a shadow, not a follower, not someone who would step aside and let Nesta fight alone—but a force beside her, a presence unwavering, strong, willing to walk with her wherever this path led.

Nesta didn’t look at her, didn’t dare to, because if she did, if she saw whatever fierce, unshakable certainty was burning in Taryn’s eyes, she might break all over again. Might lose herself to the dangerous, treacherous thing that was hope.

Instead, she turned to the map.

To the bones and stones, to the ancient, timeworn relics of scrying, the same ones she had refused to use before, the same ones she had convinced herself she was not ready for.

But she had no choice now.

No more time for hesitation, no more time for fear.

She reached out, her fingers curling around the smooth stones, around the jagged bones, around the pieces of something older than memory itself.

And then—she closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and threw herself into the dark, endless well of power that had lived inside her since the day she was shoved into the Cauldron.

It rushed up to meet her, swallowing her whole, pulling her under.

Nesta had spent so long fighting it, fearing it, resenting it—but now, she let it take her. Let it consume her, let it twist through her veins like liquid fire, like molten silver, like the force of the universe itself stirring in the depths of her soul.

She cast it out, flung it forward into the unseen, into the tangled, unknowable threads of the world, reaching, searching, clawing.

“Where are you?” she demanded, her voice a whisper, a breath, a pulse of energy radiating outward from her very bones. “Show yourself.”

And the world answered.

A pull.

A thread snapping taut, stretching out before her, invisible but unmistakable, leading somewhere far, distant, buried beneath layers of time and forgotten history.

A whisper, too faint to hear, too soft to understand.

And then—

A presence.

Something watching.

Something waiting.

Nesta’s breath hitched, her body locking up, her heart slamming against her ribs as she felt it—felt the weight of something looking back at her.

And for the first time since she had touched this power, since she had let it take her—

It was not empty.

It was not silent.

It was not waiting to be used.

It was aware.

And it had been waiting for her.

The world shifted.

Nesta’s power stretched farther, deeper, reaching beyond what was safe, beyond what was known, beyond the boundaries of anything she had ever touched before. It was not like the last time she had scryed—not a blur, not a vague pulse of something distant, not the cold emptiness of lost things waiting to be found.

No—this was different.

This was calling to her.

It beckoned, whispered, wrapped around the edges of her mind like unseen fingers trailing along her thoughts, coaxing her, urging her forward. The air around her turned thick, weighted, suffocating in a way that made her stomach churn, in a way that made the power inside her pulse wildly, a warning—a greeting.

She was no longer searching.

The Mask had found her.

She didn’t know where it was—not really. The images flashing in her mind were disjointed, shifting, impossible to pin down. She could see a bog, deep and ancient, its waters black and still, reflecting a sky that was too dark, too vast, too endless.

She could hear the rustling of reeds swaying in a wind she could not feel, the slow ripple of water moving despite no force disturbing it, the creaking of trees twisted into unnatural shapes, their gnarled roots half-submerged in the murky depths.

But beyond that—nothing.

No signs of life.

No landmarks.

No way to tell where, exactly, this place was.

Only the Mask.

Sitting in the middle of it all, resting somewhere deep beneath the water, waiting, waiting, waiting.

It was older than the trees, older than the water, older than the land itself.

And it was awake.

Nesta could feel it watching her, feel the way it reached back, pressing against her consciousness, testing, tasting, recognizing.

The voices that whispered through the air were not words, not entirely, but she could understand them anyway, could feel them winding around her, brushing against her skin like cold fingers tracing along the nape of her neck.

Come.

Come find me.

Nesta sucked in a breath, her body rigid, her pulse hammering, the flames inside her flickering violently, reacting to something she could not control, something far beyond herself.

It wanted her.

It was waiting for her.

And somehow, she knew—without a doubt, without hesitation—that if she put the Mask on, if she let it settle against her skin, if she gave herself to it, even for a moment…

It would never let her go.

The thought sent ice down her spine, but still, her fingers itched, as if she could already feel the weight of it in her hands, as if some part of her—**some deep, hidden part of her—**was already reaching for it.

The bones beneath her fingertips shuddered, shifting against the map, as if something inside them had just stirred, just woken up in response.

And then—

She gasped, eyes flying open, body lurching forward as the vision snapped away, as the power receded, as the call of the Mask was silenced in an instant.

Nesta was back in the temple, back in the room with Taryn, back in her own body—but her hands were shaking, her pulse erratic, her breath uneven.

And even though the Mask was gone from her mind, hidden once more in its endless, dark prison…

She could still feel it.

Still hear it.

Still sense the weight of it, waiting beneath the water, its whisper curling around her thoughts like a promise, like a curse.

Come.

Nesta sat completely still, her body still humming, still vibrating with the aftershock of what she had touched, of what had touched her. The Mask was not just waiting—it was awake. Watching. It had seen her, had recognized her, had called her by name. Even now, the whispers still lingered at the edges of her mind, curling around her thoughts like smoke, like unseen fingers trailing along her skin. She could still feel the weight of it, pressing down on her, not fully gone, not fully receded. The Mask had let her go for now, but Nesta knew, deep in her bones, that it would not stay silent for long.

She swallowed, her throat aching, raw, dry, like she had been screaming, like the power had torn something from her even as it withdrew. Her fingers were still trembling as she exhaled, forced herself to ground back into her body, back into the present, back into the temple and the warmth of the fire and the scent of incense and jasmine that had long since faded into the background. And then—she turned. Taryn was still there, watching her, waiting, concern written across her face, green eyes sharp and knowing, reading every flicker of emotion Nesta had failed to hide.

“I found it,” Nesta said, her voice hoarse, uneven, like she had been speaking through a throat full of ash. She didn’t give Taryn a chance to respond before she continued, the words spilling from her lips before she could second-guess them. “The Mask. It’s in a bog. I don’t know where exactly, but it’s deep. It’s buried beneath the water. And it’s awake, Taryn.”

Taryn stiffened, the muscles in her shoulders going taut, her entire body bracing itself like a warrior preparing for battle. “Awake?” she repeated, her voice careful, measured, but Nesta could hear the tension beneath it, could see the sharp edge of unease flicker across her expression.

Nesta nodded, pressing a hand against the table to steady herself, as if she could push back the lingering pull of the power still swirling inside her. “It saw me. It—” She swallowed again, forcing the words out despite the way her throat tightened. “It called to me. It wanted me to find it. And the moment I reached out—” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “It reached back.”

Taryn said nothing for a long, heavy moment. And then, finally, she spoke, her voice low, careful, threaded with something deeper than fear—something like recognition. “It knows who you are.”

Nesta didn’t move, didn’t blink. “Yes.”

Taryn’s lips pressed into a thin line, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. For a moment, she looked away, her gaze drifting toward the fire, her mind elsewhere, turning over possibilities, weighing risks Nesta couldn’t see. And then, when she looked back, her expression was set, unyielding. “Then we need to find it before anyone else does.”

Nesta nodded, but the weight in her chest only grew heavier. Because she knew—knew, in a way she could not explain, in a way that settled deep in the marrow of her bones—that the Mask had been waiting for her. That it had recognized her in the same way the Cauldron had, in the same way the dark things of the world always seemed to. And that if she put it on, if she let it settle against her skin, if she gave herself over to it even for a second—

She might not be able to let go.

Taryn didn’t move for a long moment, just watched her, eyes sharp and searching, her fingers flexing at her sides as if she wanted to reach for Nesta but wasn’t sure if she should. The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy, filled with too much unspoken weight. The flickering light from the fire cast long shadows across the room, and for the first time since Nesta had pulled herself from the depths of that vision, she realized how cold she felt. As if the Mask’s call had drained something from her, left something hollowed out inside of her that she hadn’t yet noticed. Her body was still trembling slightly, barely noticeable, but Taryn saw it—of course she did.

“Are you okay?” Taryn finally asked, voice soft but unwavering, the kind of gentleness that didn’t ask for a lie, that demanded nothing but the truth. She took a slow, careful step forward, watching Nesta as if she expected her to break, as if she knew how close she already was. Nesta had been asked that question before—by Feyre, by Cassian, by people who wanted her to say yes, who wanted to hear that she was fine so they could move on, so they could stop worrying, so they could pretend she was whole. But Taryn wasn’t one of them. She wasn’t looking for reassurance.

Nesta didn’t look away, didn’t try to smooth down the shaking in her fingers, didn’t force herself to straighten her spine and pretend she was fine. Because she wasn’t. She wasn’t.

“No,” she said simply, voice low and frayed, raw in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to admit out loud in a long, long time. Her throat felt tight, her chest felt too small, like she couldn’t fit all of this inside of her anymore, like something inside her had cracked too wide, split too far open. No armor, no sharp words, no mask to put between herself and the truth. Just a single, broken word.

Taryn exhaled through her nose, slow and steady, and then she moved, stepping forward without hesitation, without caution, and Nesta barely had time to react before Taryn’s hands were on her face, cupping her jaw, grounding her. She was warm—so warm, so solid, the only thing anchoring Nesta to the present as everything inside of her screamed, as the memory of the Mask’s voice coiled around her mind like smoke.

“I know,” Taryn murmured, her thumbs brushing absently against Nesta’s skin, like she was memorizing the shape of her, like she was trying to steady her through touch alone. “I know, Nesta.”

Nesta swallowed hard, her throat tight, her mind still tangled in the remnants of the vision, in the weight of the Mask’s call, in the crushing reality of what was coming. She could feel it creeping closer, the inevitable, the impossible choice that would soon have to be made. And even as Taryn held her, even as she anchored her, steadied her, refused to let her fall apart— Nesta knew she needed more than this. More than promises, more than reassurances, more than just another battle waiting to be fought.

“If we leave,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper, barely more than a breath. “If we survive this—if we find the Trove and disappear…” She hesitated, her pulse pounding in her throat, her fingers curling against Taryn’s robes as she forced herself to say the words, to speak the desire she had never let herself have. “I want to go to the Continent.”

Taryn stilled, just for a moment. The words hung between them, heavy, weighted, filled with all the impossibilities that they both knew too well. Because the Continent was not safe, not for fae, not for two women marked by power, by war, by things that would never be human again. Because the humans had fought too long, had suffered too much under fae rule, had never forgotten the blood that had been spilled, the fear that had been bred into them over centuries. Nesta knew that. She knew it was near impossible, knew they would be hated, knew they would be chased out, turned away, forced to keep running.

And maybe—maybe that was why she had said it.

Maybe she had chosen the most unreachable place, the one place they would never be welcome, the one place where the world would spit her out and tell her she had no place, no home, no belonging. Maybe she wanted that. Maybe she wanted to be rejected, to be reminded that she didn’t fit anywhere, that she would always be a thing caught between worlds, a thing that had no true home.

But Taryn didn’t do that.

She didn’t scoff. She didn’t tell Nesta she was being foolish, didn’t remind her of the war, of the hatred, of the impossibility of it all. She only watched her, her expression unreadable, and then, slowly, she nodded.

“Then we’ll go to the Continent,” she said simply, like it was as easy as breathing, like it wasn’t impossible at all.

Nesta looked at Taryn.

Really looked at her.

At the dark waves of her hair, the copper glow of her skin beneath the dim firelight, the sharp angles of her face that were softened only by the warmth in her green eyes. She had always been striking, always held herself with an effortless confidence, an air of authority that came not from arrogance, but from certainty. She was someone who knew herself, knew her place, knew exactly who she was and where she stood in the world. And Nesta—Nesta had never known what that felt like.

Because Nesta was still a mess of jagged edges, of wounds barely scabbed over, of walls built so high and so thick that she sometimes forgot what lay on the other side of them. She was still healing, still learning, still clawing her way toward something that didn’t feel like pain, like regret, like loss. She wasn’t there yet. She didn’t know if she ever would be.

And yet—Taryn stood beside her anyway.

Even now, even when Nesta was at her worst, when she was unraveling, when she was barely holding herself together—Taryn did not hesitate. She had not turned away, had not told Nesta she was too much, too broken, too ruined to be worth the trouble. She had stayed. And Nesta didn’t know what to do with that.

Because she didn’t know if she deserved it.

Didn’t know if she could hold it, if she could trust it, if she could let it settle into her chest without waiting for it to be torn away.

Because love—whatever form it came in—was not something she had ever known without condition. Without the looming threat of disappointment, of failure, of inevitable loss.

She wanted to believe this was different.

That Taryn was different.

But Nesta had spent so long expecting people to leave that she didn’t know how to believe in the ones who stayed.

So she only stood there, watching her, memorizing her, wondering how someone like Taryn could look at someone like her and decide she was worth choosing.

And wondering if she could ever learn to believe it.

Nesta closed her eyes.

And when she did, it wasn’t the battlefield she saw. It wasn’t the faces of those who had hurt her, or the sound of her own screams echoing through the black void of the Cauldron. It wasn’t the fire of her nightmares or the endless, crushing silence of the House of Wind’s empty halls.

It was Taryn.

It was the months she had spent by Nesta’s side, the quiet moments that no one else had seen, the ones Nesta had never spoken of, the ones that had tethered her to this world when she hadn’t been sure she wanted to stay.

It was Taryn kneeling beside her, her voice soft but firm, coaxing her out of bed when she hadn’t moved for days. It was Taryn standing outside the bathing chamber, waiting as Nesta sat curled in the steaming water, her body shaking with something she didn’t have the strength to name.

It was Taryn helping her to her feet, guiding her through the motions of taking care of herself when Nesta had forgotten how. It was the way she had never once sighed, never once looked at her with pity or frustration or disappointment.

It was the warmth of her hands, the steady way she held Nesta up when she was too weak to stand on her own.

It was Taryn bringing her food and pretending not to notice when she barely touched it. It was the way she sat beside her in silence when the words were too much, the way she pulled Nesta’s hair out of her face and braided it gently, so carefully, as if every strand deserved reverence.

It was all of it, every small kindness, every act of care, every moment that had stitched Nesta back together even when she hadn’t realized it.

She had spent so much time remembering the worst parts of herself.

But these were the moments she wanted to keep.

These were the moments she wanted to remember.

Tag list: @litnerdwrites @viajandopelomar @wolfinsocks

[spacerockfloater]

The way people switched on Tamlin the moment Rhys was introduced is diabolical.

“Tamlin never really loved Feyre, it was all a trick from the start”: It is stated that Tamlin was disgusted by the idea of forcing someone to fall in love with him and considered it slavery, but ended up being so in love with her that he ultimately lets her go and choses her freedom and safety over that of his own people. Rhys confirms that Tamlin loved Feyre too much. And he loved her truly. Not because he had to. Tamlin treated Feyre with dignity when she was engaged to him. He introduced her as his lady, to be respected and cherished by all. And she really was loved by his people, too. Rhysand uses her as his lap dog to scare Hewn City and parades her as his whore.

“Tamlin never did anything for Feyre, he just used her”: He improved her and her family’s life in every aspect and offered her everything he had.

“Tamlin had sex with someone else in Calanmai”: Out of duty and responsibility because he didn’t want to force Feyre, who still wasn’t sure about her feelings, into it. All of the High Lords perform the Calanmai. Lucien says so. How convenient that this is never brought up with Rhysand. He surely does perform it as well. All the theories in here, “Lucien doesn’t know what he’s talking about/ This is a SC ritual only/ He probably just passes the duty on to someone else” are just a way for people to villainise Tam and glorify Rhys again. All of them inaccurate. The Calanmai is canonically performed by every High Lord. There’s no evidence that proves otherwise. As the son of one High Lord and the ambassador of another, Lucien would know. He is 500 years old. It’s just more convenient for SJM to never bring this up again because it raises the question of “Who was Rhysand fucking all these years?” and it makes her favourite character look bad. And once he is engaged to her, Tamlin flat out refuses to do it. Let’s be real for a second.

“Tamlin didn’t help Feyre under the mountain”: He literally could not. He was bound by a curse. He was forced to be Amarantha’s consort and a consort cannot oppose you. His powers were bound. Alis warns Feyre that Tamlin will not be able to help her. Stop acting as if he didn’t want to help her. He decapitated Amarantha the moment he got his autonomy back. Claiming that there’s no proof that Tamlin was under the influence of a spell when he literally didn’t break the curse and Amarantha’s magic didn’t allow him to use his powers is crazy. And even if he tried, he could never provide actual help. We see this when he begs Amarantha for Feyre’s life. Him showing he cares about her would only make Amarantha more jealous and vicious towards Feyre.

“Tamlin made out with Feyre instead of helping her”: He couldn’t help her run away. No one could do that. She would never make it, Amarantha would find her. In fact, Tamlin specifically could not help her in any way. He could only assure her he still wants and loves her. And she wanted that just as much. Rhys abused her physically, mentally, verbally, drugged her and much worse. And he enjoyed all of it. If he didn’t want to raise suspicions, he wouldn’t have placed a bet in her favour. Rhys is a sadist, SJM just decided to mellow him down in the next book so that we’d all like him over Tamlin.

“Tamlin ignored Feyre’s wishes and only wanted her to be his bride, he didn’t let her be High Lady”: Both Tamlin and Feyre were bad communicators going though trauma and Tam had a whole court to care for. Tamlin was unaware of how Feyre felt because she barely spoke up once. Rhys knew because he literally lived inside her head and had all the time in the world to focus his attention on her since his court suffered zero consequences during Amarantha’s reign. And Tamlin simply told her the truth: there’s no such thing as High Lady. Even her current title is given to her by Rhys, the magic of Prythian has not actually chosen her to be High Lady. The title and its power are decorative. And she said she didn’t want that anyway.

“Tamlin locks Feyre up and uses his magic to harm her”: He locks her in his humongous palace to keep her safe, after she just came back from the dead and his worst enemy is kidnapping her every month, while he runs off to protect his borders. Rhysand locks Feyre in a fucking bubble. Tamlin loses control of his magic. He doesn’t want to harm her. That’s not abuse. Abuse is intentional. Feyre and Rhysand lock Lucien and Nesta up. They lock the people of the Hewn City up in a cave. Feyre loses control of her magic and harms Lucien’s mother. Double standards I guess.

“Tamlin is a bad and conservative ruler”: Tamlin is such a beloved ruler that his sentries literally begged to die for him. Feyre had to fuck with their minds to finally turn them against him. They were his friends. He was so progressive that the lords fled his court once he became their ruler because he wouldn’t put up with their bullshit like his father did. He loved all of his people. He is against slavery. The Tithe was just tax collection. Rhysand practically rules over just one city, while ignoring Hewn City and Illyria. He treats 2/3 of his realm like shit and everyone except the residents of Velaris hates him. He collects tax, too, but we conveniently never see this. He ranks the members of his inner circle (my 1st, my 2nd etc.) and reminds them every moment that they are his slaves first and anything else second, while Tamlin treats them equally and even gives Lucien an official title by naming him Ambassador.

“Tamlin conspired with Hybern”: He was a double agent and his short lived alliance, two weeks all in all, not only didn’t harm a single soul, but ultimately saved all of Prythian as he was the only one who brought valuable information to that meeting. He dragged Beron to battle. Rhysand���s alliance with Amarantha harmed thousands and only helped save one city, Velaris.

“Tamlin is responsible for turning Nesta and Elain into Fae”: No, that was Ianthe, who got the info from Feyre. Tamlin was fooled by her, just as Feyre obviously was, or she wouldn’t have trusted her. Tamlin was disgusted by that act.

“Tamlin is less powerful than Rhysand”: Rhysand himself says that a battle between them would turn mountains to dust. Tamlin killed Rhysand’s dad, the previous High Lord of the Night Court, in one blow. He is just as powerful as Rhysand. SJM again just wants us to believe otherwise. And he is smarter, too. He was the only one not to trust Amarantha. And he was a good spy for Prythian against Hybern.

All of these takes are cold as fuck. SJM was testing the waters with ACOTAR and she made sure the main love interest, Tamlin, was insanely likeable, so that the book could be a satisfactory standalone story in case she couldn’t land a trilogy deal. She didn’t know it would be such a big hit. But once she realised she could turn this into a franchise, she had to figure out a new story to tell. She may claim otherwise, but there’s just too many plothotes to convince me. And in order to make her new main love interest seem like the best choice, she had to character assassinate the old one. There was no other way. ACOTAR Rhys was too much of an evil monster to be loved by the majority of the audience. But Tamlin was introduced to us as such a heroic and passionate man that is literally impossible to turn him into someone despised by all. Feyre’s relationship with Rhysand reads too much like cheating on Tamlin. That’s why anyone with basic analytical skills is able to realise the flaws of the narration.

[geniemillies]

i will never be convinced on rhysand the better high lord when tamlin opened his court to refugees during amarantha's reign, began celebrating festivities that didn't belong to spring just so they'd feel at home, played for them too with his silly fiddle omg, refused to send his people beyond the wall until he was desperate, felt them die because their bond as subject and high lord was just too great (sarah's words not mine), even buried a lesser fae in his court after he was brutalized by amarantha, dug the ground with his haaaands, said lesser fae wasn't even his subject but he offered him peace and company during his death anyway. then there's mister change takes time over here, has his people living in harsh conditions in camps, under a mountain where they cannot leave because they're more weapons than people. so if you were born anywhere in his court that's not velaris sucks to suck i guess.

don't even get me started on his family being in charge while he was gone for 50 yrs because their circus troupe didn't do squat either. cassian is a privileged boy who has lost all emotional connection to his own people. idk what azriel does besides do a job he doesn't even want to do and mope around i guess. morrigan hates her people, morrigan 'i'm the exception, everybody evil except for me and i will make no effort to change anything bc im too pretty for that'. amren. amren wtf even is she doing in the night court. not even from the lands and she's already named second in command, that's all i have to know about the high lord. what is she commanding? *in damian's voice* she doesn't even go here!!!

tamlin did more for spring and people from other courts in those fifty years than the ic will ever consider doing for the night court. morrigan couldn't lift a pinkie, if you mention doing anything for hewn city she'd start whining throwing up waa waa waa, grown ass woman. cassian kisses the dirt rhysand steps on, if he says bark he out here 🐕. amren is just there for shits and giggles. azriel.

so if anyone sat on their asses it's rhysand and his ragtag group of powerful people who don't do shit with it. illyrians still suffer in the camps, hewn city still trapped in a mountain where abuse is the norm. and they aaaalll stiiill haaaate youuur aaaasss 💥💥💥💥💥

[viktoriaashleyyx]

My personal favorite thing about ACOWAR was Tamlins ingenuity. Like holy shit.

He started with weakened forces due to Amaranthas deal killing off his men. Then Feyres *~* boss bitch*~* plan to turn the rest of his court against him. By the time the war comes around he does not have an army and he still pulled more than his weight.

Tamlin obtained a STACK of information on Hyberns plans down to where exactly they were keeping the feybane. How, when, where, what, all of that shit and shared it with all of the High Lords. Didn't keep it a secret (like RhySAnd does with most shit) cause that would've been dumb. He got actual useful information on how to bring down Hybern in half a year, RhySAnd didn't get any information standing by Amaranthas side for 50.

He blew his cover and saved Feyre, Elain, Briar and Azriel using his wind magic to get them airborn and his brute strength to fight off the hounds. They would be dead without Tamlins help. All of them.

And THEN HE SHOWS UP DRAGGING BARON BY THE SCRUFF OF HIS NECK. He commands BARONS SONS (who fucking listen to him) where and how to destroy the feybane caches. And commanding BARONS ARMY.

This man will figure. it. out.

While most of RhySAnds plans end up only barely working out by sheer luck, Tamlins just fucking work. Like hate him all you want, but without him yall would've gone into that war relying on nothing more than RhySAnds inflated sense of self worth. Tamlin delivers results, every single time.

ACOWAR was Tamlins redemption arc from MAF. And everything else forward is just a testament to RhySAnds insecurity.

The NC was out here playing checkers, while Tamlins playing chess. Do you realize how bad you have to be when you have a full board and the guy you're playing against starts off missing his rooks and bishops and you still lose?

[legendl0re]

I was reminded of a scene in ACOFAS that made me despise Rhysand, the one where he visits Tamlin and just berates him over and over, and now I remember why and can form it into words:

This scene just proves that Rhysand can’t stand the fact that he will forever owe his life, his happiness, even the existence of his own kid, to Tamlin.

That’s what makes him so angry and hateful, that Tamlin proved to be the better man and bought him back despite everything that happened between them.

He is goading Tamlin because he wants to desperately prove that he isn’t that good person, but Tamlin won’t bite. Feyre destroyed his court, Rhys and his father killed his family and forced him to become a High Lord, the one thing he never wanted to be, and yet still he gave that last piece so the two of them could be happy.

Rhys should be kissing Tamlin’s shoes for that, but instead he can’t cope and is attempting to drive the man deeper into depression, not to mention disrespecting his borders with Cassian and Nesta and Eris’ little meetings.

[macel625]

If you say "Rhys is not my high lord" 3 times in the mirror, Cassian appears

[my-acotar-thoughts]

High King and High Queen…

I don’t understand why people think this is a good idea no matter who you want in the throne… You will not get all 7 Court to agree to give up all their power to one ruler. You’re asking for war. You’re asking for most likely genocide. You’re asking for tyranny cause that’s the only way a High King and High Queen can come into power again. Also, for those who want Rhys and Feyre on the throne… one good city inherited by generations before who built it in a giant court that is double the size of most other courts is not enough to prove you’re good rulers. Seriously, ONE. SINGLE. CITY.

The road to High King and High Queen is paved in blood. You know who also wanted to take all of Prythian? Amarantha. And look what happened there. No one. Not a single court will ever want to live remotely like that again. Especially not under the rule of the court that has a city Amarantha’s court under the mountain was modeled after.

[kataraavatara]

the nc’s main army from illyria being so poor cassian is handing out blankets while the the rich merchant class in velaris doesn’t have to provide any soldiers is good class commentary until you remember rhysand is supposed to be the good guy and also it’s sarah j maas

[maybeiwasjustjade]

“Nesta hates Rhysand, so of course he looks godawful in her POV. She’s unreliable and villainizes him!!!!”

Y’all sound ridiculous.

The fact that ACOSF was written in 3rd person pov with DUAL MCs (one of which was a member of the IC) already proves that it’s a significantly more ubiased perspective than Feyre’s rose tinted glasses and lobotomy. Y’all just don’t like that your faves are unapologetic assholes whose actions actually can’t be redeemed this time without Feyre spinning in her own web of delusions.

Most of the scenes involving Rhysand the King Prick were from Cassian’s perspective. Given that Cassian is so far up Rhysand’s ass that he’s essentially a second mouthpiece, if Rhysand comes off impeccably dick-ish just accept that it’s more than likely the reality.

Nesta wasn’t the one that painted Rhysand as the insufferable villain; that was Cassian. Quit blaming Nesta for it. Accept that the IC are in fact the villains in a LOT of the characters’ stories. Literally barely anyone likes or even tolerates the NC. Nesta didn’t need to do squat for characters AND readers to dislike the Mayor of Velaris and his equally useless entourage.

[visenlya]

see how tamlin chose to sacrifice himself and sent feyre away to save her from amarantha and rhysand the blackmailer? very demure, very considerate. see how he has always been very honest about the type of person he is? very demure, very cutesy. see how he didn’t have to be the bigger person and gave a part of himself to save rhysand? very demure, very mindful, very compassionate.

[litnerdwrites]

The IC have no clue how lucky they are that the cauldron mated Lucien and Elain. If it wasn't for Elain, and her presence in the NC, even if Feyre found a way to keep Lucien from telling Tamling that she couldn't be trusted, if he chose the path of revenge, she'd be in trouble. He has friends in every court, and is well respected as an emissary. Meanwhile, the NC, are distrusted by everyone, especially after the shit Rhys pulled UTM. He could've turned all of Prythian against the NC before the High Lords meeting even started, and done it so thoroughly that nothing Rhys or Feyre could say would convince them to trust the NC.

[hrizantemy]

It’s genuinely amusing how Tamlin is painted as the ultimate villain in the narrative, yet before the chaos with Feyre, his entire court was ready to lay down their lives for him. Meanwhile, it’s almost comical that two-thirds of Rhysand’s court, the very individuals he relies on for military support, harbor such animosity toward him that they actively want to see him dead.

[merwgue]

The Night Court in A Court of Thorns and Roses is portrayed as a place of freedom and opportunity, especially within the city of Velaris. However, beneath this veneer of liberty lies a dictatorship, one that controls and manipulates its subjects to maintain Rhysand’s hold on power. The stark contrast between Velaris and the rest of the Night Court, particularly Hewn City and the Illyrian camps, highlights how Rhysand’s rule is not as benevolent as it appears. This essay will delve into the ways Rhysand’s leadership functions as a dictatorship, exploring his control over his people, his manipulation of his Inner Circle, and the lack of true freedom within the Night Court.

Control Through Manipulation

Rhysand is often hailed as the epitome of a “good” High Lord because he allows for personal freedoms within Velaris, but his rule over the rest of the Night Court paints a different picture. His dictatorship is most evident in the way he exerts control over his subjects through manipulation and fear, especially in Hewn City and the Illyrian camps.

In Hewn City, the people live in a state of oppression, fear, and isolation. The citizens of Hewn are not allowed to enter Velaris—the so-called “City of Starlight”—because they are deemed unworthy. This segregation is a form of control, ensuring that only those Rhysand deems “good” enough can experience the supposed freedom of Velaris. It's crucial to note that Rhysand does not provide any opportunity for the people of Hewn City to change or rise above their circumstances. Their exclusion from Velaris creates a class divide that mirrors the structures of totalitarian regimes, where one group of people is favored and others are subjugated.

Moreover, the way Hewn City is governed is particularly telling. Rhysand claims to despise the Court of Nightmares, yet he allows it to continue operating under the rule of his father’s cruel and oppressive steward, Keir. By permitting this, Rhysand creates a convenient scapegoat. While he distances himself from the atrocities of Hewn City, he still benefits from the power structure in place, maintaining a balance of fear and control that ensures Keir’s loyalty without directly dirtying his hands. This hands-off approach to brutality is characteristic of dictatorships that allow local tyrants to terrorize the population, creating an environment of fear while the dictator maintains a benevolent façade.

Rhysand’s treatment of the Illyrians further illustrates his dictatorial tendencies. He controls the Illyrian warriors through the threat of violence and punitive measures, such as when he punishes them en masse after they refuse to comply with his orders to stop clipping the wings of female Illyrians. Instead of working with the Illyrians to build trust and create real change, Rhysand chooses to rule through fear. His brutality toward his own people, even if it’s framed as “necessary,” showcases his authoritarian rule. The problem of clipped wings goes beyond physical abuse—it's a systemic issue that requires more than just punishment. However, Rhysand does little to address the root of the problem, instead opting to control the Illyrians through fear of his power.

Segregation of Velaris and False Freedom

Velaris is often presented as a utopia within the series, a place where everyone is free to live their lives in peace and happiness. However, the freedom offered within Velaris is illusory. Only a select few are allowed to enjoy the privileges of this city. By keeping Velaris hidden from the rest of the Night Court and the other courts, Rhysand ensures that this “freedom” remains inaccessible to most of his subjects. The people of Hewn City and the Illyrian camps are barred from entering Velaris, creating a stark divide between those deemed worthy of freedom and those left to suffer under oppressive rule. This is a form of control—if the people of Velaris are the only ones benefiting from Rhysand’s rule, they are more likely to remain loyal, while the others remain oppressed.

Furthermore, even within Velaris, true freedom is limited. Rhysand’s Inner Circle, who serve as his closest advisers, are loyal to him above all else. Their loyalty is so strong that they often suppress their own needs and desires to maintain the status quo. This is particularly evident in Feyre’s interactions with them. Though they are welcoming, their loyalty to Rhysand is unquestionable, which creates an environment where dissent is impossible. Even if someone within the Inner Circle wanted to challenge Rhysand, it’s clear that they would never act against him. This kind of unquestioning loyalty is a hallmark of dictatorial regimes, where those in power surround themselves with individuals who will never challenge them.

Moreover, Rhysand exerts subtle control over Feyre, especially in her early days in the Night Court. When Feyre is first introduced to Velaris, she is isolated from her old life, particularly her friendships with Lucien and Tamlin. Rhysand subtly undermines her relationships with these characters, ensuring that Feyre becomes more and more reliant on him and his Inner Circle for support. While Feyre’s alienation from her past is presented as her growing into her power and finding her place, it’s also a form of control. By isolating Feyre and making her dependent on him, Rhysand ensures her loyalty and obedience, even as he presents himself as offering her freedom.

The Dictatorship of the Inner Circle

The Inner Circle functions as Rhysand’s elite group of enforcers, each of whom plays a role in maintaining his control over the Night Court. This group is fiercely loyal to Rhysand, and while they are portrayed as having close, familial bonds, their relationships with him are more complicated. They are bound to him by duty, power, and past trauma, and while they may not always agree with him, they rarely act against his will.

Take Mor, for instance. Mor is Rhysand’s third-in-command, a powerful female who plays a key role in maintaining order in the Night Court. However, even Mor, who is shown to be incredibly strong and independent, remains deeply tied to Rhysand. Her loyalty to him is unwavering, even when it means sacrificing her own emotional wellbeing, such as in her complicated relationship with Azriel. In this way, Mor is part of a system that prevents any real dissent from occurring within the Night Court. If even someone as strong-willed as Mor won’t act against Rhysand, it creates a chilling effect for anyone else who might challenge his rule.

Similarly, Cassian and Azriel, despite their personal feelings and desires, always put their loyalty to Rhysand above all else. They serve as his military commanders, enforcing his will in Illyria and beyond. Their loyalty is rewarded with power and status, but it also binds them to Rhysand’s rule. This dynamic is reminiscent of dictatorships where military leaders are rewarded for their loyalty, ensuring that they remain loyal to the regime instead of acting as a check on power.

Rhysand’s control over the Inner Circle is particularly evident in his handling of Feyre’s pregnancy in A Court of Silver Flames. Despite the clear danger to Feyre’s life, Rhysand withholds crucial information about her condition from her. His decision to keep this information secret, along with the complicity of the Inner Circle, is a form of manipulation and control. Even though this decision is framed as an act of love, it reveals the extent of Rhysand’s need for control over those closest to him. He makes decisions on behalf of others, even when it involves life and death, without allowing them the agency to make their own choices. This is not freedom—this is control masquerading as care.

A False Democracy

The Night Court is often presented as a more progressive alternative to the other courts in Prythian, but the reality is far different. Rhysand’s regime is not a democracy. It’s a dictatorship, one that hides behind the illusion of freedom and progressivism. Velaris, the shining city, is kept separate from the rest of the Night Court, and only a select few are allowed to enjoy its benefits. The rest of the Night Court is ruled through fear, manipulation, and violence.

In contrast, the Autumn Court, ruled by Beron Vanserra, is at least honest about its autocratic nature. There are no pretenses of freedom or equality in the Autumn Court—it is a place where power is maintained through fear and strength, and everyone knows it. In this way, the Autumn Court is more transparent than the Night Court. While Beron’s rule is cruel and oppressive, it is not hidden behind a façade of benevolence. The Night Court’s claim to be a place of freedom and opportunity is false advertising, a way to maintain Rhysand’s power while silencing any dissent.

Conclusion

The Night Court is not the bastion of freedom it claims to be. Rhysand’s rule is built on manipulation, control, and fear, and his so-called “freedom” only extends to those who are willing to submit to his authority. The people of Hewn City and the Illyrian camps suffer under his rule, while Velaris remains a gated utopia for the chosen few. Rhysand’s Inner Circle, though powerful, is bound to him through loyalty and duty, ensuring that no one ever challenges his decisions. The Night Court is not a democracy—it’s a dictatorship, one that hides behind the illusion of freedom and progressivism while perpetuating inequality and oppression.

I just got back from college so its not all that good but I hope you like it 🥹 @tamlindudley

[geniemillies]

something very diabolical with the inner circle thinking a child's worst crime is letting their younger sibling hunt ever since they were children but the ic will go on and let little illyrian children beat each other and get punished if they ever misbehave. it's normal apparently. oh and their only purpose is to be weapons for war, hurry children pick that sword up and fight 👏👏. children of velaris? playing hopscotch. aw 😊. children of hewn city? evil incarnate 👿. no sunlight for them. their worst crime? being born in the wrong court. hurry tell the velaris vendors to REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE AND—💥💥💥💥

[bonecarversbestie]

My biggest beef with the Inner Circle is how they feel so entitled to information that impacts ALL of Prythian. And they hoard secrets and powerful artefacts like they’re the only ones responsible or trustworthy enough to handle them. For someone who says he doesn’t want to be high king Rhys sure acts like he rules all of prythian. 🙄

Maybe that’s how being high lord works but it’s just the superiority complex of it all.

Examples

Azriel spying on literally everyone (I know it’s his job but it just feels like there’s no privacy in this court and they want it that way. If ANY other person outside the IC has information they don’t, they want it. Secrets are for NC only 🙅‍♀️. No one else is allowed to make plans to save the world)

Location of the cauldron(it should be secret but why does it get to be the night courts secret? I think they should have let Tarquin decide tbh)

The whole search for the book of breathings (as if the war that was starting didn’t affect everyone. They considered just asking Tarquin and they should have.)

The existence and location of the trove (again why do they deserve to be the only ones who hold this knowledge)

Keeping Nestas weapons from her (they belong to her and no one else has any right to them. I’ll die on this hill)

Luciens paternity (though I’m pretty sure he already knows. But it’s the fact that feyre wouldn’t tell her friend this life altering information for literally no good reason)

Even Rhys and Feyre keeping their stupid death pact a secret is so selfish. Bc if they both died with no heir who becomes high lord? Kier? Seems like a shitty surprise to leave your mourning court.

[bellavida-loll]

I'll start

Tamlin is the most lovable high lord. He and Rhysand are the only ones we get insight into the lives of, and I have to say I much prefer fiddle playing and limerick writing to whatever it is Rhysand does apart from bang, drink and gamble. His hobbies are just so cute, like him!

Secondly, he's so much sweeter. Rhysand actively withheld information from Feyre that literally meant the end of her life. Rhysand explained away all he did to her under the mountain without so much as a sorry. Rhysand made her into the very thing she said she hated at the beginning of the series- a domesticated, crown-wearing breeding machine.

But Tamlin? All he ever did was try to protect her. He might have gone about it in a better way, but he was going through his own stuff too. Locking her in the house might have aggravated her trauma, but he had no way to know that would happen-because unlike rhystupidslut he does not have direct access to her brain. I can promise you he wouldn't have gotten Feyre without being a daemati- after all the powers don't seem to have any actual use. Tam baby did nothing that would warrant Feyre choosing the tear-licking predator with an Oedipus complex over the cute lord with a lute.

That's all for now, might add more later. Y'all have anything else to add?