#awassibb

[dreamdragonkadia]

As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - IV.I Word Count: 5.8k A/N: Meanwhile, Estella’s out here living her adventure, while her Mama is most definitely having a full-blown meltdown in a court away. Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Prev - Next ✦ Ao3

She had never done this before. Not by herself.

Winnowing was supposed to be a grown-up thing. A Mama-and-Auntie-Vas thing. Estella didn’t know how it had happened—one second she was so scared, thinking someone might try to take her away from Mama, and the next, the shadows had wrapped around her like a too-tight hug and whoosh—gone.

Vanished.

Her stomach still felt funny from it.

The shadows had meant well. She knew they were trying to help. She hadn’t meant to leave. She just didn’t want to be taken. She hadn’t wanted the new man to say something that would make the world tip sideways again. And now…

Now she was here.

Alone.

Estella stood tucked into a narrow alleyway, pressed between two stone buildings that smelled like sun-warmed bread and riverwater. She hugged her arms around her chest, her back slightly hunched so her wings were tucked tight.

A way to comfort herself.

Because no one else had wings.

Not out there.

She’d peeked. Peered out from behind a barrel earlier and watched the strange, glittering city go by. The people here walked with laughter on their lips and flowers in their hair, wearing clothes in every color she could name and some she couldn’t. There were children chasing paper kites, and fae lounging on balconies with books and wine, and music—music—floating up from somewhere close by like the city itself was humming.

But none of them had wings.

None.

Her fingers curled tighter into her dress. Mama always said to be careful. To be smart. To never, ever let someone see what made you different unless you were ready.

Estella wasn’t ready.

And she was all alone.

But… this place. It was pretty. It was like a storybook Mama used to read to her at night. It smelled like cinnamon and sea salt and something a little like starlight. It felt like something important.

Like maybe she was supposed to be here.

Her boots scuffed softly against the stone as she crept to the edge of the alley, peeking around the corner again. There was a fountain nearby, carved from white stone, glimmering in the afternoon light. A little girl was tossing flower petals into it while her mother looked on. A fae male with brown hair painted lazy strokes onto a canvas in the shade.

It didn’t feel like danger.

It felt like… waiting.

Something in the cobbled stones and golden air tugged at her. A quiet pull, just beneath her ribs, humming like Mama’s magic. Like she had come back to a place she had only ever known in dreams.

Just like the mountain.

Estella blinked, the memory stirring like a ripple across still water. That other place—high and old and cold, where snow clung to the stones and the wind howled like wolves at night. That place had felt like this, too. Scarier. But, like it had waited for her. Like it had recognized her.

And the boy—no, not a boy. A little one like her, but older. Wiser. With eyes like the sky and a voice like old trees. She had known, deep in her chest, that he was someone different. Not like her, not really. Not like Mama.

But he hadn’t hurt her.

He had tried to help.

And he hadn’t locked her away again.

Not like the first one had.

This place felt… like belonging. Like it remembered her. Even if Mama had never spoken the words, even if the ache in Mama’s eyes had said we can’t go back, Estella had known. Mama wanted to be here. She ached to be.

But she was scared.

Scared to hurt Papa. Scared to unravel something precious and fragile that she’d worked so hard to protect. Estella hadn’t asked. Not once. Not when Mama cried in the garden at night. Not when Mama stared at the stars too long.

Because she didn’t like seeing her sad.

And this place, it felt like the same kind of right. The same kind of memory she didn’t have but felt anyway, tucked beneath her skin like a song she hadn’t learned but somehow knew.

She didn’t know the name. Not really. But it thrummed through her anyway, deep and quiet.

A home. If they wished for it.

She felt her shadows curl up her legs, tugging her softly to the right. She tried to tell them off. There was nowhere to hide. It was all streets and restaurants and many people. But they were relentless.

So, Estella tried to stay small.

Tried to shrink her steps as her boots moved softly against the cobblestones, keeping to the edge of the street where the shadows clung longer. The buildings towered on either side of her, painted in soft pastels and bathed in gold from the sun overhead. Laughter echoed from storefronts. A male with gleaming earrings strummed a lyre beneath a flowering archway, his music dancing alongside the breeze.

Everything was bright. Beautiful.

It was nothing like Scythia’s palace halls.

She saw a river—broad and glittering like a ribbon of stars winding through the city. She crept closer, passing painted doors and flower boxes, and stared with wide eyes at the flowing water. The scent of bread, lilacs, and warm stone filled her nose. The hum in the air buzzed along her skin. Magic. But soft. Warm. Not scary. So similar to hers and made her wings itch to unfurl. To Fly.

Yet people were beginning to notice.

Whispers followed in her wake. Fae with pastries in hand, shopkeepers sweeping steps, artists and children and couples strolling arm in arm—they all paused. Some turned to look. Some did a double take. And others—

“Is that…?”

“She looks like the High Lord.”

“No—impossible. But those eyes—”

“That scent—”

Estella’s wings clenched, tight and trembling, and in a burst of fear, she pushed them inward, folding them close to her back, wrapping a glamour around them like Mama had taught her in case of emergencies. She hadn’t perfected it—but it was enough. Enough to make her feel small again. Hidden.

She wanted Mama.

She didn’t like this. Didn’t like the eyes, the murmurs, the way the city was too big and the people too close.

Home. I want to go home.

She turned to bolt, head down, too-fast footsteps drawing her toward the alleyways, toward any place that felt quieter—but as she rounded the corner, she slammed into someone. Hard.

Estella stumbled back, breath caught, only for hands to catch her by the shoulders.

“Woah,” a female voice said coldly. “Watch it.”

She looked up.

And stopped breathing.

The woman was tall and fierce and beautiful in a way that made Estella feel like a mouse looking up at a silver flame. Her golden-brown hair was swept back in a braids, and her posture radiated strength. Cold, like a mountain—but the kind you could shout into and hear secrets echo back. And something about her... something stirred in Estella’s chest.

She stared at her, and whispered, “You.”

The woman blinked. “Excuse me?”

This feeling. Estella was sure of it. The ghostly feeling of Mama was faint but there. “I know you,” 

The woman blinked again, frowning. “What?”

“You’re… You’re in the dreams,” she said, stepping back just enough to look up fully. “You’re with my mama. A lot.”

Something flickered in the woman’s eyes—confusion, maybe even concern. She crouched slightly, lowering herself just a fraction. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“No,” Estella insisted, shaking her head. “You’re in her dreams. I know it.”

“Dreams?” the woman echoed.

A new voice entered then—male, low and rough, shocked and disbelieving all at once. “Estelle?”

Estella stiffened.

She turned around slowly, finding a towering male with broad shoulders, hazel eyes that sparkled like firelight, and wings—real Illyrian wings. Like hers, like Uncle Azzy’s. He looked surprised. Shocked. He looked like he knew her.

But she didn’t know him.

It was that name.

“No!” She shouted, and the sound cracked down the quiet alley like thunder. “I’m not! I’m Estella!”

And as if her body couldn’t hold it in anymore, her wings burst free from their glamour—snapping open behind her in a flare of midnight violet, brushing the walls on either side. Powerful for someone so small. Beautiful. Unmistakable.

The woman gasped softly.

The male’s mouth fell open.

Estella was already breathing too fast, her little fists clenched at her sides. “I’m not her! I don’t know you! I want my mama!”

And then she did the only thing she could think to do—she turned, and clung to the fierce woman who felt safe. Her arms wrapped around her legs, face pressed against her thigh, tears slipping down her cheeks now that she couldn’t hold them in.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

It had taken a long time to calm her down.

The poor woman hadn’t known what to do—torn between snapping at the Illyrian brute (her words, not Estella’s) and crouching to soothe the little girl’s tears. Her voice had been mean at first, clipped and exasperated. But then gentler, more uncertain, as she crouched in front of Estella.

That was how she’d learned the woman’s name was Nesta. And the male with the wings and muscles and loud voice was Cassian.

Something in her memory tugged at that name—Nesta. She had overheard it before. But she couldn’t remember clearly, and that made everything worse.

Especially when Cassian mentioned taking her to someone named Rhysand.

Nesta had recoiled like he’d slapped her. “I’m not going anywhere near there,” she’d snapped. “If you want her brought in, you do it.”

That had made Estella panic again. Full-on, breath-gone, throat-closing panic.

She didn’t know this Rhysand. She didn’t know any of these people. Except… maybe Nesta. A little. In that dream-way that made no sense and yet felt like everything.

“Please stay,” she’d begged her. Quiet, shaky, eyes wide and terrified. “Please don’t leave me.”

And Nesta had sighed, deep and long and full of the kind of tired Estella had only ever seen on her mother’s face. But she’d nodded. And held her hand a little tighter.

The walk was strange and quiet.

Estella kept her small hand firmly in Nesta’s, casting a wary glance every time the tall Illyrian male—Cassian—drew too close. Nesta didn’t speak much, not to her and certainly not to him. Her jaw was set in a way that made Estella think of Mama when she was very, very annoyed, and her eyes were distant, like she was somewhere else entirely.

She didn’t look happy to be going wherever they were going. In fact, she looked like she’d rather walk barefoot through the snow than enter this pretty house perched along the river.

And Estella… Estella was overwhelmed.

The house was huge and glowing and beautiful in a way that made her chest feel tight. Like she might break something if she breathed too hard. Like if she wasn’t careful, it would vanish—and take her with it. And there were people inside—people who smelt powerful and important and… familiar.

Then her attention caught when they entered. Her eyes caught on a painting in the hall.

It stopped her heart.

A lady. Elegant and tall, draped in twilight, golden thread curling along her sleeves like constellations. Her eyes… her eyes were the ones that looked at Estella with all the love in the world everyday. The same calm power. And she was smiling, just barely, in that way Mama did sometimes when she thought no one was watching.

It was her. Her mother.

Not as Estella knew her—tired and stubborn and beautiful in quiet, secret ways—but as someone the world had once seen. Someone who had been honored. Painted. Belonged somewhere.

That was Mama. That had been Mama. Before.

Before the hiding. Before the fear.

Before her.

The painting radiated something old and proud and heavy. Something sacred. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.

Then the doors to another room opened and Cassian stepped in first, and the quiet inside the house shattered.

Voices stilled mid-sentence. Chairs shifted. A tea cup gently clinked against porcelain as someone set it down. All heads turned toward the doorway.

Estella stood very still beside Nesta, who still hadn’t let go of her hand. Even gave a small squeeze. There was a woman who looked like Nesta—kind of. Not in the scary way, but in the soft way. Like looking at the moon after seeing the sun. Her hair was golden-brown, her lips parted slightly like she might speak but couldn’t quite find the words. Estella blinked at her.

And then her gaze shifted.

And froze.

Because standing just beyond the nearest couch and fully still, was a male with her eyes.

Not similar. Not close. Identical.

Violet. Deep and endless and brimming with stars. The same tilt, the same flicker of intensity beneath his lashes. The same quiet pull she saw in herself when Mama brushed her hair in the mirror and said, “There you are, Starling.”

He wasn’t smiling.

He was staring.

And something inside her—a string too tight for too long—snapped. Not painfully. But like something that had been locked had finally come loose.

She ducked behind Nesta before she knew she was moving. Her small fingers twisted into her dress, crumpling the soft fabric as if that would shrink her small enough to disappear. 

She did not need to name him to know who this was. For how many times had she been told she was her father’s daughter.

‘Anyone who truly sees her will know. She’s not just his daughter. She is him. In miniature.’

No one spoke.

The silence was a vacuum. One that sucked all the air from the room and left behind only static.

Then a voice. Soft. From the black haired woman near the fireplace, eyes of silver. She whispered, like seeing the dead come alive again, because there was only one explanation for who this could be. “Estelle?”

Estella flinched.

Her wings twitched in warning. Something flared inside her. Like she had to run, to leave, danger. But something in her wanted to tell them, no, she was not her aunt. 

“That is not Estelle,” the male with her eyes said suddenly, his voice wrapped in velvet. Stunned. Distant. “That is not my sister.”

And it made her want to run. Or cry. Or scream. Or—

Her eyes slid to the shadows at the edge of the room. To the male half-wrapped in them, darker than the rest, quieter than any of them. His scarred hands were folded loosely before him, his eyes shadowed, unreadable.

Uncle Azzy.

Her heart fluttered at the sight of him. He hadn’t told them. He’d kept the secret. Her Mama’s secret. Their secret. Estella did not call out to him. She did not run to him. Even though every piece of her ached to. She looked away quickly, like if she looked too long, the others would see what passed between them. See what she knew. See the truth.

She turned her face toward Nesta’s skirts again, burying herself in them. But even that wasn’t enough. Her panic was rising like a tide she couldn’t stop. And then her hands moved on their own, tugging—soft at first, then more urgently—at Nesta’s dress. She stepped backward, just an inch. Then another.

Nesta looked down at her, confused, but Estella’s eyes pleaded.

They had to go. Now.

But no one else noticed. The room had erupted. The voices were getting louder. A blur of questions. Cassian’s voice rising above the rest, saying something about bringing her here—telling them her name.

Estella’s ears rang.

“We need to leave,” she whispered up to Nesta, the words barely more than a breath. “Before they know. Before Mama gets found out.”

Nesta tensed. Her mouth parted, as if to say something, but then someone from across the room made a comment she didn’t catch—something about Estella’s wings, or who she could possibly belong to, or why she was with Nesta. 

“I am not asking her to cling to me!” Nesta snapped suddenly, her voice dangerous enough to cut the room clean in two. “She won’t let go!”

The silence that followed was worse than the noise.

Estella’s chest stung. Her eyes burned, hot and full and miserable. She hadn’t meant to cling. She hadn’t meant to cry. She hadn’t meant to make this into something big and awful—but it was too late for that. She hadn’t meant to cause trouble. Hadn’t meant to pull so tightly to the female who felt safe. 

She just hadn’t wanted to be left alone. Not here. Not like this. Not in this glowing house with all these people and all those eyes, not when her Mama was so far away, and they were all looking at her like she was a ghost. Like she was someone she wasn’t supposed to be.

That familiar tingle slid across her skin. A soft warning. Like silk brushing over her arms and legs, brushing against her thoughts. Her breath caught in her throat. She knew that magic. Knew it in her bones. Knew it the way she knew her mother’s laugh, her smell, her lullabies. Knew it like sunlight on her skin. Her heartbeat jumped.

It curled around her ankles, climbing up her calves in lazy, knowing spirals. Their whispers were not with words but with feeling. Gentle brushes across her own magic. Comforting. 

Do you need help?

Yes.

Do you feel unsafe?

Yes.

Do you want a part of your mother with you?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

She didn’t even realize what she’d agreed to—who she’d agreed to—until the moment the room shifted.

The shadows responded to her desperation before she could even blink. Before she could warn them. Before she could stop to ask if this was a good idea.

The other one—the woman who looked like Nesta, whose wide, shocked eyes made Estella blink twice every time she looked at her—she moved. The spell of confusion shattered across her face in an instant, her body launching upright, knocking something over in her rush to stop what she somehow knew was coming. Her voice broke through the silence, panicked and startled, a single desperate plea flung across the space between them.

“Wait—!”

But it was already too late.

The shadows exploded outward. Not dangerous or harsh, but purposeful. Protective. A wall of magic pulsed from Estella’s core, curling around her like wings, like armor, like love itself had taken shape. The air thickened. Shimmered. The room dimmed around the edges.

And then it appeared.

A creature made of starlight and smoke. Massive, horned, shaped like a wolf but glowing with threads of deep twilight—purple and grey with glints of gold like the stars were hiding in its fur. Its eyes were two golden suns. Calm. Watching.

It stepped between Estella and the others without a sound. A line drawn. A warning given.

Her mama’s magic in living form.

The creature huffed, almost lazily, as if deeply unimpressed by the panic. Like it had been roused from a nap only to find this mess. As if the mere presence of these wide-eyed Fae, even the High Lord himself, warranted no more than a sigh. 

The beast tilted its head—not at them, but at her. As if puzzled. As if asking why she’d called for help when these were people its mistress had once fought beside. Had trusted. Had bled with. Why her daughter was afraid of them.

She barely caught it through the roaring in her ears, through her thudding heart and the way her feet were already preparing to flee—but the voice pulled through the noise anyway.

“—that is her beast. Rhys, that’s her magic! Nocthera could not exist without her.”

The words rang like a bell. Emotional. Desperate. A plea and a confirmation and a storm of disbelief all tangled together.

Estella didn’t wait to hear anyone’s response. Didn’t dare. Because now it would all come spilling out. The secrets. The truths. Her mama’s name on their lips like a spell finally remembered. And if they knew—really knew—then they would come for her. They might not let her go back.

And Mama must’ve sent it. Or at least—she had left something behind to protect her daughter if this moment ever came.

And so Estella ran.

She didn’t wait to explain. Didn’t look back. Her legs carried her fast, faster than she ever thought she could run, through the hallway and out the front door. Back into Velaris. Back somewhere no one could find her. 

She did not know this place. But Estella was very good at hiding. 

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

It felt like a long time before Nocthera found her in the quiet corner of that little alleyway—tucked beneath a sagging awning, knees hugged to her chest, tears long since dried on her cheeks. Estella had felt the shadows move before the creature arrived. They flitted past her like fish in a stream, soft and cold and wordless. They didn’t speak. Not really. But when she whispered to them—please don’t tell—they had paused. Hummed. Skated past without a sound. Without a promise, but without a betrayal either.

That was enough.

And—pat-pat-pat.

Not loud. Not heavy. Just a quiet tread, impossibly gentle for something so large. Then a snout nudged beneath her arm, warm breath huffing against her neck. The scent of stars and stone and something green and endless, like the middle of the forest during a new moon. Estella blinked once before lifting her head.

Nocthera.

Towering and terrible to anyone else, maybe. But not to her. Never to her. To her, the beast was safety. Sanctuary. It pressed its snout into her shoulder again, as if to say I found you. I’m here. You’re safe now. She sniffled, one small hand curling into its thick fur, the other rubbing at her face.

“Can we go home now?” she whispered.

But Nocthera didn’t answer in words. Instead, it huffed—low and soft—and nudged her ribs firmly, the same way her Mama did when she overslept. Up, it seemed to say. Get up. We have to move. Then its head snapped slightly to the side, one ear twitching like it had caught a sound she hadn’t. Something distant. Someone still searching.

Estella didn’t ask how it knew. She didn’t ask where they were going. She just followed.

She was tired. And hungry. And her feet hurt. And her chest hurt worse. The whole world felt too big and too loud again, and her magic kept wanting to crawl up her throat like it could take over if she let it. 

Nocthera walked slow enough for her to keep up, circling back when she lagged too far, pausing to sniff the air before they crossed busy intersections of cobblestone and light. The city was quieter now, the sun dipping lower and casting soft shadows across painted storefronts and quiet gardens. But even the silence made her bones feel heavy.

And then, finally—they stopped.

A townhouse. Small compared to the River House, but still grand. Still full of something old and careful and important. Magic shimmered across its stones like a sheen of dew, like the wards were alive. Estella felt it before she stepped close—something brushing against her skin, against her magic. A hum of question. A cautious tug.

Who are you? it seemed to ask. What are you doing here?

She stumbled back half a step—but Nocthera didn’t pause. It simply stepped forward and through the threshold without hesitation, without resistance. The wards parted for the beast like reeds around a boat.

And—welcomed her.

The magic reached for her again, gentler this time. Curious. Confused, maybe, but no longer wary. She could feel it trying to place her—trying to recognize something in her. In her blood. In her presence.

And it did.

She didn’t know how she knew. But she felt it the moment the wards shifted. As if they’d said: She’s theirs. She’s ours.

They let her pass.

Inside, everything was warm. Dim and quiet and warm. As if the house had been waiting. Nocthera padded through the front parlor like it knew every corner, every thread of the rug, every creak of the wood. It found a blanket first—tugged it from the back of a couch with a flick of its snout and dropped it beside the hearth before circling and laying down.

Those golden eyes blinked at her once, then twice. A silent check-in. A you are safe now. And then its head lowered to its paws, and those sunlit eyes dimmed until they were nothing.

Like it had done what it was asked and now, finally, could rest.

Estella stood there. Torn. She almost climbed into the blanket beside it, into that warm fur and safety, but something about the house tugged at her curiosity.

She wandered instead.

There was a dining room with a long, red wood table big enough for alot of people. A small library tucked behind velvet curtains. A cozy sitting room with soft chairs and pillows too pretty to sit on. And the kitchen—her favorite. She lingered there the longest, opening cabinets and sniffing at jars, delighted when she found a basket of bread and slices of dried meat. She took a handful and nibbled at it quietly, perched on the edge of a stool like she might get in trouble just for existing.

She was wiping breadcrumbs off her mouth when it happened.

A sound.

The front door.

Estella froze.

Her heart slammed into her ribs, the half-eaten bread falling to the floor with a muffled thud. Her body moved before her thoughts could catch up—rushing back to the parlor, feet whispering against the wood as she slid behind Nocthera’s still-sleeping bulk. She crouched low, clinging to its side. Holding her breath.

The door creaked open.

Footsteps followed—soft, cautious. The kind that didn’t want to startle, didn’t want to scare.

Estella didn’t move.

Nocthera stirred.

Its head lifted slowly, golden eyes narrowing—not in threat, but in question. The beast did not growl. Did not bare its teeth. It looked. It smelled. And then it breathed in deeper.

Huffed.

Like a sigh through its nose.

It tilted its head and looked toward the doorway—but its body remained relaxed. As if the answer it had found in that scent was enough. As if the scent carried a familiarity it didn’t understand, but trusted all the same.

The beast blinked once, then dropped its head back onto its paws and promptly fell asleep again.

Like whatever had entered the house was no threat at all.

A woman stepped through the doorway.

The one that looked like Nesta. 

She wore a simple tunic and pants, though her fingers fussed with something gold and silver on her hand. A ring. Spinning it around her finger like it was a nervous habit.

She didn’t come close.

Not at first.

She paused just inside the room. Her gaze flicked briefly to Nocthera, perhaps still processing the fact that a glowing, half-starlight wolf was curled up on the rug like it owned the place. But then her attention settled on the little Fae.

“Hello,” she said gently. Her voice was low, warm like sunrise after a storm. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Estella only peeked out from behind Nocthera’s thick fur, fingers still tangled in the soft curls along its ribs. She didn’t answer.

The woman hesitated, then slowly lowered herself to her knees a few feet away, careful not to make any sudden movements. Her hands rested on her thighs, open and relaxed. Like she was trying not to look bigger than she was.

“I’m Feyre,” she said, voice still quiet. “Nesta is my sister. She said you… seemed to know her.”

Estella’s brows pulled together, just slightly. She didn’t know how to explain it. She looked at Feyre longer. There was something else in her. Something Estella didn’t have a name for. Something in the way the air around Feyre felt familiar. Like warmth in the cold. Like moonlight on river water.

And like Mama.

Not exactly—but close. Like this Fae carried a piece of it. Of her.

Estella blinked again. Her lip trembled, and she buried her face into Nocthera’s fur for a moment, pressing herself tighter into its side.

“I know this is scary,” Feyre continued, not moving closer. “You don’t have to talk to me. But I wanted you to know… we’re not going to hurt you. I know Cassian can be loud and how Nesta can be…very straightforward.” 

“...She didn’t let go, either.” Estella muttered, her wings twitching once. “She kept me from being taken away alone.” 

Feyre didn’t smile—but something in her eyes softened, as if those quiet words had settled somewhere deep in her chest. “No,” she said gently. “Nesta doesn’t let go. Not when it matters.”

A pause.

“You’re very brave, you know,”

Estella scrunched her nose, skeptical. “I don’t feel brave.”

“Bravery doesn’t always feel like roaring and flying and sword fights,” Feyre told her. “Sometimes it feels like hiding until you can breathe again. Sometimes it’s holding on until help finds you.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. Her wings gave a little twitch, then drooped again. She finally sat up a little straighter. She looked at Feyre again. The woman didn’t press her. Didn’t reach for her. Just waited.

And that… that helped more than anything.

Feyre’s head tilted gently. “Do you know where you were? Before you came here? Do you know how you got here?”

The little Fae just nodded. But said nothing more. No elaboration. Just the barest flicker of acknowledgement in her wide violet eyes.

The older Fae exhaled, pushing her hands into her thighs, leaning forward ever so slightly. “I think…” she started, carefully, “I think I know who you are.”

“I’m not Estelle,” Estella huffed, her nose wrinkling with childlike irritation, like this was a conversation she’d already had too many times today. It startled a soft laugh from Feyre, who shook her head lightly.

“I know. Rhys said you weren’t. But I think the other alternative is something he doesn’t understand yet. Something none of us really do. But I’d like to understand. Will you help me?”

Estella blinked once. Shifted. Thought about it. Her small hands twisted in the hem of her dress, and she drew in a shaky breath. “I want my mama,” Her voice cracked just a little. 

“Do you know where your Mama is?” 

Estella nodded. But gave no answer.

“Can you tell me at least what she looks like?” 

That was a question. But it felt like a safe question. There had been paintings of her mama in that house—the big one with all the powerful Fae.

So she started to describe her.

She spoke of her mama’s hair—Of the way it curled at the ends when she didn’t braid it, and how sometimes it shimmered like starlight had gotten caught in it.

Her eyes, Estella said, were always serious when they needed to be, but full of sparkles when she told bedtime stories. They could be stormy, too. Not like thunder, but like something deep and powerful. Sometimes sad.

“She wears a necklace,” Estella added, almost proudly, like it was her favorite part. “A black moon. Like a crescent. With a little star that hangs from it.” She reached to trace her own collarbone. “Mama says it’s very special. She never takes it off. Not even in the bath. She says it’s the most important thing she owns. A gift from Papa.”

Her voice was calm at first. Soft. But the more she talked, the harder it was to stop the tremble in her throat.

“She always smells like books. And ink. And sometimes... lavender when she’s sad. And she sings sometimes, really quiet, when she thinks I’m asleep.”

Each word was like brushing color onto a memory. Each syllable painting her mama in the air, until it felt like she was sitting beside her again.

And as Estella spoke, she didn’t notice right away—but something in Feyre changed.

Her hands had gone still, completely still. And her eyes, blue-grey like clouds before a storm, or like the boy’s in the mountain, were suddenly dimmer. Not with tears, exactly. But something deeper. Her breathing, too—slow, like she was trying not to feel whatever it was she was feeling too fast.

Estella blinked, sensing it. The shift. The tightening in the air around them. Like the room had stopped breathing.

Her own small fingers clenched in the hem of her dress again. She didn’t understand what she’d done. What she’d said.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asked, barely more than a whisper.

Feyre snapped out of it almost too quickly. “No. No, you didn’t,” she said, her voice gentle but strained. “You just… reminded me of someone I’ve never met.”

That didn’t make sense.

Estella frowned, her brows crinkling. “How can I remind you of someone you don’t know?”

The older Fae’s throat bobbed with another swallow. “Because I’ve seen her in paintings. I’ve heard stories. And now I think... I might have just heard the truth.”

A pause stretched between them. Quiet and careful.

Then, Estella sat up straighter, like she was gathering all her courage in one big breath. “I want to go home,” she said, her voice cracking on the last word. “I want my mama. Can you take me back?”

There it was.

The plea.

The truth wrapped in tiny, trembling words.

Feyre didn’t respond immediately. Her lips parted, then closed again. Estella’s heart pounded harder, the silence between them stretching too long.

But finally, Feyre gave a small nod. “If I can,” she whispered, “I will. I promise. We’ll figure this out. Okay?”

“Okay,” Estella murmured.

“Do you know where your mama is?”

A nod.

“Can you tell me what it’s called? Or where it looks like?”

Estella hesitated, then shook her head. Her little fingers twisted together, her wings giving a small flutter. 

Feyre offered the smallest of smiles. “That’s fair.”

Then she stood, slowly brushing the dust from her knees, playing briefly with the ring on her finger, again. Estella watched the motion carefully. The way her shoulders were held straighter now, the air around her taut.

A new scent hung in the air. One Estella didn’t know how to name. Not fear. Not anger. But something like realization.

Feyre was hiding something. Or had just figured something out. But the little Fae didn’t press it. She didn’t want to talk about Mama anymore.

“But,” Estella said suddenly, her voice soft—softer than a secret, really. Like she was still deciding if it was okay to share. Maybe just a little. Maybe just enough. “Uncle Azzy might.”

[dreamdragonkadia]

As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - IV Word Count: 6.8k A/N: The drama is happening. Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Prev - Next ✦ Ao3

You’d been expecting him.

Not in the conscious way—but in the quiet tickle along your spine, the prickle of shadow that always used to arrive just before Azriel did. And Estella—of course—seemed to sense it too. She looked up from her drawing, brows lifting.

Her little wings gave a soft flick behind her shoulders. “He’s here!” she chirped.

And just like that, it was as if you’d been pulled through time—years peeled back in an instant. Azriel, appearing without sound or warning in your office to deliver his reports. Shadows curling around the room like lazy cats. You blinked, forcing the memory aside before it could root itself too deep.

“Ah,” you said, keeping your voice light, “it seems the Spymaster has come to grace us with his presence once more.”

The book in your hand remained open, but your finger stayed pressed to the page, marking your place. You didn’t look at him right away—but the teasing lilt in your voice had already found its mark. Azriel gave a soft huff of breath. Not quite a laugh. But close enough knowing him.

“Milady,” he said, dipping his head. Still standing. Still formal. As if this were any other meeting. As if the years apart didn’t press on the room like a second sky. As if nothing had changed.

You gestured lazily to the armchair across from you. “Come sit. Tell me—have you told your court all my secrets yet?”

He didn’t move. “My High Lord did not ask,” he said simply.

“Then the game continues.”

From the floor, Estella suddenly shouted, “Hi Uncle Azzy!” without even glancing up from her paper. Her crayon was clutched in one small fist, a smudge of color across her cheek. She’d very aggressively got into drawing lately.

Azriel blinked. Slowly. Like the words had taken a moment to register. “…Uncle Azzy?” he repeated, brow arching as he turned his gaze back to you.

You shrugged, though something tight curled in your chest. “You’ve been deemed worthy, apparently.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You let the silence stretch for a few seconds, letting Estella’s soft humming fill the room as she scribbled in the corner—content in her own little world.

Then you allowed the thought to surface. 

“The Cursebreaker has a sister, yes?” you asked, casually turning the page of your book though you weren’t reading anymore.

He glanced up, nodding once. “Two. Elain and Ne—”

“Yes, yes. The Seer and the Kingslayer.” You waved your hand like brushing away a gnat. Then your voice dipped, tone shifting just slightly. “What can you tell me about the oldest one?”

His posture didn’t change, but the shadows at his shoulders curled tighter—subtle, but you noticed. “Nesta,” he said carefully. Like her name could summon her. Tense. A story there maybe? 

You nodded slowly. Pretended neutrality. “Is she always so… poised to strike?”

You weren’t sure how else to describe it. That energy she carried in the dream. Like she was always waiting for something to attack her—or maybe waiting for permission to attack first.

And if not… then what? She observed. Too aware of her surroundings. Looked like someone who’d forgotten how to be held without flinching.

His lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite amusement. “Sometimes.” A pause. “She’s... difficult.”

You hummed, tipping your head as though examining the word. “I find that most people who are called ‘difficult’ are simply unwilling to play a role that was forced on them. Cassian was the same way once upon a time, no?”

There were exceptions, of course. But Nesta didn’t seem like the type. Too much in her own head or getting lost in the grassy expanse of the dream.

That earned the faintest breath of a laugh from him. Barely audible, but it was there.

“Perhaps.” His gaze drifted to the window. “She’s keen. Brutal, when she wants to be. Proud. She doesn’t bend easily—and she doesn’t break quietly.”

You looked down at the book, trailing over the words. Trying to figure out how to be careful when asking. “Does she get along with the rest of your Inner Circle?”

Azriel didn’t answer right away. That alone told you more than a spoken answer might have.

“It’s... complicated,” he said at last. “She and Cassian butt heads. Constantly. At least when they do talk. She barely speaks to Rhys or Feyre. And Elain—” He stopped himself. Shrugged a shoulder. “It’s not easy. She’s not easy.”

You blinked. Held his gaze.

“But you respect her.” It wasn’t a question.

He nodded slowly. “She survived. She’s still surviving. There’s power in that. If she wants to heal.”

You let your gaze drift away, toward the gardens, where sunlight painted yellow across the stone. You remembered that power. Had seen it—felt it.

Not that he knew. He didn’t know she had appeared in your dreams. You weren’t ready to say it aloud. Not until you understood why.

So instead, you said simply, “Interesting.” Neutral. Safe.

“You don’t want to know more about the other two?”

You shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve heard enough. Thesan and Jurian are both busybodies who love gossip more than wine.”

“I had heard Queen Vassa brought Jurian into her court.”

From the floor, Estella huffed loudly, and without looking up from her drawing, declared, “Uncle Jurian is a bully. He called me a fewal rat this morning.”

She’d been working hard on rolling her r’s lately. Still a bit shaky—but she was proud of the attempt.

You snorted, barely managing to stifle it behind your hand. He had. Estella had launched herself through the castle corridor,  aiming for Jurian’s back for what had to be the thirteenth time that week. The man hadn’t even flinched—just reached back, caught her midair, and plopped her into a chair with all the grace of someone who’d done it too many times before. “Stop being a feral rat like your father,” he’d muttered, and Thesan—who had been walking behind them—had nearly choked trying not to laugh.

You rubbed a hand down your face. “You are your father’s daughter,” you muttered under your breath. 

Because she was. She had his eyes. His wings. His penchant for trouble and charm and getting away with more than anyone should let her. Maybe she had your nose—barely. But everything else? Rhysand. From the slant of her grin to the stubborn tilt of her chin. Even the way she drew the world around her like she expected it to bend.

Estella looked back at you then—just a flicker of a glance, brief but piercing. Her eyes met yours and blinked once, too slow, too knowing. Like she was seeing something you weren’t. Like she always did. Then she turned back to her drawing, wings drooping just a fraction, as if she’d caught something that you didn’t.

Azriel’s voice pulled you back. Low. Flat. Faintly incredulous. “Uncle Jurian?” It wasn’t quite a question. More… an accusation. Like the word uncle attached to Jurian had personally offended him.

“Believe it or not, Jurian plays with her. Quite a lot, actually.”

His brows lifted, but it was Estella who chimed in, voice light and proud. “He gives me piggyback rides and lets me throw his daggers.”

You blinked. “He does what now?”

She nodded, entirely unbothered. “He told me not to tell Auntie Vas or any of the other humans. Said they’d get all mad and screechy.”

Azriel’s eyes flicked toward you with a look that could only be described as: This is the child you’re raising?

You exhaled, dragging a hand down your face. “Of course he did,” you muttered.

The little Fae beamed. So pleased with herself. “I almost hit the practice dummy once!”

“Almost,” you repeated faintly.

“She’s trouble,” he murmured, watching her draw a wonky dagger in the margins of her parchment, complete with little stars around it. “Like someone else I know.”

“Correction,” you said, gathering your composure. “She’s a diplomatic nightmare waiting to happen.”

A soft huff of breath might have been a laugh. Or as close to one as Azriel ever got.

“I’m sure, as you know, the Dawn Court is here,” you said aloud, voice clearer now, more formal—pulling away from whatever thread had started to tug too tight beneath your ribs. “I’m leaving. We’re leaving.” 

Azriel’s brow lifted, though he said nothing.

You closed your book completely now, setting it aside. “Vassa named me ambassador to the Dawn Court. I’ll be traveling there with Jurian to finalize the alliance.”

You shouldn’t have told him directly. But he would find out eventually and report it back to his court. That Dawn was allying themselves with humans.

He didn’t question your words—didn’t doubt them—but you could tell by the way his jaw ticked, by the shift in his posture, that he wanted to. That something in him pulled tight at the idea.

“It’s temporary,” you added, though whether it was for him or for yourself, you didn’t know. “A few weeks. Maybe more. Just long enough to see the terms through. Thesan’s already offered to house us inside the royal compound, far from the prying eyes of anyone who might recognize me.”

Azriel nodded once, slowly.

You continued, “We leave at the end of the week, so you’re more than welcome to visit before then. I’m sure she could use the flying pointers.” 

You hadn’t expected much of a reaction, but Estella shot up so fast it was like someone had lit a fire beneath her. Her wings flared wide and her eyes sparkled like starlight caught in crystal.

“Flying?!” she gasped. “Are we going? Are we going?”

Azriel blinked in surprise at her sudden energy, and you couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped you as she scrambled over the cushions, practically bouncing toward him. One hand on the edge of the couch, the other tugging at the hem of his leathers.

“Mama said flying,” she declared, face flushed, wings twitching excitedly. “Are you going to take me? Please? Please? I’ll be so good, Uncle Azzy.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked down at her, that small hand clenched in the folds of his armor, her entire body practically vibrating with hope. His shadows swirled around him—not tense, not wary. Just still. Listening.

Then, slowly, Azriel knelt.

“Flying isn’t a game,” he said, his voice soft. “You fall wrong, you break something. Or worse.”

Estella’s wings drooped a little.

But Azriel didn’t let her sink into it. He studied her—head tilted slightly, assessing the flare of her nostrils, the stubborn set to her jaw. So much fire, tucked into such a small frame.

“But,” he continued, quieter now, “if you’re ready to listen—really listen—I’ll teach you how not to fall.”

She brightened like the sun had broken over her. “Yes! I’ll listen, I promise!” She bounced on her heels. “Like a warrior. Like the best warrior ever!”

“With that spirit, you’ll fly just fine.”

He straightened, his eyes flicking to you. You met his gaze and saw the question forming—the quiet ask beneath his stoic mask.

“Tomorrow?” he offered.

But before you could answer, Estella blurted—“Why not now?”

Azriel stilled.

You blinked, caught off guard, but Estella had already turned toward you with those enormous eyes and added, “Pleeeeease?” Drawing out the word like it was a spell.

There was a heartbeat of silence. Then Azriel gave the smallest nod.

“Alright,” he said.

Estella gasped and spun in a circle, her wings giving a little flutter. “Right now?! Really?! Mama, can I go?”

You smiled faintly, heart caught somewhere between panic and pride, and gave her a slow nod. “Go on, then.”

And before you could even blink, she was grabbing Azriel’s hand and dragging him toward the doors, chattering all the way about how high she wanted to go and how fast she thought she could fly. “I know a secret spot! So no one will know you are here!” 

You quietly followed behind.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

“She’s barely a child and you’ve already given her knives?” you huffed, adjusting the small satchel across your shoulder. A few feet away, Estella stood beside Eosara, clutching her hand. Just a week into her flying lessons with Azriel, and the girl could already hover two feet off the ground—wings level, posture proud.

Jurian didn’t even look up as he replied, “She’s a Fae child. How long before you start giving her a dagger willingly?”

You glared at him. “Do you think we just hand out knives the moment our children leave the womb?”

“Yes. You’re Fae. Everyone knows you don’t have hearts—especially you. You cold-hearted, soulless—”

“Enough,” Vassa cut in.

There was a heartbeat of silence.

“Wow,” Jurian said, arching a brow. “‘Enough.’ That’s it? What an order. What happened to your flair for theatrics, Your Majesty? You’re slipping.”

“And here we go,” Lucien muttered from behind you, already turning slightly like he might make an escape attempt.

You only sighed. “They always need to get one last argument in before we leave.”

Across the courtyard, Vassa had turned fully toward Jurian now, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing wildly as she launched into a rebuttal that involved, of all things, his lack of fashion sense and the fact that he apparently snored like a dying warhorse.

Of course, Jurian looked delighted. “You wound me,” he said, clutching his chest. “And here I thought you’d finally accepted that I’m the best thing to ever happen to your court.”

“You’re the reason my court drinks before breakfast,” Vassa snapped.

He only grinned like it was a badge of honor.

Honestly, it was more calming than it had any right to be. Their bickering. The rhythm of it. Reassuring in a way that made your chest warm. Like no matter how far you’d run from home—or what you were about to return to—some things still made sense.

Still stayed the same.

Even if the stars above whispered of change.

They’d been acting strangely for days now—no visions, no warnings, just quiet pulses of emotion. Hope. Anticipation. The feeling of almost—as if the future had already begun shifting beneath your feet.

You hadn’t looked at the constellations since dawn. You didn’t want to see what they might be trying to say now. Instead, you focused on the soft approach of footsteps—Thesan.

“Your daughter seems quite excited to see Prythian,” he said gently.

You followed his gaze. Estella was spinning in slow circles near the fountain with Eosara, arms stretched wide like she could already take off without wings. Her excitement had built to a quiet hum that hadn’t left her all day.

“She’s more excited than I expected,” you admitted, brushing your hand against your skirts. “I think… being near your court stirred something in her.”

“Then I’ll do everything I can to ensure it grows gently,” Thesan said, and there was something honest in that promise. Something rooted and true.

You hesitated, voice quieter now. “Do you… worry? If the truth comes out?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand. Thesan never played dumb. He simply folded his hands behind his back and looked toward the moon.

“Rhysand will be furious,” he said at last. “Of course. Rightfully so.”

You exhaled, but he continued.

“But he wouldn’t strike first. Not with me. And not with you. He is many things, but not reckless—not when it comes to those he loves.”

Your throat tightened, but you gave him a nod. That was the most anyone could promise you. The most you could hope for.

“Let this be what it is,” Thesan added gently. “Not a shameful secret. The beginning of a truce.”

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t know if it could be.

Not yet.

Not with everything hanging in the balance.

A rustle of heat and silk told you Vassa had reappeared, her expression shuttered—tired, but watching.

“You’ll write,” she said simply. “Or I’ll send Jurian with a letter opener and instructions.”

You gave a huff of dry laughter. “You’d really do that to him?”

���Gladly,” Vassa said, though something in her expression softened. “Come back if anything happens. You don’t have to stay there for me.”

You stepped forward, pulling her into a tight hug before she could stop you.

She didn’t resist.

For a long moment, she was simply quiet in your arms.

“It makes me anxious to leave you alone,” you whispered, the words barely brushing the space between you. “Do not hesitate to send for me. If anything happens—if anything feels off, I will come back.” It wasn’t a promise—it was a vow. One she didn’t need to hear to believe.

When Vassa pulled back, her features schooled into something firmer, something lighter, she bent slightly and tapped Estella on the shoulder as the little girl trotted up beside you. “Try not to start any wars, little one,” she said, her voice edged with a kind of teasing warmth that only surfaced when Estella was involved.

“I won’t,” Estella replied solemnly, chin tilted high. Then, with perfect seriousness, “Unless someone tries to take my food.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for her hand, the small fingers fitting neatly into yours.

“We’ll return soon.” You added, stepping back. 

Vassa only nodded. She didn’t say it, but you could read it in her eyes—I’ll hold the line. Beside you, Thesan inclined his head in that courtly way of his, the movement elegant as it was genuine. A thanks to the Queen who had hosted his court, and to the woman—his old friend—who now stood beside him not as a ghost, but as something real.

And then the Dawn Court vanished into starlight, winnowing in clean, controlled bursts of power. Jurian, Estella, and you among them—guests returning to a place that thought you dead.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

It felt surreal. That was the only word that came close. Like stepping back into a memory preserved in glass. Everything around you shifted too quickly, too completely, as though someone had peeled back the layers of time and placed you within a painting you hadn’t realized you missed until now. The stone halls gleamed like morning dew, the air carrying faint traces of citrus blossoms and warmed parchment. Distant voices murmured greetings as the Dawn Court reappeared in its full glory—staff bowing, courtiers watching with wide eyes, and the soft hum of the High Lord’s return reverberating through the marble.

You barely noticed any of it.

Estella had gasped. Her wings flared slightly. She was tugging at your hand, her small fingers gripping tight. “Mama,” she whispered, and it wasn’t excitement or fear. It was wonder. And you couldn’t bring yourself to look down at her, couldn’t look at Jurian who stood stiffly at your side, couldn’t meet Thesan’s gaze from across the room where concern began to settle.

Because something had shifted.

Something was shifting.

Not panic—though it stirred at the edges. Not fear, either. But a humming deep in your chest. A pulse that didn’t feel like your own. A feeling you had never known before. It rose like a tide and echoed like a drum.

Here. Here. Here. Mine. Mine. Mine.

You shoved the thought away, too violently. It caught you off-balance—literally. You staggered, your footing slipping from beneath you, and Jurian moved fast. His hands caught your shoulders, holding you up before you could hit the floor.

Scents hit you next. Two stood out among the hundreds. One was so familiar, it made your throat close—citrus and sea salt. The other… unfamiliar and yet—achingly familiar. Lilac and pear. Like childhood dreams you couldn’t quite remember. Like a home you never got to live in.

You clung to Jurian like a lifeline.

The rest came too fast. Fainter traces: leather and snow, the scent of wind and bloodied steel. Shadows. Secrets. You knew those smells. Had buried your face into those cloaks. Had laughed beside them, bled beside them. The Inner Court. The scent was old—faint, as if months removed—but it was there. They had been here.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. You wanted to run, to scream, to collapse beneath the memory and possibility.

And just as quickly, it vanished.

That hum. That pull. That feeling. Gone. As if it had never been there to begin with. Like the realm itself had exhaled and drawn back the veil.

You stood frozen in the center of the marble floor. And the only thing that filled the silence was the beat of your own heart, echoing in your ribs like the sound of something that had just… begun.

Someone said your name. Maybe Thesan. Maybe Jurian. Maybe both. You didn’t really hear it, not fully. Not as Thesan stepped closer, checking for injury you couldn’t feel, not when he offered quiet, respectful words and promised discretion. Not even when the escort of trusted Fae began guiding you down the hallways—silent, attentive—to the rooms that had once been reserved only for dignitaries of the highest rank. 

Estella had darted ahead of you the moment she realized the suite was vast enough to play hide and seek in. She’d twirled across the marble floors like they were a ballroom stage, peeked under the bed, squealed at the sight of a bathing chamber carved from pale quartz. She’d burst out onto the balcony with a shriek of delight at the sight of trees, of birds, of sky. You followed—because you had to. Because she might’ve tried to leap off the rail to test her wings. But your voice died in your throat the moment you stepped outside and looked up.

The stars were brighter than they had been in years.

Welcome home, they whispered in that silent language.

You didn’t remember how you’d managed to get Estella into bed, only that she had fallen asleep with her little hand still wrapped around your finger. You had kissed her brow, tucked the blankets around her wings, whispered something soft you couldn’t remember now. And then you had returned to the balcony—because you couldn’t bear to stay inside.

You didn’t want her to see. 

The doors remained closed behind you. A faint breeze lifted strands of your hair and brushed against your skin like a lover’s hand. You sank onto the ground and tilted your head back. And that was when the tears came.

Slow. Silent. Sliding down your cheeks as if they’d always been waiting. You made no move to stop them.

You hadn’t cried in months. Years, really—not like this. But here, in the stillness, in this place that once knew your laughter and your grief… there was nothing to shield yourself against. Nothing to hold you upright except memory.

And it was memory that found you again—gently, at first. Like slipping beneath still water. Your eyes closed, and your mind drifted, the stars above blurring, shifting.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

You stood in the heart of Velaris, just at the edge of the balcony that overlooked the Sidra. The sky was painted in indigo and soft starlight, the river below glittering like spilled silver as it wound through the city. Music drifted faintly from the streets, laughter spilling from open windows. Somewhere, someone was playing a harp, the melody wrapping around the buildings like silk.

And there he was.

Leaning lazily against the carved stone rail of the balcony, one ankle crossed over the other, wine glass in hand. His robe was half-unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up, like he'd gotten too warm and hadn't bothered fixing himself. His hair was a little mussed, his eyes glowing like amethysts in the dim light.

Rhysand.

The image of him struck something in you like a bell. Like remembering how it felt to breathe after holding it too long.

He turned his head at your approach, lips curving in that way that always made you suspicious—like he knew something you didn’t. And then that smile softened, gentled into something private, something quiet. A look he wore only for you.

“Well,” he drawled, swirling the wine, “it took you long enough.”

You crossed your arms as you stepped onto the balcony, arching a brow. “I was being polite. Letting your ego arrive first.”

He laughed—low and husky—and set the wine down. “You wound me.”

You gave him a look. “Awe, poor baby.”

Rhysand pushed off the rail with the kind of unhurried grace that only came from being born to rule and far too pretty for his own good. “For a moment there, I thought you were hiding from me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Liar,” he said fondly, voice softer now.

Then he reached for you.

You didn’t hesitate. You let him pull you close, the warmth of him wrapping around you like a second skin. One hand slid to the small of your back, the other into your hair, and you leaned into it—into him—like it was second nature. Like it had always been.

He pressed a kiss to your temple and whispered, almost against your skin, “There you are.”

You grinned against his chest. “I was literally three feet away.”

“Still,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your hair, “you were too far.”

You rolled your eyes, but your arms tightened around him. “So dramatic.”

“Says the woman who once faked a diplomatic injury to get out of a meeting with Keir.”

“I actually twisted my ankle—”

“You threw yourself down a marble staircase.”

“It was a very small staircase.”

He chuckled. “Mad. Completely mad.”

“And you married me anyway,” you whispered.

“I’d do it again,” he replied, fierce with quiet affection. “In every lifetime. In every world.”

You tilted your head up to look at him, to say something back—something light or teasing or maybe even serious—

Not until the first rays of light dragged you awake.

You found yourself in the bathing chamber shortly after, cold water cupped in your palms, dabbing at the puffiness around your eyes. As if you could wash away the memory. As if you could scrub clean the sound of his voice, the warmth of his body. As if pretending the dream hadn’t shaken you would make it true.

You pulled yourself together before Estella woke.

Because that was what you did.

And the days that followed—those first two weeks in the Dawn Court—settled into a strange, quiet rhythm.

True to his word, Thesan had offered only the most trusted spaces for your stay. A wing tucked near the royal gardens, far enough from wandering courtiers, close enough to the sea that salt would sometimes carry in through the windows. The sunrises there were soft, golden things. And every morning you stood on the balcony and let the light hit your face, as if it might burn away everything that clung too tightly.

Estella adjusted in the way only children could. With awe, and laughter, and curiosity unburdened by the feeling that pressed against your ribs each time you walked the halls. She adored Eosara and her brother and all the other Peregryns, trailed after them like a shadow, her wings fluttering excitedly whenever Thesan passed by. She asked questions—so many questions—about the court, about the people, about the statues and the flowers and the moon-silvered reflecting pools.

She hadn’t asked about her court.

Not yet.

And then there was the biting.

She had started chewing on things—sleeves, collars, even once on Jurian’s leather bracer—muttering about her teeth hurting. It hadn’t taken long to figure out her fangs were coming in sharper, shifting her bite and making all the rest of her teeth ache. It was uncomfortable and irritating, and naturally, she’d taken to biting people as a coping mechanism.

Jurian had yelped the first time she’d chomped down on his hand during an argument about bedtime. You’d warned him not to poke the bear, but to be fair, she had been half-asleep and mid-tantrum.

To your surprise, Jurian proved an excellent buffer. A voice of reason in court sessions, a biting wit at the dinner table, and—on more than one occasion—a co-conspirator in helping Estella sneak extra honey cakes from the kitchens. His presence made things easier. Not easy, but easier.

At least, until Estella bit you.

It happened over breakfast—of all mundane, peaceful times. You had leaned down to brush her hair back from her face, and without warning, she turned her head and sank her little teeth right into the crook of your shoulder.

You’d yelped, more out of shock than pain, nearly dropping your cup.

“Estella!”

She blinked up at you with wide, innocent eyes and then, unrepentantly, said, “It was loose.”

Across the table, Jurian choked on his drink. He was doubled over within seconds, laughing so hard his face turned red, barely managing to wheeze out, “I told you—she’s feral.”

You sent him a withering glare, one hand clamped over your shoulder as Estella looked vaguely proud of herself.

“She bit me,” you said, incredulous. “She actually bit me.”

Thesan set down his fork and dabbed his mouth with a napkin before saying very gently, “It’s not uncommon during this stage. Fangs developing can be… uncomfortable.”

“She drew blood.”

“Only a little,” Estella chirped, her wings twitching behind her like they had opinions of their own.

“I am going to build her a chew toy out of ironwood,” you muttered, reaching for your napkin.

“You’re lucky she didn’t go for the jugular,” he said, utterly useless as he leaned back in his chair, grinning. “I warned you she was part beast.”

“You called her a feral rat,” you shot back.

“And she’s living up to the branding.”

The High Lord sighed, long-suffering, though his mouth twitched at the edges. “If you’d like, I can have one of our healers brew a numbing salve for her gums. It might help ease the discomfort… and preserve peace at the breakfast table.”

Estella had groaned dramatically and flopped sideways into your lap, as if the world had ended with the mention of “healer.”

And the alliance? It was going well. Negotiations proceeded steadily, if a little delicately. You’d forgotten how clever Fae could be—how their smiles could have two meanings and every word dripped with suggestion. You gave an inch, and they wanted to take a mile. Even Thesan, typically diplomatic to a fault, had dared to ask for something so outrageously ambitious you’d just blinked at him and replied flatly, “It’s still human land. The answer is going to be no.”

He hadn’t pushed. But he’d smiled. As if you reminded him of someone.

For the first time since arriving, your body had started to unclench. You slept—restlessly, but you slept. Estella laughed more freely. And you’d begun to believe, just for a heartbeat, that nothing was looming. That for once, your choices had held the line.

Until the Day Court announced itself.

It came with little warning.

You were halfway through a sentence during a quiet meeting when the sensation hit.

And then the doors opened.

A courtier rushed in—breathless, pale, eyes wide—and informed you, gently, carefully, that the High Lord of the Day Court had just arrived.

An invitation, apparently, that Thesan had extended months ago.

Right after the war.

Right before he had known you were still alive.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

“Do you wanna jump over the balcony and hide in the trees?” Jurian offered, looking entirely too relaxed in his seat. One arm slung over the back of the chair, boots scuffed on polished marble, like this was any other morning meeting.

“She’s been all over the palace,” Thesan said mildly, not even glancing up from the document in front of him. “Helion will catch her scent before he even makes it into this room.”

You exhaled through your nose, hands tightening in your lap.

You didn’t respond at first—just stared at the doorway like it might swallow you whole if you blinked too slowly.

Helion.

“I don’t suppose,” you said carefully, “there’s a protocol for telling a High Lord he’s very much not welcome anymore?”

Thesan didn’t so much as flinch. “If there was, you’d be the one to invent it.” His attention drifted to Estella.

The little fae was still lying on the ground beside your chair, flipping through a picture book like nothing in the world had changed. Several more were stacked beside her, a little nest of pages and ink. She hummed quietly to herself, small feet swinging in the air, her wings twitching in time with some rhythm only she heard.

“You said that Helion already suspected.” You sighed, letting your head hit the back of the chair. “Do you think we can swear him to secrecy?” 

He didn’t even bother to answer with words. Just looked at you.

That ‘are-you-seriously-asking-me-that-knowing-how-close-Helion-and-Rhysand-are’ look that only the High Lord of Dawn could deliver without uttering a single syllable.

You groaned. “Right. Worth a try.”

He raised a single, elegant brow.

“Welp,” you exhaled, throwing your hands up in mock defeat. “We improvise, I guess. I’m never coming back here again.”

It was a joke, of course.

Mostly.

“I will send a formal apology to you and Queen Vassa for this,” Thesan said quietly, voice laced with an uncharacteristic thread of guilt. He waved his hand, and a chair appeared near the meeting table—neat, empty, unnecessary. It felt ceremonial. A gesture meant to fill the space, to acknowledge the storm already pressing at the gates of the room.

The doors opened before anyone could say another word.

The High Lord of the Day Court entered not like sunlight but like the memory of it, something golden and nostalgic. He looked unchanged, still resplendent in every way—shoulders squared, robes impeccable, his golden-brown skin aglow. But his eyes… those warm, clever eyes that so often danced with mischief… they were searching. Alert. Quietly, desperately hunting for something.

They found you almost immediately.

You stood before your body could decide otherwise. Not because it was expected—but because it was needed. You didn’t want to be looked down upon, didn’t want to shrink beneath what he already knew—what he had perhaps feared to hope. You smoothed your gown, and lifted your chin.

He stopped a few paces inside the room, gaze locked to yours like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“It is highly inappropriate, High Lord Helion,” you said, your voice formal, firm, and mercilessly even, “to arrive unannounced. Even with a standing invitation. A letter of notice is still customary, especially when stepping into a court that is not your own.”

Helion blinked once.

And then… he laughed. Quietly. Not in amusement, but in disbelief. In something hoarse and soft and aching at the edges. His lips curved into a shape that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t far from it either. “You’re still fond of lecturing me, I see.”

“And you’re still fond of theatrics,” you replied tightly. “Some things never change.”

You expected a smirk, a tease. But instead, his face shifted.

The expression that settled over him wasn’t one you’d seen often. His usually bright features dimmed into something softer. Gentler. Older. He stepped forward once, twice—then stopped again, eyes not leaving yours, like looking away might break whatever fragile thing had knit itself between this moment and the past.

And then his voice dropped. Barely a whisper. As if it might crack.

“Hello, my friend. It’s been too long.”

Just that.

A handful of words.

And they ruined you.

Not the title. Not your name. Not the accusation or question you’d been bracing for.

But that.

You didn’t remember moving—only that his arms were around you and yours around him, the hug not formal or proper or anything befitting your respective roles. 

He held you like he hadn’t realized how much he needed to. Like believing you were dead had been dragging at him this entire time. Not knowing for sure.

You pulled back just as you felt the hand curl into your dress, her body hidden mostly behind you. Helion looked down, pausing for a long moment as Estella peaked out and blinked at him. 

“And who might this fair lady be?” The High Lord of Day asked, kneeling down to the little Fae’s level. Estella fully stepped out from behind you and to your surprise did that small curtsy, so similar to how you had done when welcoming Thesan. 

You hadn’t known she’d been watching the exchange. 

“Lady Estella of Scythia,” She said, trying her hardest to say it like a proper lady, but her words wobble when saying Scythia. 

Helion’s lips twitched at the edges, as if caught between awe and delight. He placed a hand to his heart and bowed his head, all the exaggerated elegance of a court-trained male but softened by something real—something warmer, deeper. “An honor, Lady Estella of Scythia.”

Estella beamed at the praise, wings twitching behind her, and glanced back at you, clearly seeking your approval. You gave her a gentle nod, hand resting on her shoulder. She turned back to Helion, clearly pleased with herself, and added in a whisper-loud voice, “You talk like Mama.”

That earned a real smile from the High Lord, one that lit his face the way the sun lit stained glass—brilliant and a little too clear. “I shall take that as the highest compliment.” 

Helion’s smile lingered just a breath too long as he straightened again. His gaze flicked between you and the child still beaming up at him, and something in that golden gaze shifted. Like gears beginning to turn. Like truths beginning to fit together. It was subtle, but you saw it—felt it. A High Lord’s eyes. A scholar’s eyes. And worse, a man who had already suspected.

“She really is remarkable,” he said quietly, a kind of fondness threading through the words. Then his voice dropped lower, as if the words themselves held weight too dangerous to speak aloud. “Does Rhysand—?”

“Don’t.” The word left your mouth like a blade, soft but cutting. It silenced him faster than a scream would’ve.

Helion blinked, brows lifting in slow, silent surprise.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t shift, didn’t blink. “She is supposed to be a secret that is quickly not becoming one anymore,” you said, firmer now, anchoring the words with all the years of silence and sacrifice behind them. “She will not be taken from me unless she willingly wants to go.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. The room seemed to still, the golden light of the windows dimming slightly as if the sun itself were listening in. Then, finally—gently, and without judgment—he murmured, “… I understand what you’re trying to do. I do. But it won’t matter.” His voice dropped further, gaze sweeping to Estella and lingering there. “Anyone who truly sees her will know. She’s not just his daughter. She is him. In miniature.”

Estella’s head tilted at the unfamiliar tone, her little brow furrowing. “In miniature?” she asked, repeating the odd phrase with an attempt at understanding. She looked from Helion to you, trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces.

You were already opening your mouth to laugh it off, to distract, to change the subject—something—but she was staring at Helion now, and then at you. The light in her eyes dimmed just slightly, her wings curling in against her back.

“Wait,” Estella said, her voice going small. Too small. “If people know I’m Papa’s… does that mean they’ll take me away?” Her eyes darted between your face and Helion’s, searching for something—reassurance, logic, anything to undo the twist she’d already given herself.

“No,” you said quickly, but she kept going, breath picking up.

“Am I going to have to go away again?” she asked, voice cracking. Her little hands clenched at her sides, her entire body going stiff. “Mama—Mama, no—I don’t wanna go!”

You lunged forward without thinking, arms outstretched, a thousand words forming and dying before they could leave your lips. “Estella, no one is—”

But the fear had already bloomed. Not tantrum fear, not child’s play distress. It was deep. Instinctual. A tremor of power that shivered through the air, bright like a star cracking open.

You tasted it first—before the magic even sparked. That flash of raw, untrained energy, the kind that didn’t obey rules or boundaries or reason. You’d only felt it once before, during her birth. You hadn’t even known she could—

And then she was gone.

Just like that.

A breath, a heartbeat, a blink—and the space where your daughter had stood was empty. The warmth of her presence snatched away by something wild and uncontrolled. There was no dramatic display, no swirl of wind or burst of light. Just... absence. Deafening, shattering absence.

You staggered, your breath hitching, hand outstretched like you could claw the moment back. “No,” you whispered, but it didn’t stop the way your knees buckled, the way your magic surged to the surface, frantic and furious and unthinking.

Jurian shouted your name.

Thesan was already moving, barking for guards, for search wards, for any trace of where she might have gone.

And just like that, the whole of the Dawn Court exploded into chaos.

[dreamdragonkadia]

As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - II.I Word Count: 4.0k A/N: I'm on a roll with this fic. Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Prev - Next ✦ Ao3

How do you honor a dead Lady?

Prayers?

Fires?

Leaving her favorite pastries by that quiet lake she loved, hoping the scent might somehow reach her across the veil?

For someone as intimately familiar with grief as Azriel was—someone who had walked through death more times than he could count—this grief lodged in his chest in a way nothing else ever had, settled in the same spot as if Rhysand’s mother and sister died all over again.

He’d tried. Mother, he’d tried. For Rhys, who had barely spoken about it again since his return that first day and he told them all what happened. For Cassian, who threw himself into training so violently Az had to pull him out of the ring before he destroyed something—or someone. For Mor, who shut the doors to her chambers for three straight days and only opened them again when he brought her the wine you'd once sworn she’d hoard if the world ended.

But mostly—he tried for you.

He’d imagined what you’d say if you saw them unraveling.

“If you even dare let this court fall to pieces because I kicked the bucket, I’ll come back from the dead just to stab every one of you.”

You’d meant it, too. Gods, he could see you—hands on your hips, that haughty smirk on your face, as if death was nothing more than an inconvenience you’d eventually bully into submission.

So he gave himself a week. One week to mourn you.

Seven days of slipping into silence. Of flying to the places you used to haunt—the library balcony, the cliffs above the sea, the roof of the Court of Nightmares where you’d once dragged him for “peace and quiet” while you spied on the drama unfolding below.

You’d grin over the rim of your cup and say, “Spymaster, ShadowSinger, Prince of Brooding—gods help us if they knew you liked lavender tarts.”

He didn’t like them. Not really.

He just liked that you did.

And then a week turned into two. And then two into two months.

And it started to settle in. Not the kind of grief that screams and breaks. But the kind that lingers. That lives in the silence after someone says something funny and you turn, ready to share it with them—only to remember they’re not there.

That was the worst of it.

Because no one else had filled the space you left behind.

Not for Azriel.

Who else would he share the wildest Court gossip with and not feel ridiculous doing it? Who else would wink at him across a room, raise an eyebrow, and silently convey every sarcastic thought in your head before he’d even opened his mouth?

He didn’t tell anyone else what he learned now—not the juicy things, not the petty things. Only Amren asked. Because Amren knew.

She’d raise an eyebrow and mutter, “She would’ve loved this,” when he muttered some ridiculous tale of scandal from Hewn City.

And Az would just grunt, trying not to let it show that the silence after hurt more than the story itself.

There had been afternoons—hundreds of them, if he let himself count—when the two of you had lounged on sun-warmed balconies or curled in shadowy corners of the House of Wind, sipping tea and wine and trading secrets like coins. You, barefoot in your silk robes, legs tucked beneath you with all the elegance of a Queen and none of the formality. Him, still in leathers, shadows clinging to his shoulders, pretending to be uninterested in your antics—though it was always him who lingered longest.

“You’re the only male I trust not to ruin my tea set,” you’d teased once, swirling your cup like it held far more than tea.

“That’s because Cassian shattered three,” he’d muttered.

“And Rhys poured wine in the sugar jar.”

“He said it was an experiment.”

“He said it was romantic.”

You both had laughed.

And now… you were gone.

Gone so completely, so violently, without fanfare or warning, that perhaps he’d never known how to grieve you properly. That perhaps none of them had. The Inner Circle had fought wars and monsters, had faced a thousand different versions of sorrow.

You were not meant to be one of the losses.

Even Rhys, who had twenty years to process, and still nearly lost himself to the thought of it. The rest of them had two months to accept the silence.

Two months to unlearn the sound of your voice in rooms you once filled.

Azriel had tried to make peace with it. For your sake. For the court’s.

He told himself you'd want them to move forward, to keep going, to protect what mattered.

And yet—when the High Lady was first brought to the Night Court, half-wild and afraid, his very first thought wasn’t of how to secure her help or assess her power.

It was to find The Lady of the Night.

To ask how to make her feel more welcome.

Because it had always been you who knew what to say to strangers. You who could read a room in a single glance, then wield your words with surgical precision or devastating kindness. You who saw through armor better than anyone, even him.

But you weren’t there.

He hadn’t wanted Feyre to feel like a replacement. Hadn’t wanted her to feel the shadow of you hanging over her shoulder. So he’d said nothing. They had said nothing. He thought they all would remain silent until Rhysand chose to tell her.

But it hadn’t been Rhys.

It had been Mor.

She’d told Feyre one night, unprompted, in front of a portrait in that same soft fierceness she always used when talking about people she loved. Azriel hadn’t been there when it happened, but he knew the way Mor would’ve spoken—honest, reverent, a little sad around the edges.

And Feyre…

She hadn’t flinched from it.

Hadn’t been made smaller by your memory. She’d simply taken it in, let it settle, and carried it with grace.

And somehow, after that, something shifted.

Azriel found a strange sense of peace in Feyre—not because she filled the space you left, but because she never tried to.

Helping her train, teaching her to fly, guiding her through the endless frustration of learning to navigate her new body—it gave him purpose. A way to be useful again.

And maybe, in some quiet way, it helped him mourn.

And it hadn’t been Cassian or Amren that Feyre went to after her return from spring. Once she was sure her sisters were safe.

It had been him.

She found him on the balcony just before dawn, the wind curling through his wings. Her steps had been cautious, not hesitant—but respectful.

“I’m sorry,” she had said softly, voice barely louder than the wind.

And Azriel had known, without asking, what she meant.

She wasn’t apologizing for being High Lady.

She was apologizing for not discussing the marriage with them.

For stepping into a space they once imagined belonged to you.

But it was never about one replacing the other.

You were the Last Lady of the Night. That was what Amren still called without apology. That title—your title—had not been stripped or passed on. Feyre was their High Lady. Rhysand’s mate. The rightful ruler of a court she helped save.

There was no resentment in Azriel. No bitterness. No jealousy.

He had never once blamed Rhysand. Never blamed Feyre.

A part of him, even, was glad. Genuinely. That Rhys could know happiness. That the court could be rebuilt stronger after the war. That Feyre had brought them light.

And Feyre… She had never tried to erase you. She encouraged them to speak of you when they could. When they needed. She had looked him in the eye that morning and said, “She mattered to all of you. I would never ask you to pretend she didn’t.”

It had stunned him, how simply she understood.

He hadn’t known what to say at first. The words weren’t there, not fully formed. But eventually, as the sun began to crest the horizon, he found himself murmuring,

“You two would’ve balanced each other. Personalities, I mean.”

Feyre had smiled—small, sad, knowing.

Maybe that’s why he’d told her.

Why the next words slipped out before he had time to second-guess them.

“Did Rhys tell you she was older than us?”

Feyre blinked, clearly not expecting him to share anything more.

“No,” she said gently.

“The betrothal contract was signed when Rhys was eight. She was seventeen. We met her for the first time when Rhys was twelve. The last High Lord finally stopped stalling and brought her to the Illyrian camps.”

He could still remember that day. Every detail.

You’d walked into the training ring like you didn’t care that the snow was half-melted or that mud clung to your boots. Like you didn’t notice the way every male there had gone silent the moment you appeared.

You’d been beautiful, of course. All High Fae were, to some degree—but you had something else. That stillness. That grace. That regality that made even Cassian shut his mouth. For a moment, at least.

Dangerous. Cold. Composed.

Azriel had expected you to be like the others—distant, stiff, too proud to look twice at a camp full of winged brutes.

And then you’d tilted your head, looked straight at Cassian, and said:

“You look like trouble.”

It had startled a laugh out of Rhysand. Cassian had puffed up with mock offense.

And you had just smiled—not cold, not haughty. Just amused. Like you’d already decided they weren’t beneath you. Like you’d seen something in them worth noticing.

“Rhys’s mother hated the arrangement,” he added after a beat. “Wouldn’t let him return to Velaris long enough to meet her properly if she could help it. Kept hoping it would all fall apart. At first at least.” 

It hadn’t been a secret—not really.

Everyone knew the former Lady of the Night Court had resented the match, no matter how politically smart it had been. But politics had never impressed her much, and she hadn’t liked the idea of someone being chosen for her son. Especially someone she hadn’t approved of herself.

Cassian had reminded you of that fact every couple of years—usually when you teased him too hard or made him suffer through another formal event in polished armor and a tight cravat. He’d elbow you in the ribs and mutter, “You know, you weren’t even supposed to stick around.”

And you—Mother, you’d grin like you’d just won a war. A smug, feral little thing, flashing teeth and mischief and pride.

“But guess who ended up being her favorite?” you’d sing-song, sticking your tongue out at him with no regard for rank or dignity.

Azriel didn’t smile, not now, but the memory lit in his chest like an ember.

It wasn’t his story to tell—not the whole of it. Not the reasons why you’d become the Lady of the Night long before you ever officially wore the title.

Not how, after the first meeting, you had been the one winnowing in and out under High Lord orders. Quietly. Efficiently.

To check in.

To report back.

To observe.

You’d hated it. Gods, how you’d hated it.

Not the court, not the males—just the cold.

You made that fact perfectly clear, too. Never subtle, not with the way you bundled yourself in thick furs and spelled your boots to be self-heating. Rhys’s little sister, Estelle, had been the one to rat you out—tugging on Azriel’s arm one winter morning and whispering with a conspiratorial smile, “She says she’d rather be thrown in a volcano than have to watch another snowstorm roll through. Don’t tell her I told you.”

But Estelle had loved you. You’d visit her as often as you were allowed. She’d wanted to know her brother’s betrothed, had insisted.

And so you’d come. Again and again.

Winnowing through snowstorms with ice in your hair and a scowl on your face, dragging news and updates and biting sarcasm behind you like a cloak. You never complained directly—not in front of Rhys, at least—but Azriel remembered the way your hands never left your coat, the way your nose was always red, and how your curses in the cold became increasingly creative with each visit.

And still, you came.

Again and again.

And somewhere between those reluctant visits and those scouting trips into Illyria, between the way you learned every name in the camp and the way you watched their sparring matches with arms crossed and eyes noting details, you stopped being the political stranger they were told to tolerate…

And started becoming theirs.

The shift was subtle. Gradual. The kind of change that only makes sense in hindsight.

And maybe it became undeniable the first time Rhys’s mother had brought out her sewing kit one evening and began to stitch.

No one had dared ask at first.

But the truth slipped out in the way she muttered about “proper materials” for Illyrian winters and how “that girl’s coats are utterly useless.”

She didn’t say your name. She didn’t have to.

Because the next time you arrived, your coat had been replaced with one of her making. Lined with thick black velvet, buttons enchanted against frostbite, and seams so tight they wouldn’t let the wind through if it begged.

And she’d hovered. Gods, she’d hovered. Adjusting the collar. Tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. Muttering about how "you’d catch your death otherwise."

Dotting on you like a mother hen.

And that was when they knew—when they all knew—that she had accepted it.

That she had accepted you.

Not because she’d been told to. Not because of a contract.

But because somewhere in those snow-covered camps and quiet exchanges, you’d become real to her.

Not a title. Not a duty. Someone.

And later when Rhys turned eighteen, it became clear just how deep that shift had settled.

His mother had told him, without room for argument, that the first dance of his birthday celebration would go to his betrothed. To you.

And no one questioned it. Not Rhys. Not Cassian. Not Azriel.

Because by then, there was no doubt.

You’d become a part of them.

And when the High Lord had grown fearful—had split Azriel from his brother to keep the court’s weapons separate—it was you he worked with most.

He had found something like peace in telling Feyre little things about you in passing. Letting himself accept the truth of your absence.

Until the night Mor found him.

She’d come to the lake just outside Velaris, breathless and pale, and spoken your name. Just once.

It was all it took.

And then—Elain’s words. The portrait. The vision. The way Mor’s voice trembled when she said, "Say I’m wrong. Say it’s impossible."

Azriel had listened to it all, stone-faced and silent.

And though he hadn’t said it aloud—hadn’t needed to—the stillness of his shadows, the way they pulled closer, tighter, was answer enough.

He hadn’t denied it.

Because deep down, in the quiet places even he rarely acknowledged…

He had wondered, too.

And when Mor finally whispered, “If there’s even a chance…”

He’d looked out over the water, exhaled slowly—

And said, “There’s a rumor.”

It had started during his investigation of the mortal queens, a sliver of information buried beneath layers of lies and manipulation. At the time, it had seemed like just another tactic—something Hybern had planted to distract, to confuse, to throw their enemies into disarray. And yet… something about it had stuck with him. 

And then, during the battle, they arrived.

Fae who had once been marked as fallen. As lost. As dead.

They came with Vassa, the mortal queen cloaked in fire, who walked beside those who should not have walked at all.

Azriel had watched them enter the camp, watched the way they held themselves—too quiet, too careful. Watched the way their eyes scanned the crowd, not searching for allies, but avoiding the ones who might recognize what they weren’t saying.

He had approached.

Asked the questions he wasn’t sure he was ready to have answered.

And they had only looked at him. Not with pity. Not with cruelty.

Just silence.

Intentional silence.

The kind that made his shadows curl tighter around him. The kind that said more than words ever could.

They knew something.

And none of them would speak.

But Azriel had seen it—that flicker of recognition, so brief most would’ve missed it. The twitch in one Fae’s mouth when your name passed his lips. The way another avoided his eyes, too quick to excuse herself. And the third—the one who glanced toward the sea like it might reveal a truth he wasn’t brave enough to say aloud. It had been subtle, careful. But not careful enough. He was the Shadowsinger. He noticed what others didn’t. And what he saw in those silences was enough.

Mor had not brought it up again. He hadn’t told a soul. And no one had questioned him when he said there were rumors to follow, things that didn’t quite add up, stories left unfinished in the aftermath of war. No one asked what those rumors were.

It had taken longer than he expected to slip past the magical defenses encasing the borders of the Kingdom of Scythia. Not human-made, not even new. These were old wards—woven with purpose, with age, with a kind of knowing only Fae magic possessed. The kind meant to keep eyes like his away. And it almost did. But Azriel was patient. Shadows knew how to wait. And so did he.

For a time, he only observed. Let his shadows weave through the marketplace, the temples, the gardens and palaces, listening as if the air itself might confess something. There were Fae here, that much was clear—some from every court, mingling with humans as if no war had ever passed between them. Comfortable. Settled. As though the divisions that had carved their world in two had never mattered here. Yet no one spoke of you directly. Not by name.

There were whispers, though. Talks of their Lady among Vassa’s inner circle—one not bound by title or bloodline. A woman whose voice could silence a room, who walked through fire and shadow without blinking. Azriel almost left then. The information was valuable, more than enough to return with. Something Rhys needed to know. And he had almost turned away, until he felt it.

It wasn’t a word. Not a voice in his mind. It was... a sensation. Younger. Curious. Like being watched by a presence—one that felt oddly familiar, like catching a note of a song you hadn’t heard a full tune for. The echo of Rhysand’s magic—but it wasn’t him. It was something else. Someone else. And then—just like that—it was gone. Cut off.

Still, he waited. Another three days. And on the third, the court began to shift. New enchantments. New wards. The Dawn Court was coming. The castle readied itself for guests, and the magic in the walls responded accordingly. And then—his shadows stirred.

Familiar magic moved through the air, brushing against him like a sigh through silk. Recognition struck so fast he didn’t have time to think, only feel. His shadows peeled away from him, darting into the darkness like hounds catching a scent, and he didn’t stop them.

He moved through the palace like smoke, silent and unseen, his footsteps swallowed by stone and darkness. He didn’t question where he was going. His shadows had found something. 

Barefoot in the garden. Face tilted to the stars as if they were telling a story. The world so still besides the shadows that flickered across your shoulders. 

And Azriel… he couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

The crushing weight in his chest returned with a vengeance—as if he was being told for the first time all over again that you were gone. Only now, that grief was warping, twisting—turning into something too vast to name.

You were here.

He stepped forward, his voice catching somewhere between disbelief and inevitability, the words slipping out of him like they had waited for permission.

“You’re alive.”

Then he dropped. One knee to the earth, as if his body remembered how to honor you before his mind could catch up. It wasn’t planned—it was instinct. Respect. Reverence. The kind of devotion that couldn’t be shaken by time or distance or death. His gaze fixed on the ground, refusing to lift, because if he looked up… if he looked at you and you weren’t really there, if this was some cruel trick—he wasn’t sure he’d recover.

The garden was quiet, save for the whisper of leaves.

Then, gently, the grass shifted in front of him. A whisper of fabric stirred in the breeze, and he caught sight of the hem of a dark nightdress. Then, a hand. Gentle. Warm. Fingers curling over his shoulder with a tenderness that shattered something deep in his chest.

Your voice broke softly across the silence.

“…Hello, Azriel.”

It cracked at the edges, like it wasn’t used to forming his name. Like it hurt to say it. 

“It’s been too long.”

And then—just like that—you were crying.

He heard it in the tremble of your breath, felt it in the way your hand trembled against him. His own eyes burned, the tears rising before he could stop them. He looked up—finally, truly looked—and saw you. Not a dream. Not a shadow. Not a ghost.

You.

And he wasn’t sure if it was you who moved first or him. Only that, suddenly, he was in your arms, or you were in his, and none of it mattered. There was no hesitation, no decorum, no court or duty. Just the crushing, desperate ache of reunion.

You clung to each other beneath the garden’s starlit hush, your breaths unsteady, your bodies shaking—not from fear or cold, but from the sheer force of emotion neither of you could name. It wasn’t grace. It wasn’t beauty. It was raw, the kind of reunion that cracked open the places you thought had long since scarred over.

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Azriel’s wings dropped.

They sagged behind him, the powerful muscles trembling too hard to hold them aloft. His wings touched the ground—an unforgivable gesture for any Illyrian, a sign of exhaustion, defeat, or despair. But right now, he didn’t care. 

But then—your hands were on his chest, gently but urgently pushing back. Not far, just enough to look at him. And he saw it then—the fear that had been buried beneath the tears, beneath the relief.

“You can’t tell.”

The words spilled past your lips in a whisper—rushed, desperate. Your eyes searched his face like they already knew the battle that might follow.

“You can’t tell anyone,” you breathed, voice cracking. “I know what I’m asking, I know I have no right anymore, I’m not your Lady—”

He stiffened, his hands still loosely on your arms, his shadows curling tight behind him.

You were wrong. So deeply, devastatingly wrong.

You were still his Lady.

You were still theirs.

He opened his mouth to tell you just that. To remind you who you were. Who you still were, even now—

“Mama?”

A small, sleepy voice carried into the stillness.

Azriel froze.

He turned, slowly, as if moving too fast would make the sound vanish.

And there—emerging from the shadows of a pillar, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists—was a little girl.

And for a moment, for a heartbeat that seemed to shatter everything he thought he understood, he thought he was looking at a baby version of Estelle.

But no—no, not quite. The features were younger. Softer. But so unmistakably familiar it felt like being knocked breathless.

Rhysand.

It was Rhysand’s face—his High Lord’s face, down to the curve of the cheekbones, the deep violet eyes blinking up at him with sleep-heavy curiosity.

She smiled at him—gentle, like he was something soft and safe.

“Friend? Family?”

And Azriel understood.

Understood everything.

[dreamdragonkadia]

As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - I.I Word Count: 3.2k A/N: I like doing mini-parts for the other characters. Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Prev - Next ✦ Ao3

There were two things Mor never expected to happen in her life. Not once had the thought crossed her mind—not in all the centuries she had spent at Rhysand’s side, through war and peace, through his long, aching absence Under the Mountain.

The first was Rhys returning after fifty years by himself. Alone. Without her.

Without the woman who had fought, laughed, and ruled beside him. The woman who had soothed Rhys’s darkest moments, who had been Cassian’s fiercest sparring partner, who had made even Azriel—silent, brooding, unreadable Azriel—smile in that rare way of his. The woman Mor had known since she was young, who had been her friend before she had even known what true friendship was.

She had known—they all had known—that things were bad Under the Mountain. That Rhys had endured horrors none of them could fathom. That you had been there, too, suffering beside him. But none of them had ever, ever thought you wouldn’t come home. That when Rhys returned, you wouldn’t return with him.

The second was when Rhysand—her cousin, the most unshakable male she had ever known—collapsed into her arms and wept as she asked where his wife, where you were.

Dead.

The realization had shattered something in all of them.

The Lady of the Night Court was dead. Gone. No longer breathing, no longer standing in their ranks, no longer offering that quiet strength that had carried them through so many battles. You were simply…gone.

Cassian had let out a sound Mor would never forget, one of pure rage and grief, something torn from the depths of his soul. He had nearly torn through the house in his grief, as if he could undo it, as if fighting hard enough could bring you back.

Azriel had said nothing. He had only disappeared into the shadows, gone for hours, for days, Mor didn’t know. When he returned, his face was stoic, his shadows whispering, coiling tight around him like even they couldn’t bear the loss.

And Rhys—

Rhys had looked at her, at Cassian, at Azriel, at Amren as if he didn’t recognize them. As if the world he had clawed his way back to was not one he wanted to be in anymore.

Mor didn’t know how to hold them together. How to fix this. How to grieve you. She didn’t know how to walk into the townhouse and not see you curled up in the armchair with a book, how to go to Rita’s without you tugging her onto the dance floor, how to live in this city—your city—without you.

Amren had only placed a hand on Rhys’s shoulder, murmured, “I am sorry for your loss,” before turning away. Not out of cruelty. No—Mor had needed time to realize it, that Amren had not known how to react. How to grieve someone who had felt as eternal as the stars.

And then—then there had been the final, gutting blow.

Rhysand, their High Lord, their broken brother, had found his mate.

And she was betrothed to the High Lord of Spring.

A mortal girl.

Mor had stared at him, at the name that passed his lips—Feyre. A name she did not know. A name that meant nothing to her. Because how could it? How could it compare to the woman they had already lost?

A mate, when his wife was barely cold in the grave. 

At least, to them.

Mor did not know whether to weep for him or scream at the Mother for such a cruel twist of fate. 

She tried—gods above, she tried—to find comfort in the idea that maybe, maybe, the Mother had taken pity on them. That maybe this girl, this human girl, was a reincarnation of you. That after twenty long years, the Mother had given them back their Lady of the Night in another form.

Maybe it meant something that Rhys had tried to stay away and yet still found himself drawn to her. That he had gone to her wedding, torn her from it like it had been destiny.

But then Mor met Feyre Archeron.

And she was not you.

There was no flicker of recognition in her soul, no trace of the woman who had stood at Rhys’s side and defied the world for him. There was no laughter shared between them, no secret glances of knowing, no familiarity in the way she moved, the way she breathed.

Feyre Archeron was not you.

And that—that—was the day Mor finally had to accept that her Lady of the Night was truly gone. That her friend would not return with answers, would not be one step ahead of the Hybern threat. That the burden of ruling Hwen City in your stead now lay heavy on Mor’s own shoulders. That she would have to look into your parents’ grief-stricken faces—the only other good thing to come out of the Court of Nightmares besides their daughter—over and over again.

No, Feyre Archeron was not you.

But maybe… maybe she was something else.

Maybe she was a way forward.

Maybe this was the Mother’s last gift to Rhys—this broken, furious, made-fae girl who was his mate, who was, despite everything, starting to put the pieces of him back together.

Perhaps that was why, when Mor finally pushed Rhysand to do something, to try, she used your name.

"She was not your mate, Rhys. No matter how much either of you wanted it to be true. So maybe she sent this one as an apology. I do not think death would keep our Lady from interfering with her court one last time."

And for the first time in days, a snort of laughter—soft, broken, real—escaped Rhysand’s lips.

Mor leaned back against the couch, tipping her whiskey toward him in silent victory.

"I just want to know why," he admitted at last, his voice hoarse as he stared out at the night sky. Whiskey sat in both their hands, the golden liquid catching the light. Not Mor’s drink of choice, but damned if she was going to drink anything else tonight. "Not a single word to me, but a letter. One letter that I burned so no one would ever find out that even Under that awful place, she kept trying to help others. Tried to help me."

"Did her plan work?" Mor muttered, swirling her drink in her glass.

Rhys let out another humorless chuckle. "To perfection. Amarantha’s trust in me skyrocketed after that—deserted by my own dead wife? That was enough to leash me for the rest of time was everyone’s thought. The rest think my wife was a fool, that she got someone from their courts killed." 

Something dark flickered in the room. A pulse of power. A physical manifestation of Rhys’s barely leashed rage. 

Because this court—this family—would defend their Lady of the Night until their own deaths. "I don’t want Feyre to think she’s a replacement for another. Because she’s not—"

"I don’t think anyone who knows you would think that, Rhys." Because you couldn’t be replaced. "She’d want you to be happy. The least you owe her is to be happy."

Rhys stared down into his drink. "I know."

And for the first time in days, Mor almost believed him.

So she didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t hesitate when Rhys gave the order to retrieve Feyre from Spring, to pull his mate from the suffocating golden cage Tamlin had locked her in. Didn’t hesitate to make the girl feel welcome in their court, to offer her a hand despite the ghosts that still lingered in their halls, in their hearts.

Because if Cassian and Azriel—who had known grief longer than most had been alive—could accept Feyre, even while mourning the one they had lost, then so could Mor.

But what did make her hesitate—what had made her stomach tighten, her throat go dry—was when Feyre had seen that portrait in the Townhouse.

One of several Rhysand had commissioned centuries ago. One that, no matter how many years passed, would remain untouched.

"Who is this?" Feyre marveled aloud, fingers brushing along the frame, delicate, reverent.

Despite the gentleness of the touch, Mor wanted to pull her away.

It was instinct, that unyielding need to preserve what little remained of the Lady of the Night Court. To protect the few pieces of you that still lingered, still existed beyond memory, beyond stories whispered in the quiet hours of the night.

Feyre tilted her head, brows furrowing slightly. "She looks familiar."

Mor’s breath caught. A trick of the mind, surely. A passing resemblance buried somewhere in Feyre’s subconscious. It was impossible.

"That’s not possible," Mor said, forcing a casualness she did not feel, hands clasping loosely before her. "She’s dead."

"Dead?" Feyre turned toward her, blinking.

She should have left it at that. Should have let the moment pass. But Feyre only studied the portrait again, gaze tracing the elegant lines of your face, the ethereal glow the artist had captured in your immortal features. Then, softer, almost to herself—

"I wouldn’t forget seeing someone this beautiful."

Mor let out a slow breath, willing herself to stay composed. "She was," she admitted. "Beautiful. Kind. Clever. Too clever for her own good, sometimes." Her lips twitched, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "But she’s been dead for over twenty years now. She—" The High Fae hesitated, staring at the painting, as if expecting you to step out of it, to prove her wrong, to laugh and scold her for being so sentimental. But you never would.

So she turned back to Feyre and said, voice gentler now, "The woman in that portrait was the last Lady of this Court. Rhys’s late wife."

Silence.

Feyre stiffened, her fingers retracting from the frame as if she had touched something sacred, something forbidden.

Mor only continued, because someone had to say it, had to make Feyre understand what that portrait meant, what you had meant. "She died while they were Under the Mountain."

“He never said.” 

"It’s hard. We all just found out about it while he lived with the knowledge for over twenty years."

It should have been that. It was that.

Even when Rhysand and Feyre had secretly married, when Mor had stood in front of his High Lord, her anger had not been at the bond or the ceremony. It had been at him. At the fact that he had let Feyre go back to Spring alone. That he had risked losing her, too.

But when he had finally told them, She is not just your lady. She is your High Lady.

Mor had felt the smallest, quietest relief.

Because your title was still your own.

Every other Lady of the Court was but a high title for a consort, a place beside their High Lord and nothing more. But you had taken that title and made it into something greater. You had honored Rhysand’s mother with it, had turned it into a crown forged in power and shadow and fear.

You had made the world know the power of your name.

And when she still heard the whispers—the Illyrian warriors murmuring of the Lady of the Night coming to claim their souls, the Court of Nightmares speaking your name in hushed reverence, in fear—

It brought a smile to Mor’s face.

Because even now, even dead, you were still a legend.

Even he—her father, cruel and wretched as he was—would not dare speak against you. Not in front of others. Even if the Court of Nightmares hated Rhysand, even if they despised her, they had, at the very least, respected your name.

Even if it should have been that—should have been only that—it was all ruined for her when Feyre’s sister, Elain, found that portrait in the old office in the House of Wind.

When she had wandered into a magically sealed room that no one had opened in over a decade—doors that should have remained locked, untouched.

And yet, there Elain had stood, in the middle of that forgotten space, staring up at the portrait as if it had spoken to her.

Mor had barely managed to get out a sharp, “Elain, what are you doing in here?” before the seer whispered—

"She’s waiting."

A chill slithered down Mor’s spine. "What?"

Elain didn’t look away from the painting.

Didn’t blink.

Her eyes, too bright, too knowing, stayed fixed on the face immortalized in that portrait—on you.

"She’s waiting," Elain repeated, softer this time. "She was lost, but the stars kept her safe. Kept them both safe. A daughter of darkness, cradled by fire. Hidden, hidden… but the storm is coming. Slipping faster than she could catch it. Stop it."

Mor's stomach plummeted.

No.

No, Elain had to be wrong. Had to be seeing something else, someone else.

Because you were dead.

But even as they left that room, even as Mor slammed the doors shut, sealed them tight with wards no one should be able to break again—

Something in her chest knotted.

Anxiety. Dread. Sorrow.

And the tiniest flicker of hope.

Her feet carried her forward at a slow pace.

Mor wasn’t sure if that whisper of hope had stripped all sense of reason from her. If it was something she should crush beneath her heel, should let go.

Because if you had been alive—if you were alive—you would have come back.

And if you were—somewhere—the political disaster that would unfold…

Mor exhaled, rubbing her hands over her face as if she could scrub the thoughts away. Maybe she was just angry. Still furious with Rhysand for promising her father access to Velaris, for opening up the Moonstone Palace.

For giving access to your things, to the rooms you had once filled with your presence. Mor had made sure to seal them twice over. 

It wasn’t fair—to Feyre, to her High Lady, to the female who had done nothing but try to find her place in a court still haunted by ghosts. She didn’t want to hurt Feyre. Not in any way.

Feyre, who had never asked for any of this.

Feyre, who had willingly left the portraits untouched, who had once sat near them and said, “It brings me a strange sort of comfort. Like she’s holding my hand.”

Feyre, who had wandered into that old, abandoned room—the one that had belonged to you—because it was the only place she had felt like she could breathe with everything happening. "I would have liked to meet her."

Maybe Mor was just awful for wanting to know the truth so badly that she was willing to drag another down this pit of hope and anxiety.

But…

She knew where to find Az at this hour.

A small lake just outside Velaris.

A place pulled down with memories—of stolen afternoons, of you lounging on a blanket with a book in one hand and a drink in the other. The laughter so loud and bright it made her chest ache. Of a night that had ended with her doubled over, vomiting into the bushes while you—drunkenly snorting��tried to rub her back, only to kneel over and throw up right beside her.

Az had been beside himself, torn between disgust and amusement. "Idiots," he had muttered, handing both of them water. "The worst drunkards I’ve ever seen."

And you—gods above, you—had only groaned, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, "You love us. Not a word to Cassian about this.”

She found him standing at the edge of the water, wings tucked in, shadows curling lazily around his shoulders as he stared out across the lake. The moonlight turned the surface silver, broken only by the ripples of a passing breeze.

Azriel had barely glanced over his shoulder at her, brow raised.

"I need your help, but you can't tell anyone what we're doing." The words tumbled out too fast, rushed, breathless.

Az blinked at her. He should have told her no. Should have said that if Rhys asked, he would tell him. Should have reminded her that they had all made promises, all sworn. But Azriel remained quiet, letting her continue.

She only had to say your name once to prompt the slightest reaction—so slight that anyone else might have missed it.

The faintest hitch in his breath. The way his shadows coiled tighter around his shoulders. And then Mor was spilling it.

Everything.

Elain’s words. The way she had looked at that portrait, the way her voice had gone distant, hollow. The certainty that laced her tone, as if she knew. As if she had seen.

Mor’s theories followed, unraveling in rapid, desperate succession. Outlandish, impossible, reckless—but still she said them. Because if she didn’t say them, if she didn’t speak them aloud, she might drown in them. "Tell me I am going crazy," she finally pleaded. "Tell me I am grieving and this whole Hybern-at-our-doors nightmare has made me insane."

Her voice cracked.

Azriel just stared at her. Did not say a word. He should have said something. Should have reassured her, told her she was being ridiculous, told her that grief was making her see things that weren’t there.

But he didn’t.

And that was what terrified her the most.

Because Azriel did not waste words. Did not entertain fantasies. If there was no truth to her theories, if she was simply unraveling under everything, he would have told her.

Mor crossed her arms, trying to ground herself. “Say something.”

He hesitated. Too long.

"I don’t know what you want me to say," he admitted at last. His voice was quiet, careful.

"Say I’m wrong. Say it’s impossible."

A muscle feathered in his jaw. His eyes flickered with something she couldn’t place.

"You’re grieving," he finally said. "That much is true. We all still are."

Mor clenched her teeth, looking away, looking at the lake, anywhere but at him. He hadn’t said she was wrong.

"Az—"

"Elain sees things we don’t understand," he interrupted. "Not all of them make sense. Not all of them come true in the way we think."

But that wasn’t a denial.

And Mor knew—knew—that if Azriel had any doubt about something, he would hunt it down until he found the truth.

"So you don’t believe me," she muttered, shaking her head. "But you don’t not believe me either."

He said nothing. That silence was worse than any answer he could have given her. Silence meant he was considering it.

Silence meant that somewhere, buried in that impossibly mind of his, he had asked himself the same question she had:

What if?

What if Elain’s vision was true?

What if you had survived?

What if there was still some part of you out there, waiting in the dark?

The thought made her chest ache.

She ran a hand through her hair, laughing bitterly. “This is ridiculous. She would have come home.”

"Maybe she wouldn’t. Not if it would hurt Rhys. Not if it would hurt this court."

The words were so quiet, so carefully spoken, that it took her a moment to realize he had actually said them.

Mor’s stomach twisted.

"You think—" She shook her head. "No. No, Rhys would have felt it if she were alive. They’re minds were link—"

"That was only a thread," Azriel murmured. "And it can be severed. Blocked out. A wall as cold as death."

Mor went still.

"If there is even a chance Elain is right," Mor whispered, barely able to say it aloud, "we have to find out, Az. We have to know."

His shadows swirled, as if responding to her words.

A long silence stretched between them.

Then—Azriel exhaled, long and slow.

"There is a rumor…”

[dreamdragonkadia]

As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - I Word Count: 7.7k A/N: The drama is a slow build up. Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Prev - Next ✦ Ao3

And as simply as that, as simply as if you were not on your deathbed, not near the gates of the afterlife, not slipping in and out of wakefulness for hours at a time while glancing at the stars, trying to read them, trying to understand past their whispers.

"Be strong."

"Don’t let go."

"Live."

As if your body had not nearly torn itself apart to bring her into the world—

A year and a half passed by.

It was slow at first. 

The kind of slowness that stretched infinitely, where days bled into nights, where every breath was a struggle, where the aching in your bones was a reminder that you had survived when you should not have.

The nights were the worst. The stillness. The memories that crept in when you were too exhausted to keep them at bay.

You had died that night.

Had felt the pull of something beyond this world, had heard the soft murmurs of the stars, had felt the presence of the Mother, cradling you in the liminal space between life and death. 

"Not yet." The words had been so soft, like the brush of a gentle breeze against your skin. "Not yet, my dear sweet child. You have not finished your role. For who else shall guide death than the twilight between?"

Then—nothing. Only that whispered truth, before you had been wrenched back into the land of the living. Back into the world of pain, of struggle, of breath that came too raggedly, of a body that struggled to hold itself.

The stars outside your window had confirmed it had not been a dream. They had blinked back at you, watching, waiting, and through their silent, celestial song, they had left you with one more message.

"You’ve been granted the gift you have longed for."

For days, you had turned those words over and over in your mind, searching for meaning. Not once did the stars align with an answer to this. 

At first, you had thought it meant her—the tiny child that slept beside you, her breath soft against the night air. But Estella had never been longed for—not in the way the stars had implied.

No, you had not longed for her, because she had never been expected, never planned. She had been a possibility, a future spoken of in hushed tones between you and Rhys, those long, winding conversations that stretched through the dark, where you had imagined what could be.

Your head against his chest, his fingers gliding through your hair, the slow, absentminded movements soothing in their intimacy. Body aching in the best possible manner, muscles spent, breath still uneven, skin brushed raw from the hours before.

The world had been silent then, the walls of your shared bedchamber cocooning you in warmth, in peace, in the kind of safety that only came when there was just the two of you, tangled in sheets and starlight.

His heartbeat had been a melody beneath your cheek, a rhythm you had learned by memory, one that had held you in reality more times than you could count.

"One day," you had murmured, your fingers tracing idle circles over his chest, over the inked swirls of his tattoos. "One day, perhaps. But not now."

Rhys had only hummed, his lips brushing over your temple, his free hand smoothing along the curve of your spine.

"No rush, my love," he had whispered, voice rich with affection, with promise. "We have all the time in the world."

And at the time, you had believed it.

Rhys had always been content to wait, to want what you wanted, to trust that time would bring whatever it was meant to.

To bring his kin into a world that was more peace than war, more light than shadow.

Time must have laughed at you both.

It must have found it funny, too, when the healers had to fight you to rest. "Milady, it will take time for you to heal."

Time.

It was a sick joke, a whispered cruelty wrapped in kindness. You had spent years wielding your body like a weapon, pushing it beyond its limits, enduring pain that would have broken lesser beings. 

Fit to be a lady of the Court. Fit to be the wife of a High Lord, according to the last ruler of the Night Court—because his son would have nothing less than perfection.

And yet, it had been this—this moment of creation, of bringing life into the world—that had nearly ruined you. That had left you so fragile, so weak, that even now, the memory of those first days felt like a fever dream.

Vassa had laid beside you on the bed, cradling the infant you could not hold, because you did not have the strength. Her voice had been soft, wry, but her eyes had glimmered with something close to worry. "Time must be your worst enemy currently."

She hadn’t been wrong.

If only you had your magic during that time. Maybe a week at most—and you would have been fine. Would have been able to stand, to move, to breathe without feeling like your bones were barely holding together. Would have been able to hold your child yourself.

But the pain had not completely left, even a year and a half later. It lingered, a constant companion, whispering its reminders with every slow step, every deep breath. You still could not reach for the well of power that had once sang beneath your skin, could not even grasp at the echoes of what had once made you strong.

Not until today.

The sunlight streaming through the windows was pale and cool, the room silent except for the soft crackle of the fire in the otherwise still morning. You reached for your teacup, fingers trembling slightly, feeling the familiar press of porcelain against your palm.

Then—

Magic.

Not a whisper.

Not a flicker.

But a surge, a roaring current flooding through you like it had never left. Like Amarantha had never taken it.

The teacup slipped from your hand, crashing against the floor with a violent shatter, tea splattering across the intricate carpets. But you hardly heard it.

Because magic—your magic—returned to you.

It was a rush of heat, of life, pulsing beneath your skin, sparking in the air around you. You felt your heart lurch in your chest, a tremor running down your spine. A thousand tiny flickers of power curled around your fingertips.

It was the feeling of wholeness.

Of being complete.

As if a missing piece of yourself had finally been restored, as if the emptiness you had carried for so long had been nothing more than a cruel illusion. 

And then—the aftermath began.

The doors to your suite within the castle in Scythia flew open, slamming against the stone walls with a deafening crack. But you were already on your feet—

Or at least, you tried to be.

A stumble, a sudden gasp as your body struggled to process the sudden, overwhelming power mixed with previous pain.

A winged Fae stood at the threshold, staring at you in stunned disbelief.

They had seen it. Had felt it.

Your body had flickered—winnowed.

And you had not been the only one.

The corridors erupted in shouts. Fae cried, some fell to their knees, others threw their heads back in laughter, in relief. Because the magic had not just returned to you. It had returned to everyone. The land, the air, the very walls of the castle hummed with power.

It was back.

And the days that followed brought the truth in waves of stunned disbelief. 

Amarantha was dead.

The Bitch Queen had been slain.

And Prythian was freed—No longer a land of endless torment.

It was too much.

So much that, instead of collapsing into a chair, you found yourself on the floor, legs barely able to hold you. There had been murmurs of what came next. The Fae who had lived in exile for nearly twenty-three years whispered amongst themselves, voices uncertain.

But it was not your voice that broke the silence.

It was hers.

Estella.

Sweet, fierce Estella, with her long, silken black hair, her star-flecked eyes that had never once let you forget who her father was.

She sat on the rug beside you, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your dress. And then, in that small, quiet voice, she asked the question you had not yet dared to.

"Mama, are we leaving?"

The room stilled.

Your breath hitched, fingers curling into fists against your lap. Because that was the question, wasn’t it?

Would you return to the lands that had been stolen from you? Would you uproot the lives that had been built here, in the quiet sanctuary of the human lands, where these Fae had rebuilt something resembling peace?

Who was to say that the courts of Prythian would accept them back? Who was to say that Rhysand would forgive you? 

You had left him. You had vanished. He had lived through hell while you had hidden away, while you had raised his daughter in secret.

Would he hate you for it? Would he curse your name?

It was suffocating, crushing.

But it was Vassa who unknowingly made the decision for all of them.

The human queen who had stood by you, who had fought beside you, who had claimed these exiled Fae as her own.

She turned, back straight, chin lifted, her voice unwavering.

"I would never abandon any of you. For you are citizens of my land. And if you choose, you will continue to be part of my people."

There was silence. Then—murmurs. Soft, uncertain, but threaded with relief.

Because no one would be cast out. Because no one would be forced to return to a land they no longer knew.

And you—

You could no longer pretend that the answer had not been forming in your heart from the moment Estella had spoken.

How could you abandon the people you had brought here? How could you ignore what the Bone Carver had told you all those years ago?

The words that had haunted you since the moment they were spoken. The decision that had sent you fleeing from Under the Mountain, taking who you could, slipping through the cracks of Prythian’s destruction into the quiet, forgotten safety of the human lands.

The decision that had made you leave him.

The Bone Carver had not hesitated, had not softened the blow of the truth. "You are not his, not bound to his soul,  Starseer"

Starseer. A title of one who was blessed, one who had been taught to read the celestial language woven through the heavens.

A gift—and a curse.

For the stars did not lie.

You had stared at him then, at the version of yourself staring back—your younger self, the child you had once been, the form he had always decided to wear in your presence.  His head tilted, his gaze flickering with something unreadable.

"How odd." The words had been murmured more to himself than to you, but they had still struck a target. "There will be another who comes to claim it. You are but a temporary replacement."

The breath had left your lungs.

"But he does love you."

You had not realized how much you had needed to hear those words until they were spoken aloud, until the truth of them settled into the marrow of your bones. "Does your High Lord even know you’ve come here? That you have opened the doors with his blood?" The Bone Carver had paused then, waiting, but you had not answered.

You could not answer.

Because Rhys did not know. Did not know that you had stolen a piece of him.

That the doors to the Bone Carver’s prison had only opened because you had offered the magic tied to him. The silence had stretched, your shoulders trembling as fat tears dripped onto the stone floor, pooling at your feet.

You had clenched your jaw, had fought to compose yourself—

This was unbecoming of you. Unbecoming of the Lady of the Night.

But the Bone Carver had only watched. Had waited.

And then, with something like curiosity curling in his voice, he had murmured—

"You have known this. You’ve read this in the stars. I am only confirming what you already suspected. It is why you declined when the High Lord tried to instate you as High Lady."

Because it had never been yours.

Had never been meant for you.

Not truly.

"I do not understand," the Bone Carver mused. "Why are you crying?"

You had not known how to answer. Had not known how to articulate the emptiness that had clawed its way inside your chest. So you had spoken the only truth you knew.

"I am heartbroken."

And the Bone Carver had been intrigued.

Had tilted his head again, had narrowed his dark, endless eyes as if peering into something only he could see.

Then he smiled. Not in mockery. Not in cruelty.

But with fascination.

And he had asked you questions.

Questions about the way grief sat inside your ribs like a living, breathing thing.

Questions about how love could still remain when it was destined to be severed.

Questions about how it felt to be temporary.

As if he had never experienced what you had in that moment. As if he had never known what it meant to love something he could never truly have.

And maybe—maybe, in his own twisted way, he hadn’t.

But you had.

The Bone Carver had left you with one simple request. "Do not come back. Do not come save me. I do not want it."

Whatever that had meant. Perhaps it was a warning. Perhaps it was a mercy.

But then—before you had turned to leave that cold prison, before you had sealed the doors once more—

He had said one last thing.

A whisper, soft as wind through a graveyard.

"Well, I think I would like to see her just once."

A pause. A tilt of his head. "Bring her when you can. The Princess of Night."

You had not spoken. Had only met his gaze—your own gaze, the one he had stolen from your past—and let his words settle. And as you had turned to leave, his final words had echoed, curling around you like fate itself.

"The stars align when they see fit. And be sure to take the vial with you when you run."

Centuries had passed since that day.

Centuries since those words had been uttered.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

The council’s decision had been unanimous. They would stay in Scythia. The Lady of Night would officially be brought onto Vassa’s personal council, a bridge between Human and Fae.

Not completely public, but enough. Enough for whispers to start. Enough for the neighboring lands to hear the rumors. There would be an official ceremony when you returned.

If you returned.

“Will you be all right alone?” Vassa muttered, shifting the little Fae on her hip. Estella let out a tired yawn, her small hands curling against the fabric of Vassa’s cloak.

You smiled, adjusting the bag slung over your shoulder.

"Will you be all right when the other human queens find out you have a High Fae on your council?" you countered.

Vassa’s eyes gleamed. “They may shove their condescension up their asses.”

You snorted, reaching for Estella as she all but melted into your arms, nestling her face into the crook of your neck.

“I will be fine,” you said softly. "I leave my people in your care."

"As far as I'm concerned, they are my people now as well. Come home quickly."

And with that—

You winnowed away.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

For the first time in fifty years, you stepped onto the lands of the Night Court. Not Velaris. Not the City of Starlight.

But to the heart of the Western Isles. To a prison carved into rock and time. The air was freezing. A barren, forgotten place. The worst place in existence. A place where no child should go.

And yet—here you were.

Estella had been bundled so tightly in furs, wrapped securely against your back, that you envied the way she had drifted into sleep. She had not stirred once during the climb. Not even when the wind moaned through the empty crags, howling like a wounded beast.

You swallowed hard, shoving your growing unease into the back of your mind.

By the time you reached the top, you swore—you swore—you would never come here again. Not for the Carver. Not for anyone. Your fingers curled around the pendant hanging beneath your tunic, the small vial of blood hidden within its hollowed center.

The last thing you had of the High Lord. The last thing you had stolen. You had taken the Bone Carver’s advice seriously.

And thank the Mother for it. 

The walk through the tunnels was familiar. Even in the dark. Even in the silence. Even as the walls themselves seemed to breathe, to hum with an energy that did not belong to this world.

You didn’t even have to say the first word.

"You brought her."

A voice. 

A whisper of a voice that should not have carried so far, that should not have slithered into your bones like a memory.

And as always, he looked like you. A child’s version of you.

Eyes flickering. Small hands curled at his sides. Lips parting, as if tasting something new in the air.

And for the first time, the Bone Carver smiled.

"It has been too long," he mused, tilting his head, that eerily familiar gaze raking over you like he could see beneath your skin. "I've missed our talks. Tell me you brought me a good bone."

The words curled around the cold stone walls, lazy, indulgent. You barely had time to react before your fingers twitched, before you tossed the small bag through the wards of his cell.

Bones. Human bones. A gift. A bargain. The bones of the last Queen of Scythia. Vassa had struggled to part with them. Had stood over them for days, conflicted, torn.

But in the end, she had given them to you. Because Vassa understood what few did—the price of power. This was your price.

The Bone Carver made a pleased sound as he knelt, delicate fingers brushing over the bones, arranging them with slow, meticulous reverence.

Then he spoke again. "I’ve heard the High Lord might be on his way shortly."

Your heart froze. The words slammed into your ribs, knocking the breath from your lungs. Your lips parted, your mind raced, a thousand responses forming at once—

But before you could reply, the small body strapped to your back stirred. A warm little hand pressed against your shoulder. A tiny, sleep-filled voice mumbled—

"Mama?"

"I'd like to see her," he whispered. "And then I will tell you whatever you wish to know."

Your jaw tightened.

"I brought her here for you," you replied, shifting the little Fae in your arms, adjusting your grip, meeting his gaze without flinching. "You're the one who asked to see her."

A flash of surprise flickered across the Carver’s face—your face. The child he had chosen to wear as a mockery, a challenge.

He had not expected that answer.

"I didn’t think you would come here just for that," he admitted. "But you have always been full of surprises."

His gaze slid to the child in your arms.

And when he spoke, his voice was soft, too soft.

"She is a mirror image of your husband," he mused. "But is that something to call him still—"

A pause.

A long, terrible pause.

"—when he thinks you are dead? When another has entered his life?"

You licked your lips, "I—"

"You need not say anything, Just listen." And so, you did. To his story. A story you had already heard whispers of in the human lands. A story of a mortal girl. The Cursebreaker. "And she will have the place you never sought. The title he wanted you to have. The title everyone will bow before."

Your fingers gripped instinctively around Estella. But the Bone Carver wasn’t finished.

"Understand—she is not you. And you are very special to your people, just as she will be. They think you are with the Mother, in an immortal land. They grieve for you. Your death is a pawn on the board. And once I tell you what I am about to, turn your head away. Do not come back. Do not break your own heart again."

It was a stupid hope. A fool’s dream. It didn’t take a genius to understand what the Bone Carver wasn’t saying. That the Cursebreaker was Rhysand’s mate.

That whatever love had once bound you to him, was nothing now.

Your lips parted.

And when you spoke—

Your voice so small.

"Okay."

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

No one needed to know. No one needed to know anything the Bone Carver had said. Estella had not understood, had only asked in that small, curious voice, “Hybern?”—her little head tilting in that way she often did when trying to understand something far beyond her years.

And like that, you stepped away from the impending war. It was not your business. It had nothing to do with the Fae under your protection. And it certainly had nothing to do with your daughter.

Or so you kept trying to tell yourself.

Trying.

Lying.

Pretending.

"I do not think you should go." The words left your lips in a murmur, barely more than breath, as you sat at the council table within Scythia’s castle.

The other advisors had long since left. Only you and Vassa remained.

Vassa leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms, her reddish-golden hair gleaming in the light.

"And I told you not to go to Prythian alone two months ago," she mused, voice mockingly casual. "Looks like we’re both really bad at listening."

You lifted a brow. "Your attitude is unbecoming, Your Highness." A calm counter. A quiet warning. A stare that had made Estella second-guess her actions more times than you could count.

But Vassa was not Estella. And she was not easily cowed. Instead, she only smirked. "So is pretending you’re not already halfway out the door."

Silence. Tension, coiling too tight. Because Vassa knew. Of course she knew. She had known you too long, had seen the way your hands clenched when war was spoken of, the way your body braced when whispers of Hybern began to spread.

She had seen the way you shut your eyes too tightly at night, as if willing yourself not to dream of the past. And she had not asked you once about what the Bone Carver had said.

Because she already knew how this would end. But she had still waited. Still let you lie to yourself.

"Jurian is likely unstable, Vas." Your voice was firmer now, your patience fraying. "He was tortured by Amarantha for centuries. He hates Fae. Why would he be working with the King of Hybern? This is a trap."

Vassa did not waver.

Instead, she sighed, leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the polished wood of the council table. "And this is why you are on my council. The other Queens call me a used fool. A puppet. But I trust you. That’s why I have to go. We’ll find nothing out if I stay here. And I can trust my people in your hands while I’m gone."

Her lips quirked slightly, a ghost of amusement curling at the edges. "Besides—" she added, voice light, but her gaze sharp as steel— "you fought beside Jurian during the war. I’m sure I can use the stories you told me to my advantage."

Your stomach twisted. Because she was right. Because Vassa was a Queen—but she was also a soldier in her own making. And she had already made her decision.

But that did not mean you had to like it. "Be careful, Vas."

Your voice was quiet. A whisper. A prayer.

Because even Human Queens were not untouchable.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

If screaming was an option, you would have been cursing the Mother herself. But Estella was asleep in your lap, her small face pressed against your ribs, her soft breaths a rhythm against the rising tide of your frustration. So instead—

You turned your rage to paper. To the endless parchments and reports, the tangled web of alliances and betrayals, the half-finished letters and too many maps scattered across your desk.

Trying to figure out something. Anything. Because the next time you saw Vassa—

It would be the biggest I told you so moment in history.

Five months. Five fucking months. That’s how long you had been ruling in her stead, sitting at the head of her council while the other advisors whispered of war.

That’s how long it had been since Vassa was betrayed.

Since she had been sold by the other Human Queens—the very ones who had sat in these halls, who had smiled at her across lavish feasts, who had once called her sister.

Five months since you had taken control, since you had held the council back from calling a war at this outrage. A fight—

One you were heavily leaning toward. Because there were only so many polite letters you could send. Only so much diplomatic restraint you could exercise when the rest of the Queens had assumed Scythia would crumble.

That without Vassa, the country would fall in line. That the people would bow. That the "Long-eared Fae vermin"—as they so eloquently put it—would finally be put in their place.

They had been wrong. So very, very wrong. Because Scythia did not kneel. Because its people—Human and Fae alike—had flourished beneath Vassa’s reign. Because the same Fae they had sought to cast out were the very ones who had:

 Restored the land’s agriculture. Created a functioning plumbing system. Reinforced the city with magical wards and barriers.

And so much more.

They had called Scythia a lost kingdom.

But Scythia was thriving.

And you were not going to let them take that away. Not from the sacrifices that Vassa and her mother had made. Not from everything you had built together.

Not even when your dreams had turned strange—

Some nights, it was Amarantha’s laughter, slithering through your mind like poison, her red lips curling, her nails digging into your flesh as she whispered your name like a promise of ruin.

Other nights, it was an ash dagger in your grip, an ash arrow, your hands trembling as you drove them forward—except you never saw where they landed, never saw who they struck down.

And then, there were the other dreams.

Gentle ones.

A painting of a night sky, Velaris stretching endlessly in the distance, the scent of salt and citrus on the wind. A melody played by musicians, familiar, aching—one that left you waking with tears on your cheeks, your chest hollow, empty.

A song from home.

And still, you endured.

Even when you had felt the wall break—the ancient border between human and fae lands shattering—there had been no room for panic. The only proper reaction had been to send those from the Day Court to create wards, an alarm system of sorts for the outer villages.

You had been so caught up in your own thoughts, so focused on the battle to come, that you hadn’t noticed the way Estella was stirring in your lap. Hadn’t noticed the sleepy flutter of her violet-streaked eyes until—

She let out a small, sleepy sigh, her warm little body shifting closer, her hands curling into the fabric of your clothes.

"Mama?" she mumbled, her voice soft with sleep.

Your heart softened instantly, the stress in your shoulders easing just a fraction as you ran a gentle hand through her hair.

"I'm here, sweetling," you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She blinked up at you, her eyes—his eyes—filled with quiet trust.

"Bad dream?" you asked softly.

Estella shook her head, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

"Vas is home…" A small, sure voice.

The words barely had time to sink in before the doors to the council room slammed open.

"I—There—Mi’lady—" the guard was panting, his armor disheveled, his wide eyes wild with shock. "There was a firebird—an army—and then—the firebird changed into Queen Vassa!"

You blinked. Once. Twice.

From the corner of your vision, beyond the guard—

A figure stepped through. And you let out a cry. Your hands trembled as you set Estella down, as your body moved before your mind could even catch up.

You ran. Across the council chamber, across the space that had felt too big without her in it.

And when you reached her—

When you threw your arms around the human queen—

"You are okay." The words ripped out of you, raw and relieved, your grip tightening as if to confirm she was real. Vassa let out a breathless laugh, but the emotions in her eyes told you everything.

That it had been close. That she had barely escaped at all. Then—she let you go.

And before you could say another word, she turned, kneeling to sweep Estella into a hug. The little Fae squealed, tiny fingers gripping Vassa’s cloak, burying her face against her.

"Please," Vassa grinned, pressing a kiss to Estella’s hair before standing again. "I cannot be kept down."

You exhaled sharply, raking a hand through your hair.

"What happened?" you demanded, scanning her as if she might vanish again. Vassa sighed, rolling her shoulders.

"I cannot stay long," she admitted. "I came to make sure everything was running smoothly—not that I doubted you, Lady of the Night."

A teasing smirk. One you didn’t return. Because there was something else there. A weariness that had not been there before.

"Vassa."

A warning. A question.

Her expression sobered. "Koschei released me—temporarily," she said. "Only to aid in this war. Against Hybern. It seems even that cursed lake-dwelling bastard does not want a kingdom under the King’s rule."

Your stomach twisted. "Released you?"

Vassa nodded, but not in victory. "By day, I am still a firebird. By night, I am myself."

A temporary reprieve. A trap wrapped in kindness.

"The war is coming," she said. "And I have been sent to fight in it."

A small curse escaped your lips before you could stop it. Then—you talked. Spoke of technicalities, of plans, of what needed to be done. Of how Vassa wanted to avoid war with the other Queens—for now.

"But if they come onto my land," she murmured, a flicker of fire in her gaze, "Teach them a lesson."

Your lips pressed into a thin line. Because you agreed. Because Scythia had already suffered enough betrayals. The next time someone dared to cross these borders—They would not leave unscathed.

A knock at the door. Vassa arched a brow, but didn’t hesitate. "Enter."

The door swung open. And your heart stopped. Because the first thing you saw was a human.

But the second—

The second was a High Fae.

And Lucien Vanserra looked as if he had seen a ghost. His amber eye widened, his mouth parting slightly, the scar at the corner of his lip pulling tight.

He stared. At you. Like he had just seen the dead rise.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

If Estella hadn’t been perched happily in Vassa’s lap, you might have taken her to her room. Might have put her to bed just to avoid this whole conversation. But she was wide awake, tucked safely against the human queen, completely oblivious to what was happening in this room.

To the way Lucien Vanserra had not stopped staring. To the way his face was pale, his amber eye flickering with a dozen emotions too quick to name. You could’ve ignored the human man beside him, except—

Except his name had slipped out somewhere in conversation.

Archeron.

It had taken a long moment for the pieces to click into place. And when they had—

When you had realized who he was—

The Cursebreaker’s father.

The father of your husband’s mate. The man whose daughter had taken the place you had once stood in.

Your husband—

The man who was not really your husband anymore, because he had married another. It had to be by the grace of the Mother herself that you managed to stay composed. That you did not let your breath hitch, did not let your hands shake. You could have a moment later. When Estella wasn’t here to see.

But Vassa knew. She knew by the way your posture had stiffened, by the way your fingers had curled too tightly into the fabric of your skirts. By the way your face betrayed nothing at all.

Lucien exhaled, raking a hand through his hair before finally speaking. "We were told you were killed by the Weaver." His voice was calm, but there was something beneath it.

Something uncertain. Something disbelieving. His gaze flickered over you, still unable to reconcile what he was seeing. Like he was seeing a ghost. Like he was waiting for you to vanish.

"And the Fae that disappeared with you?" he asked. "Are they—?"

"All alive and accounted for," you answered softly.

His expression shifted. And you wondered—

Who was he asking about? Because it hadn’t just been Night Court Fae who had fled with you.

There had been Autumn Court Fae.

And Spring Court Fae.

Fae from every court.

The ones who had joined at the last minute, when the plan had been pushed forward, when there had been no time for regrets. When there had only been one chance to escape.

Lucien’s gaze flicked over you again—and then down. To the small figure in Vassa’s lap.

To Estella. 

And every instinct in you screamed. A warning. A threat. A demand. Your muscles tensed, your fingers twitching as if ready to strike, to shield, to protect.

Because you knew what he was thinking. What he was seeing. And Lucien hesitated. "She has to be—" He stopped. Because saying it aloud would make it real. Because the truth was too large to be contained in mere words.

"How is this possible?" His voice was barely above a whisper. "Does Rhysand know—?"

"No." The answer came fast. Too fast. A blade against his throat. His good eye widened. But you were already moving, already speaking, each word carved from iron. "And no one will." A promise. A warning. "So I will make this threat as plainly as I can."

The room went still. Lucien held your gaze—and flinched.

"If you so much as tell a soul she exists," you said, voice quiet, lethal, "I will remind you why I have been feared. Why people assume my bargains take souls. Why I was betrothed to the son of a High Lord beyond looks.” A beat. "I will skin you in a way that makes Amarantha look like child's play. Do you understand?"

His throat bobbed. Before he could speak—

Vassa sighed. "Yeah, you say anything about Estella and I don’t think divine intervention is going to help you."

Lucien let out a slow breath, his hands curling at his sides, his jaw tight. But he nodded. "Will you be coming with us?"

The words were carefully spoken. Measured. Expectant. 

The Queen snorted loudly. Then—she turned to you. That knowing, sarcastic smirk already curling on her lips. "Yes, will you be coming with us to defeat Hybern again?"

You knew why she was being like this. Because as much as Vassa adored Estella—

She had never quite forgiven you. For almost dying. For the trauma that still lived on that day. For the unknown risk that came with a child who had been sealed in time.

And so you said it—

A single word, quiet, firm.

"No."

Both Lucien and Mr. Archeron blinked. Like they couldn't quite process your words. Like the idea of you—you—not taking the battlefield was impossible.

"I can skin a single Fae with enough effort," you admitted, voice unapologetic, "however, I’ve never fully recovered from giving birth to that one."

You inclined your head toward the sleepy-looking child. "My body is still healing from everything that happened. So I cannot fight. No matter how much I might want to."

The words tasted bitter. Because they were true. They were a reminder of what had been stolen from you.

"I will be here to oversee things until Vassa returns home."

But you had not left them empty-handed. There were weapons, forged and warded with magic, enough for a small siege should it come to full-on war with the neighboring lands.

Vassa had been most entertained by your preparations. And Mr. Archeron—he had been watching you closely. Putting pieces together. Understanding, perhaps for the first time, why you were not just respected—

But feared.

You had also offered your Fae—those who had volunteered to go with them, to war. Even as you gave your blessing, the warning curled in the back of your mind.

Perhaps you should have thought twice about letting them go. Because it only took one slip. One whisper. One survivor making it back to Prythian—

And the truth would come crashing into the light.

At the time, you had believed it was worth the risk. You had believed it was a gesture made in good faith when news of the war’s end reached your ears. When you learned that Hybern had fallen, that the wall was no more, that the High Lords had stood together and won.

It had seemed like the final chapter of a life you had long since stepped away from.

But now—

Now you weren’t so sure.

Not with who Vassa had brought back. Not with the way Jurian was standing in front of you, blinking, his expression utterly unreadable. Not when his lips twitched, his eyes flashed, and suddenly—

He started laughing. A deep, wheezing sound, raw and disbelieving. Vassa sighed heavily beside you, rubbing her temples as if she already regretted bringing him here. But you couldn’t look away from him. Couldn’t stop the way your body tensed, couldn’t quiet the pulse of old memories surging in your chest.

The man who had refused to believe that humans and Fae could ever truly coexist. A man who had once been an enemy. A man who had stood on the same side of a war. A man who would have watched the rest of the Fae burn, but at least would have given you a quick death. Not quite a friend, not quite someone you could trust with your life. But a comrade, maybe.

And now, with him standing before you, laughing like he knew something you didn’t—

You had the sinking feeling that it was far from over.

Jurian dragged a hand down his face, still chuckling, before finally speaking. "Holy hell." He let out another breathless laugh, shaking his head. "So you aren’t dead after all."

His grin widened, knowing, as his eyes dragged over you, taking in every unchanged detail. Or maybe—maybe there were some changed details he was noting.

"I thought the rumors were insane, but here you are—standing right in front of me." He let out a low whistle. "Fucking hell, this is going to send a shockwave through Prythian."

Your jaw tightened. "Glad to see your dramatics never fail. Maybe a surprise, but no shockwave, that’s for sure."

"On the contrary," he mused, tilting his head slightly. "I have a feeling some people would be very, very interested to know you’re still breathing."

Your hands itched to summon magic, to do something—anything—to wipe that damn smirk from his face. At the very least, to hit him, just once, for old times’ sake. He always knew how to get under your skin, like an annoying little brother who had perfected the art of making you want to strangle him.

The only other person who could come close to that talent was Cassian—and even that was a far-off shot.

"As amusing as seeing this go down would be," Vassa interrupted, clapping her hands together abruptly, "I only have hours left."

She did.

You had already been given the rundown of the war—the losses (you did not miss the way Vassa’s eyes saddened when she mentioned that Mr. Archeron had died), the almost-losses that you didn’t want to acknowledge, and the entire meeting that had taken place after the war. "Which brings me to say—" Vassa continued smoothly, "Jurian has accepted my offer to come to my court and will be assisting you in my duties."

You blinked. "Excuse me—" you blurted, completely flabbergasted.

Vassa lifted a hand, cutting off any protest before it could form.

"IF," she stressed, "you need any extra help."

"It’ll be just like old times." Jurian snorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

You scoffed. "Yes, because we are gutting enemy soldiers instead of making sure this country runs smoothly," you snapped back sarcastically.

"You say that now, but let’s see how long you last before you start wanting to gut a few politicians."

“I’ve lasted hundreds of years as Lady of the Night Court. And these past months here. What do I need your help with?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He tapped his chin, the gesture exaggerated, teasing. “Maybe when the High Lord of Dawn comes. Or when Day arrives. They’ve expressed quite a bit of interest in Vassa’s court, after all.” His eyes gleamed, like a knife catching the light. “Or, gods forbid, when the High Lord and Lady of Night arrive, seeking whatever political alliance serves their interests.”

Your stomach twisted, but you refused to show it.

Then, as if he were merely remarking on the weather, Jurian added, “Though I can only imagine how you’ll feel seeing your husband with his new bride.”

Your pulse stilled.

The room stilled.

Jurian just shrugged, as if he were merely remarking on the sky. “I don’t recall either of you formally dissolving your marriage, but I suppose death does that, doesn’t it?”

Silence.

The room was so silent. Your chest ached in a way you hadn’t prepared for. He had done that on purpose. He had wanted a reaction. Had wanted to see if the ghost of Rhysand’s love still lingered in you.

And it did. But that didn’t mean you would let him have the satisfaction. Your lips parted before common sense could catch up.

"I guess it’ll feel like seeing Drakon with Miryam," you mused, voice quiet, the kind of soft that preceded a storm. And then, you smiled, just enough to make it mocking. "But at least I knew my ex loved me, even when I was at my worst." A beat. Jurian’s smirk froze. "A monster, as she called you. Right? I can’t recall."

You knew how to draw blood even without a weapon.

The whole situation was a complicated matter, one that had once ignited a fight between you and Rhys long ago. You had drawn a line. Had refused to see Drakon or Miryam again, but had sworn—sworn—to keep their existence a secret.

Jurian’s expression flickered—just for a second.

But then—he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head.

"I’m so glad you never change," he muttered, his tone half-amused, half-exasperated. Then—his eyes flickered with something else. Something calculating. "I figured you did after being told you didn’t fight anymore, though. Why is that—?"

Before the question could even be finished, the doors slammed open. Jurian barely had time to react before a tiny figure barreled through.

You didn’t need to look. Didn’t need to check. The timing was impeccable. Standing in the threshold, her dark hair mussed from sleep, her tiny fists rubbing at her eyes.

“You are supposed to be in bed, Estella.” Vassa laughed as the little fae ran into her open arms. 

"Because of that." You pointed at the child, your tone flat, resigned, as if Estella’s existence alone was enough explanation.

Jurian blinked once.

Twice.

Then he snorted. "No."

"Yeah."

"You are messing with me."

"There is living evidence."

His lips curled into something wicked. "Oh, the drama you could start." A slow grin stretched across his face, his eyes flickering with delight. "Did he know?"

Your expression didn’t shift. "No."

"No?" Jurian echoed, blinking again. "As in, not at all? Not even the slightest clue?"

"Not even the slightest. I didn’t even know."

He let out a low whistle, stepping back as if he needed a moment to process the absolute madness of the situation.

"So let me get this straight—" he counted on his fingers, dramatically. "You disappeared. You let the world believe you were dead. And in all that time, Rhysand had not the faintest idea that you were carrying his kid?"

You exhaled slowly, your patience thinning. "Yes, Jurian. That is exactly what I just said."

"Fucking hell." He let out a giddy laugh, pacing a few steps. "And here I thought my return to the living was going to be boring."

Vassa sighed loudly, shifting Estella slightly in her arms, brushing the child’s hair away from her face as she sleepily blinked up at Jurian.

"You do realize," Jurian continued, tapping his chin thoughtfully, "that if Rhysand ever finds out, it will be the single greatest meltdown Prythian has ever witnessed?"

Your stomach twisted. Of course, you knew.

If he ever saw Estella—

There would be no undoing it.

But before you could shut Jurian up, he turned back to you, grinning like a fox that had just stumbled upon an unguarded henhouse.

"So, tell me," he purred, "who else knows? Or am I the lucky first?"

Your fingers twitched.

Because the list was short.

Vassa.

Lucien.

A handful of trusted Fae in Scythia.

And now—Jurian.

You narrowed your eyes. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason." He grinned wider, too wide, before slinging an arm over your shoulder. "I just need to know how many people will be in attendance when Rhysand inevitably finds out and absolutely loses his shit."

You shoved him off.

"You will say nothing."

"I make no promises."

"Jurian."

"Relax." He held up his hands innocently, though his smile said otherwise. "Your secret is safe with me. Who would I even tell?"

Your jaw tightened.

Vassa shook her head.

And Estella—still half-asleep—let out a tiny huff, looking between the two of you before mumbling, "Too loud."

"That’s your kid, all right." Jurian snickered.

You sighed, rubbing your temple.

This was going to be a nightmare.

[dreamdragonkadia]

As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - III Word Count: 6.9k A/N: The fact that Jurian is slowly becoming the bodyguard. Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Prev - Next ✦ Ao3

This toddler was going to be the death of you.

Truly.

Estella would give you the world’s most undignified heart attack if she kept this up. It was like she had a sixth sense for showing up at exactly the wrong moment—no, not wrong. The most inconvenient moment. Always. Like she knew when something had shifted in the air, like her tiny heart picked up on emotion before it even had words for it.

She sat beside you now, fingers curled loosely into your nightdress, her small head leaning against your side. You didn’t know if she understood what had just happened, what he had seen. Maybe she did. Maybe that was the worst part.

Across from you, Azriel hadn’t moved.

He hadn’t spoken.

Hadn’t touched the tea you’d made—not summoned, made, with trembling hands to give yourself a moment to gather your thoughts. He just sat there, still as stone, wings finally folded again, shadows flickering and curling at his back like smoke trying to find an escape. And his eyes—Mother above, his eyes had not left her.

Like he was trying to puzzle out a dream.

Like he couldn’t believe he was awake.

You didn’t blame him.

You cleared your throat, barely above a whisper. “She looks like the High Lord, doesn’t she?”

It came out too soft, like you were trying not to disturb the moment.

Azriel blinked—slowly, like your words had dragged him from deep water—and finally shifted his gaze to you. Not pinning. Not accusingly. Just… searching.

You swallowed and looked down at Estella, brushing a hand gently through her hair. “That’s what everyone always says.”

You didn’t know why that was the thing to say, why your heart twisted when you said it aloud. Maybe because it was the truth. Maybe because, for so long, that resemblance had been a silent truth hanging in every room.

Then, at last, he said, “I thought she was Estelle for a moment.”

You glanced up at him, and despite it all, your lips twitched—not a smile, not quite, but something close. 

“Estella,” the girl corrected sleepily. She didn’t lift her head. Just nestled a little closer to your side, half-lost to sleep but aware enough to know she’d been spoken of. Or thought so at least.

“I named her after ‘Stelle,” you whispered, the words cracking before you could stop them. And you didn’t bother to hide it. What would be the point?

Your sweet, clever sister-in-law. Rhysand’s baby sister. The girl who’d wanted to know everything. Who’d braided flowers into your hair the first time you met and declared you were part of the family long before Rhys ever had the chance. The one who never got to grow up. Who never got to see peace. Never got to meet this little girl who now bore her name.

“Does she know—” he hesitated, the question catching. “Did you tell her about any of us?”

You stared down at the child in your arms, fingers curling slightly around her small hand, her knuckles still dimpled with youth. Her breath had deepened. She was falling back into sleep.

“She knows… bits and pieces,” you said finally. Your voice was quiet, flat, tired. “I haven’t told her much, to be honest.”

You could feel the question building in him. The why.

But you didn’t have the energy to explain that sometimes, protecting something meant not giving it names. That sometimes, the people you loved most were the ones you kept locked behind silence and secrets—not out of shame, but out of love. Out of necessity.

Something the whole of the Inner court should know.

“Did Rhys know?” He said it carefully, like he was afraid the question itself might scare you away. And then, after a breath: “Is she… our princess?”

The words shouldn’t have cracked something in you, but they did.

Your entire body went still, your spine rigid as your arms folded tighter around Estella’s small frame. You didn't answer right away. You couldn’t.

“Az,” you said at last, and the sound of his name in your voice tasted like old grief. “You can’t tell anyone. You cannot tell his lordship.”

There was a shift in him. Not in movement, but in atmosphere. His shadows stilled, his gaze narrowed, though his body didn’t move an inch. He blinked once, slowly, and then repeated, “Lordship?” Like the word itself offended him. Like it was a stranger's name, not one ever meant for Rhysand.

You swallowed hard, your eyes not quite meeting his now. “He’s happy,” you said, softer this time. “With… her.”

You couldn’t say the word. Mate. Even now, it caught behind your teeth. You wouldn’t say it. Not here. Not in front of him. Not in front of this.

The silence that followed said everything. Azriel didn’t argue. Didn’t question. 

Your voice trembled, barely held together. “I will not ruin that for him. I won’t take peace from him. Or from any of you. You all rebuilt something after I was gone. I won’t be the one to set it on fire.”

Azriel’s jaw ticked, his shadows curling close to his wings again, tighter now, drawn in like the breath he wouldn’t release. His gaze lingered on Estella, on the gentle rise and fall of her chest, her quiet, unburdened sleep.

“He deserves to know.”

Not an accusation. Not quite. Just a truth spoken aloud, fragile and heavy and aching.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you couldn’t speak. You looked down at the little Fae again, so blissfully unaware of the storm swirling around her.

“I know,” you said, the words no louder than a sigh. “But I couldn’t bear to be the reason he stayed out of obligation. I couldn’t let her be that reason.”

Azriel studied you, shadows curling at his shoulders like they, too, were listening. He didn’t argue. He didn’t agree. He just watched, the way he always had. The way he did when he was trying to decide where the truth ended and the heartbreak began.

“I feel like I don’t have the right to ask… but—” your eyes flicked up. “How is everyone?”

“The same, but different,” he said at last.“They’re all… slightly different now. Cassian holds more in,” his eyes distant now, fixed on a point somewhere beyond the walls of this room. “But he still laughs at every ridiculous thing he can. Still starts bar fights he pretends not to enjoy. Amren keeps to herself more than she used to. I think she’s still learning how to be… mortal. Or something close to it. But she misses you. More than she’d admit.”

He paused again, and you could almost see him flipping through the pages of time—picking the moments he could safely share, the ones that wouldn’t break you.

“Mor travels. A lot. Says it’s for diplomacy, but I think she’s running. From what, I don’t know. Maybe from the same thing I was.”

And then, softer still—“Rhysand is still Rhys.”

You met his eyes at that.

“He’s okay,” Azriel said. “But quieter when he thinks no one’s watching. There’s a grief in him that never really left.”

You had not wanted to know. And yet—somehow—you had always needed to.

You swallowed thickly. “And the High Lady?”

There was no judgment in the way you said it. You had no right to bitterness—not when you had made your choice. Just quiet curiosity. 

“Feyre has grown into her role better than any of us could’ve hoped,” he said, with a small note of something like pride in his voice. “Clever. Strong-willed. Stubborn as hell. She’s… earned every part of it.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “Some days I think you two would get along.” 

“Don’t.” It was soft, but final. A quiet plea. You shook your head. “I think it’s time you return to your court—and spare me from whatever fantasy you’ve imagined of what would happen if I came back.”

Azriel didn’t flinch. He only nodded once, as if he had known you would say that, even before he’d crossed the threshold into this place.

“If my High Lord asks—”

“Then I would hope,” you cut in, more commanding now, more desperate, “that you still have enough decency left in you for the Lady you served for years—to grant her this one last wish. To keep this secret.”

You leaned forward slightly, your voice dropping into something raw and low. “You know what it would mean if they found out. If Keir found out. If the Court of Nightmares even sniffed at the idea that there is a child—an heir—outside of the High Lady’s bloodline. You know what Hewn City would do with that. Politics that may end with death.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “And if he doesn’t ask, I won’t bring it up. But if Rhys asks me directly—if he looks me in the eye and demands the truth—” he paused, shoulders stiff, “I won’t lie to him. Not even for you.”

You closed your eyes. It wasn’t a betrayal. It was just… Azriel.

“Then keep it out of the report,” you said, the words more exhausted than bitter. “That’s all I can ask.”

Azriel nodded. Slowly. “And that’s what you’ll have.”

You thought that might be the end of it. That the conversation, the truth of it, would stay suspended in the space between you like smoke—never fully vanishing, never fully settling. But then—

“Come back? To play with me?”

The small, sleep-heavy voice cut through the silence like a gentle bell. You looked down and found Estella blinking up at Azriel, her little hands rubbing the dreams from her eyes, her hair a tangle of dark curls around flushed cheeks.

“No one else has wings like me,” she added matter-of-factly, and then, as if to prove her point, her Illyrian wings popped out from her back with a soft little snap and fluttered once—awkwardly, adorably.

Azriel blinked. And before you could stop her, before you could manage her, Estella turned her face back toward you and said with perfect clarity, the honesty only children dared to wield—

“And Mama misses home. A lot.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Estella—”

But she huffed. Actually huffed. Like you’d insulted her intelligence by trying to wave the thought away.

“You do,” she insisted, nose scrunching up. “You say it without sawing it. I know.”

Your heart thudded, slow and aching. And there was no real rebuke to offer—because she wasn’t wrong. You had missed it. More than you could admit. More than you could even afford to let yourself feel.

You looked up—at Azriel.

Expecting deflection. Expecting a wall.

Instead, he was already watching you. Not her. You.

And when he finally spoke, it was low, quiet, and carefully measured, as always.

“If it’s alright with you… I’d like to come back.”

You stared at him, caught off guard by the softness in his tone. It wasn’t obligation. It wasn’t strategy. It was… choice.

He nodded, once, toward Estella—who now sat blinking between the two of you like she was watching something important unfold without quite understanding why.

“She shouldn’t feel alone for having wings,” Azriel added. “Not when it’s one of the best things about her.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“I’ll talk with Vassa and make sure it’s okay. It is her kingdom, after all,” you said softly, brushing a hand over Estella’s curls as her wings folded back in. You could already feel the tension easing in her small body, her chin beginning to droop. “And we need to get you back to bed.”

You booped her nose gently, earning a quiet giggle, then glanced at Azriel with a nod. “Return in a few days.”

He didn’t say goodbye—not out loud. He didn’t need to. The look he gave you as he slipped into the shadows said everything: he would keep the secret. He would come back. He still cared.

And when he was gone, truly gone, and the last of the shadows faded from the corners of the room… it was like something inside you slowly exhaled.

You carried Estella to her bed and tucked her in carefully, smoothing her hair, adjusting her blankets, watching her breathe just to be sure she was okay. Then you sat at her side until the feeling behind your ribs grew too painful to ignore.

You left her room and stepped into the corridor with every intention of heading to your own—but found Vassa waiting for you, leaned against the stone wall like she’d been there awhile. She didn’t look at you at first. Her gaze stayed on the moonlight pooling across the floor, and her arms were crossed tight over her chest, not in anger but restraint. Holding herself together.

Then she spoke, ragged with exasperation and something far more fragile than anger.

“For your sake, I’ll welcome the Spymaster, but why?” she asked, lifting her eyes to yours. “Why do you do this to yourself? Over and over again?”

She wasn’t accusing you. She was asking as someone who had watched you quietly unravel for months now. As someone who had hoped you’d stop.

And Mother help you, you’d asked yourself the same question. More times than you could count.

The ‘what-ifs’

You didn’t turn to face her. You didn’t need to. The answer lived on your tongue like breath—too natural to question, too old to grieve anymore. “It’s what I’m meant to do.” The words left your mouth calmly, no defensiveness, no apology. Just truth, hollowed and worn smooth with use.

Vassa’s breath came quickly, a sound full of disbelief and restrained fury. “You are trapped in a cage worse than mine,” she said, not unkindly, but with the bitter taste of someone who recognized the bars even if they were invisible.

You gave a soft, mirthless laugh, shaking your head. “I’m at least free to walk around.”

“No,” she snapped, pushing off the wall and stepping closer, her voice trembling with rage she hadn’t given permission to surface. “You’re not. You’re more chained than I’ve ever been. You can’t even escape your title when the entire world thinks you’re dead. And even now, even here—when no one demands it of you—you keep taking on burdens that aren’t yours. That no one asked you to carry.”

You just turned your face to her, your expression unbothered. “And I’m fine with that,” you said softly. “Someone has to do it. Someone has to be the one with a stiff lip. I’ve always been good at that. Carrying what others can’t—or won’t.”

She stared at you, the anger in her eyes giving way to something else—something closer to grief. “You’re destroying yourself,” and this time it wasn’t anger at all. It was heartbreak.

You didn’t deny it. “And I’m at peace with that,” you whispered, your voice a soft blade. “It’s all I know. Bearing the weight.”

She said your name—just once—but there was something in her tone that made it crack like a command. A queen’s warning.

You exhaled, a slow, quiet surrender.

Then, softer—quieter, almost sad—she said, “You know, for someone who claims peace, you always sound like you’re starving for freedom.”

Your laugh was brittle. Dry. A little broken at the edges. “Perhaps,” you murmured. “But I like power too much to ever truly be free.”

You looked out over the garden again, voice hollow with memory. “It’s why I bargained with my father-in-law, you know. When he first proposed a union between our families to my father. Power was always the price—and the reward.”

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

At this point, it was clockwork. Sitting in the quiet dream with Nesta later appearing, but no words spoken. And then the familiar feeling of your daughter hovering above you the moment your eyes fluttered open. Without warning, she flopped down dramatically onto your chest, arms splaying as if claiming every inch of you for morning cuddles.

You let out a soft “oof,” your hand instinctively settling on her back. She nuzzled in, already half-dozing again, though you could feel the sleepy hum of her thoughts spinning behind those violet eyes.

A beat passed before she offered a small, proud-sounding hum. “I was thinkin’.”

“Dangerous,” you teased gently, drawing a soft giggle from her.

Another few seconds passed before she said, muffled against your nightgown, “Mama… I didn’t know there were more people with wings like mine.”

You blinked at that—startled by the smallness in her voice, the vulnerability. You pulled back just enough to look at her face. “I didn’t know you felt that way about your wings.”

Estella shrugged one tiny shoulder. “They’re not like ‘Sara. Or her court’s. Or anyone’s.” She glanced away, then whispered, “No weathers. Just skin.”

The confession made your heart twist.

But then—brightly, her voice gaining that sing-song bounce again—she added, “But now I know I’m not alone!” She sat up a little, her expression beaming. “He doesn’t have weathers either. He’s just like me. Isn’t that great? I’m just like Papa!”

The air left your lungs before you could stop it.

You sat up slowly, bringing her with you until she was nestled in your lap. “Sweetheart…” you began carefully, brushing a curl from her cheek. “Azriel’s not your papa. He’s your uncle.”

Estella blinked up at you, confused. “But he has wings like me.”

“Yes,” you said gently, “and that’s a very special thing. Azriel is Illyrian, like your papa. There’s a whole city of fae with wings like yours. Just like you.”

Her brows scrunched. “But… I thought Illyrians were made-up.”

You laughed softly. “No, my star. They’re very real. I used to live with them. Train with them. Argue with them a lot.”

She gasped dramatically. “Did you fight Uncle Azzy?”

And she had already accepted him as family it seemed.

You grinned. “More times than I can count.”

That earned a giggle-snort. “Did you win?”

“Of course I did,” you said primly. “Someone had to keep him humble.”

“So I’m Illyrian?”

“Yes,” you said. “Part Illyrian. Part magic. Part trouble.”

That drew another bubble of laughter from her as she leaned in and wrapped her arms tight around your neck. “I don’t feel so… weird anymore.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and held her close.

“You’re not weird, Estella,” you whispered into her hair. “You’re wonderful.”

And this time, when she hummed, it was soft and content. A sound that settled deep in your chest. You let the silence linger, not wanting to break the calm… but some truths had to be asked.

“Do you?” you murmured. Your voice was gentle, hesitant, even as the words formed. You stroked a hand over her back, careful, patient. “Do you want to go see your court?”

It had never been a conversation you’d had with her. Estella knew pieces of the world you’d left behind—names, shadows of places, old jokes whispered at the dinner table when Jurian got nostalgic. She knew the Fae in Scythia had come from somewhere else, that you had once lived in a city made of stars and velvet and stone. But she had never asked. Never pried. Rarely did she care to chase stories about a place she’d never seen.

She wriggled in your arms just enough to meet your eyes, her small fingers playing with the edge of your sleeve. “Uncle Jurian says we’re from the Night Court, right?”

“Yes.”

“And he says I’d be wery important to my court if they knew I wxisted.”

Your lips pulled tight. “Also true.”

There was a pause—brief, thoughtful—and then she leaned her head against your shoulder again, her voice muffled but still certain.

“But you won’t go back. And I don’t wanna see it without you.”

She slipped off your lap, her little feet padding softly on the floor. Like that was the end of it. Like her words weren’t a blade through your heart.

Because that wasn’t an answer. It wasn’t what she wanted.

It was her choosing you.

Choosing your fear, your refusal, your path—over a home she had never seen.

And it wasn’t fair. Not to her. Not when she was already so much her own person—more attuned than any child her age had a right to be. You sat there watching her tug on one slipper, her brow furrowed in quiet frustration like she was solving a puzzle only she understood. She didn’t whine, didn’t pout. She just… adapted. Just like you had.

And that was the problem.

She was saying, if you won’t go, I won’t ask. She was offering silence in place of desire. Loyalty in place of curiosity. But that wasn’t a burden a child should have to carry. That wasn’t just love—it was sacrifice.

And she’d learned it from you.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

It was moments like these that made you curse the skies and wonder, not for the first time, where the hell Vassa disappeared to when she took flight in that flaming form of hers. Because as the sun climbed past its highest point and baked the white marble courtyard in golden heat, there was still no sign of her.

You had figured—naively—that she would at least make an appearance. A short, queenly descent. A dramatic wing-beat, perhaps. But no. Apparently, greeting the High Lord of Dawn was a duty best left to the rest of you.

And considering her people had yet to fully adjust to the idea of a flaming bird wheeling through their skies, it was probably for the best. You had enough panic on your plate.

“This doesn’t explain why I have to be here,” Jurian huffed beside you, his arm resting lazily on the pommel of his sword like this entire affair was beneath him.

“You are part of this kingdom’s court,” you said evenly, your hands clasped neatly in front of you. The sun was relentless, and you were half-certain the stiffness in your spine had less to do with nerves and more with sweat. “So you will be present when we receive a High Lord. You will stand straight. You will look respectable. And you will not say anything that will make me regret letting you wear your sword.”

“Show some manners, you say? Wasn’t aware I had any left to lose.”

You hummed under your breath, a prayer to whatever gods still tolerated your existence. “Mother above, grant me patience…”

Behind you, the human and fae members of the council fidgeted in their ceremonial places. The handful of Scythian officials in formal silks glancing nervously at their Fae counterparts, their worries only made worse by the obvious absence of the queen.

And Estella, of course, had chosen this as her grand disappearing act of the day.

The moment she’d been told she needed to dress properly, she had shifted into pure drama. All haughty attitude, little nose tilted in the air, and her determined declaration that her wings “needed to be out”—because “Mama said my wings were special.”

You hadn’t argued. Not really. You were too tired. And now she was somewhere, no doubt hiding in a bush or behind a curtain or scaling the battlements like a feral cat.

You didn’t have time to find her.

Because the world around you shifted.

Not the sky. Not the ground.

But the air itself.

You felt it—the pulse of winnowing. That telltale pressure, that breathless second when the wind stills, and the space between here and somewhere else collapses. And then, just like that, they were there.

The High Lord of Dawn and his company.

Fewer than expected. A calculated display. Political, precise. Thesan stood at the head, robes pale and sun-washed, flanked by his captain—clad in bronze armor that shimmered like a second skin—and a small cluster of high fae you could count on one hand. Among them, Eosara was already taking in everything with those clever eyes.

You inhaled. Straightened.

And stepped forward to greet them.

This was familiar. This was something you knew how to do as simply as your heart beating.

One foot in front of the other.

Your skirts gathered delicately in one hand as the other hovered gracefully above your heart, fingers brushing the collarbone. The curtsy you offered was textbook-perfect— respectful but not subservient.

“Welcome to the Kingdom of Scythia, Your Highness,” you said, your voice carrying across the courtyard like a bell rung low and clear. Not too loud. Not too soft. The tone of someone born to this. Shaped by it. Held together by it.

It was strange, how easily the words returned. Like dusting off a language you hadn’t spoken aloud in years and finding it still alive in your mouth.

When you lifted your head, Thesan was already watching you.

And for all the ceremony and gilded restraint that cloaked him, it was the flicker in his eyes that caught you off guard. That brief moment of something.

Whatever it was, it softened his features for just a breath, and then he inclined his head in return—a curtsy of the head. A High Lord’s answer to a Lady’s welcome. 

Out of respect.

“Lady Starseer,” he said with warmth laced through the title, “it has been too long.”

You bowed your head slightly, allowing a smile that was polished, diplomatic. “High Lord of Dawn. The welcome is long overdue.”

Thesan’s smile tugged slightly higher at one corner, something fond glinting in his eyes. “And still, you receive us with the same grace I remember.” He paused, gaze flicking across your features in a way that was not invasive, but… aware.

“It’s comforting, truly,” he added, voice softer, more personal now, “that even in the years between us, your beauty hasn’t changed.”

There was no flirtation in it. No hunger or edge. Just a quiet, sincere observation from someone who had known you before everything had gone to shit over fifty years ago.

“Time has been kind to us both, it seems,” you said. “Come. Let us show you what Scythia has to offer besides what Eosara has no doubt passed along.” 

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

“Vassa will not join us until later,” you informed as you led Thesan through the stone halls into a receiving room that spilled into the gardens. The afternoon sun gilded the marble floors, but inside, it was cooler—shaded and serene, with the gentle rustle of wind filtering through the hedges beyond. “Once the moon has creased the sky, she’ll make her return.”

“I had forgotten how composed you are,” Thesan replied, his tone light but his eyes never straying far from you.

You did not respond to the remark, only waved your hand. A polished tea service shimmered into place on the low table—silver, glass, delicate porcelain. Steam curled from the spout as sweet biscuits and pale fruit tarts filled their respective dishes. The kind of spread only someone raised in true formality would conjure without thinking.

“You’ve not changed in the slightest,” Thesan said after a beat, settling into the chair at your invite.

“I take such offense to that,” you replied with a wry smile, gesturing to the open seat beside him as you chose the one directly across. “I’ve worked very hard on the appearance of wisdom and weariness.” You glanced at his captain. “Sit.” 

“I am alright, Lady Starseer,” the Peregryn said immediately, with the exact measured calm of someone who had trained their entire life to remain standing.

“Nonsense. I insist.”

There was a pause and then, after a silent exchange with his High Lord, the captain sat.

Thesan raised a brow. “And as commanding as ever.”

You gave a soft, unapologetic smile. “Have you forgotten which court I hail from? It’s in my blood.”

That earned a quiet laugh. 

His gaze drifted toward the garden, then back to you. Not unkind, not even cold—just… careful.

“You know I must ask,” he said, voice lower now, carrying more weight. “Eosara said she didn’t remember everything that happened. Only that you saved her. She told me the rest was your story to tell.” He paused. “I never believed you were dead. Not really. Not you.”

You inhaled slowly, a thousand responses flickering behind your eyes. But you reached only for truth.

“There is someone I would like you to meet first,” you said gently. Your tone didn’t waver, but your fingers laced tighter in your lap. “But understand—she wasn’t the reason I left. I didn’t know. And why I took anyone willing to come… I was a desperate fool for other reasons. And so were they.”

You looked up, met his gaze fully. “The Fae who came with me… they weren’t mine. They were loyal to the idea of something else. A future she couldn’t control.”

He held your gaze, reading the words beneath the words. The confession hidden in plain sight. You could see the questions already forming again, waiting to be asked.

But they’d have to wait.

Because the door to the receiving room creaked open with no ceremony, barely a knock, and there was Jurian—sauntering in with the world-weary exhaustion of a man who’d seen too much before noon.

And under one arm, like he was hauling a barrel of unruly vegetables, hung Estella.

“The thing has figured out how to climb up the pillars onto the ceiling holdings now,” Jurian announced, as if this were completely normal and not, in fact, horrifying.

Estella’s head popped up with wide, furious eyes. “I’m not a thing!” she squirmed furiously. “Put me down!”

“As you wish,” Jurian muttered with a wicked smirk—and unceremoniously dropped her.

A yelp tore out of her as she landed in a bundle of skirts and wings, her hair wild, expression outraged.

You opened your mouth, somewhere between mortified and resigned.

But before you could speak, Estella was already scrambling upright, wings flaring, face red.

“Bully,” she snapped at Jurian, dusting herself off.

“You say that every day,” he drawled, strolling to the tea table like this was just another Tuesday.

You closed your eyes briefly, dragging in a breath, then turned your attention back to Thesan.

Who was staring.

Not rudely. Not with judgment.

Just… stunned. And then slowly—realization settled in.

His eyes flicked from the child—those unmistakable violet eyes, that unmistakable magic—to you. His expression shifted. 

“Is this…?”

You nodded once. Barely.

“Her name is Estella,” you said, voice firm but quiet, as if naming her too loudly might summon something you weren’t ready for. “And by technicalities… Princess of the Night Court. The High Lord of Night’s child.” A pause. Then, softer: “And mine.”

Thesan didn’t speak immediately. His eyes had returned to Estella, who was now half-hiding behind your chair and peering out at him like a curious cat sizing up a visitor. She didn’t know who he was, not truly. She didn’t understand the full weight of the words you’d spoken. But she could feel the shift in the room—how the air had thickened. How eyes had turned.

She looked up at you and whispered, too loudly to be secret: “Mama, is he another uncle?”

That nearly broke something in you. The innocence. The assumption. The way her world had so few names for complicated things, and she tried to make them fit with what she knew.

You reached down and touched her hair. “No, starling,” you murmured. “He’s a friend.”

“How..? Rhysand does not know, does he?” Thesan asked.

“No. Everyone else is finding out before him, if he ever finds out.” Jurian muttered, taking a spot behind your chair. 

The High Lord’s gaze barely flicked upward as he nodded, but it was permission enough. A signal. You didn’t need coaxing. Not anymore.

So you began.

Not with dramatic pauses or elegant metaphors. Just… words. Quiet and plain.

You started at the beginning—the real beginning. Not the rumors. Not the polished half-truths you’d given others. But the moment it all truly turned. The night the plan ignited before it was ready, hastened by desperation, by a crack in the wall you’d been holding up for too long. You told him how it spiraled out of your control. How it had started with a quiet decision: that you would only take those from the Night Court you trusted—truly trusted—to flee with you. But word spread faster than your intent, and suddenly dozens more were following, running, begging.

To the Weaver’s hut. You told him about the ring—your wedding ring. Rhysand’s mother’s ring—and how you gave it to the Weaver without trembling. To make Rhysand believe you were dead. Told him how you made the bargain without flinching, even when she asked for something no sane person would give.

Time.

And you had given it. Freely. Without hesitation. You would have given her everything she asked for—and more.

You told Thesan about the magic that followed. The stasis. The silencing. The way Estella had been sealed away in a pocket of stillness until it was safe again. You hadn’t even known then—hadn’t known you were carrying her.

But the Weaver had.

And somehow, saying it all out loud—finally—felt like breathing for the first time in years. Like exhaling something buried so deep it had become a part of your bones.

You told Thesan about the weeks of travel that followed. The hunger. The fear. How you made a bargain with the last Queen of Scythia who offered you a home when you had nothing left to give but knowledge.

You told him about the moment you were told you were pregnant, and how you sat alone for hours, staring at your hands like you didn’t recognize them anymore. How everything changed in an instant. How fear grew with her.

And how her birth nearly killed you.

(You didn’t tell him that it did.)

And when you finally stopped, the air felt thinner somehow. Lighter and heavier all at once.

Estella had curled herself in your lap somewhere in the middle of your story, one wing folded neatly beneath her, the other stretched lazily over your thigh. Her head rested against your chest.

And your arms curled around her now, instinctively.

As if the telling of it had made the danger real again.

“And now here we are,” you said brightly. “Questions?”

There was a pause. 

“If it wouldn’t cause an issue,” Thesan said softly, folding his hands in his lap, “would you go back to Prythian?”

You blinked. Not out of confusion—but because of how simple the question was. How quietly it slipped into the air, as if it hadn’t just knocked the breath from your lungs. Out of all the questions to ask.

“Pardon?”

It came out harsher than you intended, a reflexive edge. Because you hadn’t expected that. Not from him.

Not after everything you’d just said.

The High Lord met your gaze without flinching. Just a question rooted in something almost like… curiosity. Or compassion. Or both.

“If there were no threat,” he continued gently, “no scheming from within the court, no trouble cased in Hewn City, no risk of Rhysand’s court fracturing under the truth—if none of it would fall apart… would you want to return?”

Your lips parted, no answer on your tongue.

Because it wasn’t fair.

Not that he asked. But that he’d seen it. That quiet thing in you that always circled back to Velaris. To star-blessed skies and warmth by the Sidra. To laughter echoing off the House of Wind. To midnight flights and whispered council meetings and home.

To him.

“It’s not about what I want,” you said finally. Quiet. Honest. “It never has been.”

Thesan tilted his head slightly. “And if it could be?”

You didn’t answer right away. The kind of silence that followed was heavier than the ones before it. Filled not with fear—but longing.

So you simply asked, “Would you?”

He blinked, a small flicker of surprise passing over his features. “Go back?”

You nodded once. “If you had a reason to leave. If the world believed you were dead. If returning meant unraveling all the things you’d worked so hard to protect.”

He didn’t answer for a long time. Then—just above a whisper:

“Only if someone I loved was still waiting for me.”

“There is your answer.”

Because there couldn’t be.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

This whole meeting had unraveled faster than you could’ve stopped it.

The talks between Vassa and Thesan had been progressing beautifully—almost suspiciously so—and for a fleeting moment, you’d let yourself relax. Let yourself tilt your head toward the open archway where the stars were just beginning to blink into existence, hoping to read something, feel something in them.

And then your name was said.

“—and Jurian to go as my kingdom’s ambassadors,” Vassa was saying, tone even. “I know there’s history with Jurian—”

She didn’t get to finish.

Thesan lifted a hand, calm but firm. “As long as the rules within my court are followed and respected, I have no problem with who you’ve chosen.”

Several heads turned toward you. Nervous glances. A few tight gulps.

It took a heartbeat too long for your brain to catch up with what had been spoken. And then—

“I’m sorry, what?” The words sliced through the room.

Jurian gave a snort from where he lounged beside the wine decanter. “That took longer than it should’ve.”

Vassa didn’t even look at you when she said it. “As I cannot go, given my… particular limitations, you’ll be traveling to the Dawn Court in my stead.”

Then she was already speaking again, moving on to the next bullet point of the treaty like she hadn’t just shattered the ground beneath you.

It wasn’t until much later—after the tables had been cleared, after the castle had hushed to a deep and peaceful quiet, after you’d paced your room until your bones vibrated with tension—that the words burst out of you.

“Are you insane?” It wasn’t even shaped like a question. It came out too pointed. Too fast. 

Vassa didn’t flinch. Didn’t even lift her head from the parchment in her hands. She flicked her gaze to you with a calm that was almost infuriating.

“I feel like I am having this conversation,” she said mildly, eyes scanning the parchment. “I don’t see why you’re upset.”

Oh, she saw.

She saw everything. And clearly, she’d decided it didn’t matter.

You crossed the room in a few quick strides.

“You’re sending me into Prythian. You’re sending me into solar court territory. With them a single court away.” The word came out like a bruise.

Vassa set the report down, folding her hands over the table. “I’m sending my best diplomat into the Dawn Court. The same diplomat who helped establish half the foundational laws in this kingdom. Who has negotiated peace between humans and Fae who once wouldn’t breathe the same air.”

“You’re sending the mother of an heir to a court that doesn’t even know she exists,” you snapped. “To a territory where one wrong word from the wrong person could start civil unrest.”

A beat of silence passed. Heavy. Uneasy.

Then Vassa rose. Slowly. The Queen of Scythia. Flame wrapped in skin.

“You think I don’t know that?” she said quietly. The words weren’t soft. They were controlled. Clipped like flint, ready to spark.

“Then why?” you demanded.

“Because you are the only one who can do this and not burn the whole damn alliance to the ground. You think I’d trust Jurian? Lucien? Any of my advisors to walk into a room of High Fae and come out with dignity and diplomacy intact? I chose you because you can.”

That stopped you.

Vassa stared at you for a moment longer, and then her gaze gentled—just slightly.

“You made this alliance possible. And I agreed because it helps my kingdom. It feeds my people, stabilizes our trade, strengthens our position against the other queens. But I can’t go to Prythian. Not like this.”

You both knew what this meant.

The curse. The Firebird. Her dual existence.

“You can winnow. You can navigate court politics blindfolded. And Jurian, for all his dramatics, will keep the human interest in mind if you can’t. This is the best shot we’ve got at solidifying a lasting alliance with Thesan.”

You stared at her. The feeling in your chest was a familiar pressure.

“And the curse?” you asked quietly, already tracking the truth in her words.

“The human libraries failed me.” Her eyes didn’t waver. “Maybe a Fae one won’t.”

Your lips parted. Then closed. Then opened again on a breath.

“A Fae library could,” you murmured, eyes unfocusing as your thoughts fractured into a hundred different directions.

This was a terrible idea.

This was a storm, and you were choosing to step into the eye of it. You could feel the future unraveling before you like thread between your fingers—fragile, inevitable, slipping through faster than you could catch it.

Everything you’d built. Everything you’d sacrificed. The years. The silence. The safety.

All of it teetering at the edge of a single word.

But—

It always came back to that word.

But Estella, who deserved to know.

But Vassa, who had believed in you when you’d barely remembered how to believe in yourself.

But this kingdom, that had become a place where people laughed again with Fae. 

And for that small, aching part of you that still dreamed of home. That still remembered moonlight on cobblestone streets. Firelight on familiar faces. The whisper of a person that once felt eternal.

For all of it.

Your voice was quiet when it came. Simple. Unadorned.

“Okay. As long as it’s only the Dawn Court.”

[dreamdragonkadia]

As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - II Word Count: 6.4k A/N: Insert dramatic music here. Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Prev - Next ✦ Ao3

The letter arrived before you could properly get Jurian up to speed—before he could even begin to wrap his head around the fact that Fae walked these halls freely, laughing and talking with the very humans they had once been at war with.

"You’ve been busy, I’ll give you that," Jurian muttered under his breath that morning, seated beside you at the long dining table. His eyes flickered over the gathered council, studying them like a battlefield he had yet to understand.

The human and Fae councils sat side by side, conversing easily. The only person missing was Vassa.

Meanwhile, Estella was perched happily in the lap of Eosara, the Peregryn Fae who represented the Dawn Court. Her tropical colored wings were tucked neatly against her back, eyes bright as she murmured something soft to the little girl curled against her.

A trusted guide to flight. A mentor. One who had fought in the war and had chosen to stay.

She was young, but stubborn, unyielding in her will. A trait she shared with Estella, which made their friendship even more surprising.

"It was a long process," you murmured, lifting your cup to your lips. "Please don’t fuck it up."

Jurian let out a soft, disbelieving huff, but whatever snide remark he had prepared was cut short as the doors swung open and a courier entered the room, balancing a golden tray stacked with letters.

You barely glanced at the first three—more complaints from lords and ladies whining to the crown. Those, you swiftly passed to Vassa’s advisors.

Another letter, from a different kingdom, seethed at Scythia for harboring Fae. That one, you crumpled up without a second thought.

But the last one—that made your breath catch. 

The wax seal pressed into the envelope. A rising dawn. Your fingers tightened around the letter, the rest of the room fading into the background.

This wasn’t addressed to Vassa. It wasn’t addressed to the mortal queen or anyone in the human court.

It was addressed to you. To the Lady of the Night. Your full name and title. The ink burned into the parchment like a brand. Jurian must have noticed the shift in your demeanor because his voice lowered, words laced with curiosity. "What is it?"

You said nothing.

Just stared at the dawn wax seal. 

"Eosara."

The name left your lips before you could even think, the sound sharper than you intended.

The Peregryn looked up from where she had been gently braiding a loose strand of Estella’s hair, her eyes blinking at you curiously.

"Yes, M’lady?"

You hesitated for only a second before asking, "Did you see your brother? At the battle?"

Her face lit up instantly, her wings twitching in excitement.

"Yes!" she beamed, nearly bouncing in her seat. "He was shocked to see that I was alive and well—we both cried. Oh! And the stars you read were right! High Lord Thesan and him are an official thing! Only took them how many years."

A Fae from the Summer Court let out a soft scoff, muttering, "About damn time."

Eosara ignored him entirely, too swept up in her own story.

"And even the High Lord hugged me," she continued, "though it’s a little weird to think that we’ll be family one day, you know?"

Your fingers flexed around the letter, the parchment rough beneath your fingertips.

"Eosara," you said again, voice calmer now, more stable. "Did you… mention anything? To them?"

She blinked, tilting her head. "Mention anything?"

"About the others. About who survived."

The Peregryn’s brow furrowed, and for the first time, some of her excitement dampened. "I—" she hesitated, shifting slightly. "I didn’t say much. I mean, I told them I had been safe all these years, that I had found shelter, that I had found—"

She stopped, eyes flickering with uncertainty.

And you knew.

The way her wings tucked in tighter, the way her fingers clenched the hem of Estella’s sleeve.

You knew.

Her throat bobbed. "I… might have let it slip. Not about everyone—just that I wasn’t alone. That I wasn’t the only one to make it out."

Jurian let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, this just keeps getting better."

"Did you say my name?"

The Peregryn’s wings twitched, her gaze dropping. "No," she said quickly. "I mean—no, not exactly. But I think—Lord Thesan might have guessed."

Your stomach twisted. Thesan was not a fool. He was one of the most observant High Lords in Prythian.. If she had so much as hinted—

If she had spoken of you in any way—

Then he knew. And that meant this letter…

You looked down at the wax seal once more. "Shit," you muttered under your breath, your fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before breaking the seal. The parchment unfolding smoothly:

Lady of the Night,

If what I have been led to believe is true, then I am glad that you are alive, and I sincerely hope you are well. It has been many years, and though I understand why you have remained away, I will not pretend that your absence has not been felt.

I cannot blame you for not returning, not after… certain circumstances within your court. But my friend, know that you are always welcome in Dawn, should you ever wish it. You, and all those who fled with you. I extend this offer without expectation or condition—merely as a standing truth. Especially after everything you have done for Eosara, and by extension, for my court.

I was admittedly surprised when she declined the invitation to return home, as I was by every Fae who stood with the mortal queen and chose to follow her back instead of seeking refuge with their former courts. Not one dared to speak of how they lived, how they survived, even when we were told the Weaver had eaten her fill that night.

I will not lie to you—Helion suspects. He would not voice it, not for Rhysand’s sake nor for the High Lady’s, but he requested an audience with me regarding the matter. It is both a hope and a fear for him, and I suspect he dreads the answer as much as he longs for it.

Court politics aside, I hope you might grant me an audience—not just for the sake of Prythian, but because I send this letter in good faith. There is much we could discuss, including the possibility of establishing ties with the human territory you have deemed worthy enough to protect.

And, if nothing else, my captain would be overjoyed to see his baby sister again. He has not stopped worrying for her since the end of the war, and I suspect no order I give will ease his mind until he hears it from her own lips.

I ask that you allow Eosara to deliver your response and grant her permission to explain what happened. Whatever your answer may be, I will respect it.

With sincerity,ThesanHigh Lord of the Dawn Court

The words blurred for a moment as you read them over again. Once. Twice. 

Thesan’s letter was carefully worded, diplomatic, but you knew the truth beneath his polite phrasing. A slow breath slipped past your lips as you set the letter down beside your plate, fingers pressing into the parchment as if it might run away.

"Well?" Jurian drawled, breaking the silence. "Anything scandalous? Or should I be disappointed?"

You huffed a quiet laugh, leaning back into your chair. “I think I need a drink.”

Jurian’s brows flicked up.

“Something strong enough to knock me on my ass for a few days,” you clarified, rubbing your fingers against your temples.

The rest of the room buzzed with chatter, the hum of conversation a distant, unimportant thing. You could have tossed the letter into the fire right then and there—no one would be the wiser. Let the flames consume it, let the ashes scatter into nothingness, as if Thesan had never written it at all.

But Scythia was a land of trade, a land that had flourished on the backs of merchants and contracts, on the careful threading of alliances. A trade agreement with the Dawn Court would introduce new goods, new wealth, new influence.

And if war broke out between the human queens—if their fragile alliances shattered, if blood once again stained these lands—then having a court’s backing could be instrumental in ensuring Scythia’s survival. More than survival. Expansion.

The thought curled through your mind, enticing, logical, a strategy as old as time. But it was cut short as quickly as it rose.

No.

Scythia had been content as a small kingdom, one that did not hunger for more, one that did not seek to stretch its grasp beyond what it could hold. It was an option you had proposed time and time again, a vision of stability, of safety. And time and time again, Vassa had rejected it—just as her mother had before her.

Still, the thought itched at the edges of your mind. A court’s backing. A court’s wealth. A court’s protection.

You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself, then said—loudly—“How would Scythia feel about hosting a High Lord in our grasp?”

The room went silent. Conversation cut off mid-sentence. Several pairs of eyes turned to you, brows raising, spines straightening. Some in curiosity, some in suspicion.

Slowly, you lifted the letter, letting the parchment catch the daylight. “The Dawn Court requests an audience,” you announced, voice carrying through the hall. “And I think we can time this with Vassa being a part of it.”

“Court, court!” Estella chirped, her illyrian wings popping out in excitement. 

The room unraveled all at once. Voices rose, tangling over one another—arguments, ideas, concerns. Someone banged a fist against the table, another sighed heavily, already weary of whatever this would bring.

“What does he want?” someone demanded.

“Can we afford to host a High Lord? What would be expected of us?” another countered.

“If we deny him, what message does that send?”

“If we accept, do we risk becoming entangled in Fae politics?”

“We already are,” you muttered, but no one heard you over the din. 

By mid-noon, the letter of response was finished. The room waited anxiously as you read it aloud,

High Lord Thesan,

It has been a long time, and though I hesitate to confirm your belief, I find myself unable to ignore it. If what you suspect is true, then I am glad that it is you who has discovered it.

I had expected some resentment from you—for leaving you all beneath the Bitch Queen’s thumb, for not returning to Prythian even after her reign ended. I will not lie and say I do not still wake in the dead of night, expecting to find myself trapped Under the Mountain once more.

I am sorry that I could not rescue you as well. But know this—those who left with me are alive. They are thriving. They are living as they should, free from the shadows that once loomed over us.

Perhaps one day, I will take you up on your offer—to settle in the Dawn Court, to walk its halls once more. I have missed your palace, our talks. Next time we meet, perhaps I will read the stars for you again. As for my home, I do not wish to cause more trouble than my departure already has. If he is happy, then I will ask for nothing more.

For my High Lord of Night.

For my once-husband.

I ask only that you tell no one. Not for their sake, but for mine. This entire situation has left me on edge, and I know you will understand why.

On the matter of diplomacy, I extend an invitation—you and yours are welcome within the walls of Scythia. I urge you to winnow if you can—it is quite the journey across the sea, and I doubt you would find it pleasant. But know this: you will be stepping into a human kingdom, one that offered sanctuary when no one else dared.

These are a people who took us in when we had nowhere else to go, who shielded us. They are to be treated with respect—with honor. I would find great insult should any of yours disregard them.

As for what happened all those years ago…

It is not a story for Eosara to tell.

It is one you must hear from me. I leave her in your care so that she may guide you to our refuge, so that she may show you the life we have built here.

I look forward to seeing an old friend again.

Yours,

Do I even call myself the Lady of the Night anymore? Perhaps, Starseer then?

As simply as that, the letter was sealed, handed off to Eosara, and within moments, she had been winnowed back to her birthlands, the place she had once called home. From there, she would fly the rest of the way.

Two weeks.

That was the date you had provided.

Hopefully, it would be enough time to get this city into shape—to prepare, to fortify, to anticipate what it would mean to welcome a High Lord Fae into a human kingdom.

And yet—

That was also the night the dreams changed.

They had started a few months ago, and always the same. The grassy field stretching wide before you, the manor behind you, its presence looming even when you did not turn to look at it. Human lands. You were certain of that much. The air smelled of earth and green things, of summer turning to autumn. You always sat at the same small table, drinking your tea, alone.

And yet, you had never been alone. Not truly.

There had always been a presence within that manor—silent, hidden, watching. You had felt it ever since the wall had fallen, since that barrier between humans and Fae had shattered. The very day this dream had begun its relentless cycle.

That presence had never been warm, never comforting. It was a sliver of a blaze, distant yet unbending. Hardly ever the night sky anymore—never the stars.

Dreams were odd things, so similar to reality, yet so... wrong.

Tonight, there were two chairs.

You had assumed, if someone came, it would be someone you knew. A ghost of your past, a specter of memory made flesh.

But the Fae woman who stopped several feet from the manor entrance was no one you knew.

A queen, perhaps?

Devastatingly beautiful, without a doubt. But not in just the way of the Fae. Not in the effortless, gilded beauty of their kind. No, this was something sharper, something carved out of wrath and resilience. Those piercing blue-gray eyes held far more emotion than a Fae should allow. Anger was its shining center, but beneath it—something deeper, something buried.

You held her gaze for a long moment before tilting your head and gesturing to the empty seat.

"There is no point in standing there looking like I've done you wrong," you joked, leaning back.

A heartbeat of silence.

Then—her voice, flat and edged like a blade casually dragged across stone.

"Aren't you supposed to be with the Mother? Or whatever nonsense afterlife Fae believe in?"

No fear. No reverence.

Just disdain, as if she found your very existence mildly inconvenient at best, utterly irrelevant at worst.

You glanced up at the sky, unconcerned, and shrugged. "Suppose she didn’t want me."

The woman huffed, arms crossing over her chest, her weight shifting in a way that made her irritation obvious. “So, you’ve come to plague my dreams like your and my sister’s court don’t do that enough?”

You blinked.

Your court? Her sister’s court?

There was no missing the venom in her tone, the way the words curled with something bitter and long-standing, something older than whatever had drawn her here tonight.

Who the hell was she?

And why did she speak as if she already knew you?

"You assume I have control over this," you said, studying her. "I assure you, I don’t make a habit of haunting strangers."

"Strangers," she echoed, her lips twisting slightly. 

A test. A taunt.

You didn’t rise to it. Instead, you gestured toward the empty chair again. "If I’m already in your dream, you might as well sit. Unless you’d rather stand there glaring at me the entire time you sleep."

She held your gaze, unflinching. Stoic.

Then, with a sigh—one that sounded less like surrender and more like exhaustion—she moved.

Slow. Careful. As a predator on the hunt.

She pulled out the chair opposite you and sat—not in a way that suggested comfort, but rather control. Back straight, arms folding over her chest as if daring you to think for a second she had relaxed.

"You’re awfully calm for a ghost who doesn’t know where they are," she mused.

"You’re awfully defensive for someone who acts like they don’t care," you countered.

Something flickered in her expression. Surprise, irritation—it was hard to tell.

"You don’t speak like them," she said at last.

"Them?"

Her mouth pressed into a thin line, as if she had already said too much.

You studied her—the steel-cut posture, the restrained fury beneath her skin, the way she spoke of Fae courts as if they had disappointed her in ways only someone intimately familiar with them could understand.

Your lips parted. "Well, I’m—"

"I know who you are."

The words landed like a sentence, final and irrefutable.

You frowned slightly. "Then I am at a disadvantage here, Miss...?"

A long, tense silence.

It took a long minute to realize that last name, why it had such an impact that you practically yanked yourself out of that dream.

"Nesta. Nesta Archeron."

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

“Why do you look like Doomsday is around the corner?” Jurian snorted, breaking the silence.

From her place beside him, Estella peeked over his armrest, her violet eyes curious as she studied you. She’d already been awake—waiting when you startled up. You hadn’t even opened your eyes before you'd felt her there, hovering quietly beside the bed like a little ghost.

It was an odd habit she’d developed lately—if she woke before you, she’d sit and watch, as if waiting for the precise moment your breathing shifted. Never spoke. Never touched. Just... watched.

You weren’t sure if it was endearing or unsettling.

You exhaled heavily, rubbing your temples before muttering, “I fear that I’ve started haunting the Kingslayer’s dreams.”

Then, before either of them could pry, you summoned a bottle of Fae wine.

It was early, but after that, a drink was already needed.

“What? You can do that?” 

“No.” Dream-hopping had never been a power you possessed. No, this had to be something else. Something not of your own making.

The Mother.

You pulled the cork from the bottle with a pop and took a long sip before saying, “And do you really think I’d choose her dream to haunt of all people? You’d be first on my list.”

Jurian scowled. “Please don’t. Seeing you every day has already reminded me why we were always two seconds from stabbing each other during the war.”

You smirked over the rim of your glass. “Then maybe I’ll start showing up in your dreams just to make sure you don’t forget.”

Before he could retort, a soft voice cut through the conversation.

“Sad?”

You blinked, turning toward Estella. She had climbed onto Jurian’s chair, her small hands gripping the edge of the armrest as she peered at you with a serious expression.

"I'm not sad," you clarified, brows knitting slightly.

Estella made a face, like you were missing something obvious. Then she sighed. Actually sighed, like a miniature adult disappointed in your inability to keep up.

"Not you, Mama," she said, matter-of-fact, before promptly deciding the conversation was beneath her.

With all the flair of someone who knew exactly how dramatic she was being, Estella hopped off the chair and disappeared under the table.

Jurian raised a brow.

You exhaled, “I have no idea. She’s on a high horse today.”

He gave a dry hum of agreement.

For as young as she was, Estella already had every telltale sign of her father’s personality—observant, amused by things going wrong, and entirely too good at making you feel like you were the ridiculous one in the room.

Gods help you when she was older.

The table moved on—several conversations sparking up around you, clinking dishes and low laughter weaving into the lazy rhythm of the morning. You had just started to relax, letting the dream slip from your mind, when a small finger poked your thigh.

You glanced down.

Estella stood beside you and in that same calm, certain voice she’d used before, she murmured—

“Kingslayer. Seer. Cursebreaker.”

You stilled.

Her gaze didn’t waver.

You simply reached out and patted her head.

Because you didn’t know what else to do.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

It had been nearly a week before the Kingslayer returned to your dreams.

She had not appeared again in that field—not a flicker, not a whisper. For nights, it had been just you at the small table, in the same quiet meadow, with the manor looming at your back.

But tonight—

Tonight, as you drifted into sleep, she was already there.

Sitting.

Waiting.

Nesta Archeron.

Neither of you said anything as you took your usual seat.

No words. No glares. No accusations. Just… presence.

And that’s how the next three nights went.

No dreams but this one. No visitors but her.

She said nothing. You said nothing. But the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it became useful. Time suspended outside of politics, outside of reality—a still place where thoughts could unfurl freely.

These dreams, oddly enough, had become productive.

You used the stillness to think—to plan. Thesan’s impending arrival weighed heavily on everyone, and there had been more than a few hiccups in the preparations.

Vassa had been debriefed the night the letter arrived, and as expected, she’d had more than a few opinions to share. She wasn’t against the idea of making Scythia the largest trading outpost in the human realms—not if an alliance with Dawn could guarantee it.

But she had crushed any suggestion of invading the sister lands before it could take root.

“We trade. We expand. We do not conquer,” she had said, voice firm, eyes hard.

It had all come to a head during one of your late meetings when Jurian had said something that shocked both of you.

“Your dear Starseer is right,” he said, casually swirling a glass of wine like he wasn’t dropping a verbal match into dry grass. “If the other queens were willing to toss you aside that simply, they’ll be willing to wage war with you, too. Take your wins the moment they show weakness.”

You remembered how still Vassa went.

How the room seemed to inhale, waiting.

And then—

She kicked both of you out.

Literally.

You and Jurian had barely cleared the threshold of her war room before the door slammed shut behind you, lock clicking into place.

“Do you—”

The voice pulled you from your thoughts.

You turned slightly.

Nesta wasn’t looking at you. She sat rigid in her chair, hands clenched in her lap, knuckles white from the effort. Not trembling. Not weak. Just… contained. Controlled.

“Do you regret what you’ve done?”

The question came out too quickly to be soft, but too quiet to be a challenge.

A blade, held point-down.

You let it hang between you for a long moment.

“I don’t know what you’ve suffered,” you said finally. “And I don’t know what you go through now.”

Her eyes flicked toward you—the faintest movement, but there.

“If you’re asking for your sake,” you continued, “and hoping my answer might somehow condemn us both, I’ll spare you the effort.”

You met her gaze then. 

“No. I don’t regret what I’ve done. Not who I’ve hurt. Not who I’ve killed. Not the ones I made suffer.”

The words slipped out like truth carved into stone. Not cruel. Not boastful.

Just fact.

“I do not know you,” she said. “And yet why is it you—who is dead—who haunts me?”

Her hands were no longer in her lap. One now gripped the armrest of her chair like she might crush it.

“I know you from a painting,” she went on, “and from stories the Illyrian brute had let slip when he’s distracted. That’s it. That’s all.”

She looked at you then—truly looked. 

“Out of all the dead,” she said, practically hissing the words through clenched teeth, “it’s a woman I have no connection to—no bond with—who keeps showing up, night after night.”

She paused. Her voice dropped, bitter and frayed at the edges.

“I figured if I got drunk enough, you wouldn’t come back.”

You let her words sit between you like a storm on the verge of breaking.

Then, simply, calmly, you answered, "Your guess is as good as mine. I do not know why the Mother has deemed us to share this space. If anything, it should be your High Lady."

"Not my High Lady."

The words came out a hiss—immediate.

That took you by surprise.

You studied her again, more carefully this time. “She is your sister, is she not? From my understanding, you sit within her court, no?”

Nesta’s jaw clenched, her eyes flashing. “I never asked to be this,” she bit out, each word rough and raw, like it cost her something to say it aloud. “It is the least she can do—letting me stay—for dragging Elain and me into this mess.”

The bitterness in her tone was layered. And despite the fire still simmering in her gaze, for the first time, you saw it—the hurt underneath.

Not weakness. Not regret.

Just the kind of wound that never quite scabbed over.

“Interesting,” you murmured, watching her carefully. “I’ve known humans who would give anything to become Fae. Yet you resent it.” A soft pause. “Why? Because this was a fate you were forced to take?”

“What does a dead woman know?”

You didn’t flinch. Just tilted your head.

“I know what it is to have someone else dictate your life. Down to who you’ll marry, how you’ll serve, when you’ll speak. For me, Rhysand, for what it’s worth, wasn’t the worst option for a husband.”

She snorted. “He’s a prick.”

“He has his moments.”

That caught her off guard.

You laughed softly, not unkind.

“Oh, I’ll be the first to admit the Inner Court is far from perfect.” You shrugged. “But no one is.”

She didn’t respond right away. Something in her had… shifted. Just a fraction. But you noticed.

“Even yourself?” 

You snorted. “Especially myself. Whatever they’ve told you, don’t believe it.” There was no heat behind the words, only the easy comfort of truth long since accepted. A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as you lifted a brow, eyes flicking toward her like you were letting her in on a secret you rarely shared. “I’m a wicked woman who loves power.”

Nesta blinked—startled, maybe. Like she hadn’t expected the confession to come so effortlessly, so unapologetically. Just a heartbeat of hesitation, of something shifting behind her eyes. And then—barely there, but unmistakable—her lips twitched. Not quite a smile, not quite approval. But something real. Something human. It vanished a second later, wiped clean like a crack sealed with frost. Still, you saw it. And she knew you did.

The silence that followed didn’t feel cold this time. It felt suspended. Waiting. And maybe that’s why you said what you did next—not out of cruelty, but because there was no one else who would say it. Not like this. Not to her.

“You forge your own path. If your soul cannot bear this existence, Nesta Archeron,” you said quietly, the words dropping between you like a stone in still water, “then simply cease to exist. Be remembered only as the Kingslayer. Let that name be the last thing you let the world remember you by.”

Nesta didn’t flinch, but she didn’t breathe, either.

“Why suffer?” you continued as the dream began to shift. That familiar pull stirred at the edge of your awareness, the weightlessness that always signaled you were being drawn back—back into your body, into waking. The meadow around you dimmed, blurred at the edges, but still you held her gaze.

“And should you choose to go,” you added, finality ringing beneath the calm in your tone, “you won’t see me again. I will not follow. That is a death I cannot follow in.”

Then the world dissolved around you, unraveling like thread through fingers—slow, soundless, inevitable. 

And when your eyes fluttered open, Estella was already there, perched just above you on the edge of the bed, her little brows pulled together in a tiny frown of concentration.

She blinked once, solemn and confused. You barely had a moment to register the expression before you reached for her, arms wrapping around her small body and pulling her close until her cheek was squished against your chest.

She huffed in your arms—an exaggerated little sigh far too dramatic for someone so small, her wings fluttering once in protest.

“Why her?” she mumbled against your nightgown, voice muffled, still thick with sleep. “Why not the ‘nother one?”

You stilled, heart thudding softly.

Estella shifted a little, her hand grabbing the fabric near your shoulder in a tight, toddler-sized fist. “She yours. And you hers. That’s what they said.” Her words were slurred and messy, tangled together in the way only young children speak when their minds move faster than their mouths.

Then, a whisper—curious and oddly knowing.

“But you don’t dream of her. Or him.”

You had no idea how to answer her.

Your hand stilled where it had been brushing over her hair.

“Sweetling… are you watching my dreams?”

A flicker of worry laced your voice, soft but rough at the edges. Had she started coming into her magic? Was this the beginning of something—too early, too much?

She shook her head against you, the motion small and stubborn.

“No.” Her voice was quiet. “I feel.”

Then, after a pause, one hand resting over your chest like she was trying to anchor herself:

“I dunno what you said ...but they’re there. I feel them. But…They don’t see me. See us. You... you block us out.”

You swallowed hard, throat suddenly tight.

She wasn’t accusing you. Just stating it—like it was simply a truth of the world, the way the sun rose or rain fell.

And then, as toddlers do, the moment was gone.

Estella suddenly wriggled and rolled off you with all the grace of a sleepy cat tumbling out of bed.

“Mama! Food!” she declared, as if the past minute hadn’t caused you more confusion than these dreams.

She toddled toward the door like her words alone would summon breakfast.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

“Esoara will arrive home tomorrow, then?” Vassa asked, cutting into her dinner with careful precision. Her tone was casual, but the tone beneath it wasn’t lost on you. This was the final dinner before hosting a High Lord—before the balance of power might shift, one way or another.

“They’ll be joining us around lunch tomorrow,” you confirmed, reaching for the breadbasket and handing a small roll to the tiny Fae beside you.

Estella clutched it with both hands, then looked up at you, eyes wide.

“Friends?” she asked hopefully. “Tonight?”

“Tomorrow,” you corrected gently.

She gave a very serious frown, clearly unconvinced by this injustice, but began gnawing on the roll anyway.

All the preparations had been set. Every contingency considered. Every piece on the board placed just right. And yet, the closer dawn crept, the more it felt like something was coming that no amount of planning could stop.

“Are we all ignoring the elephant in the room?” Jurian muttered, stabbing his fork into his food like it had offended him. “When, exactly, did Lucien get invited to be part of this?”

At the mention of his name, the one-eyed High Fae looked up from his plate with a raised brow. 

Vassa’s knife clinked a little too hard against her plate. “When you and her”—” she stabbed a glare in your direction—“came to an agreement to invade the other lands.”

You threw your hands up. “No one is invading anything.”

“Yet,” Jurian added under his breath, just loud enough.

You glared at him, but he only smirked, thoroughly unbothered.

Turning back to Lucien, you forced your voice pleasant. “You are more than welcome here, if Vassa has invited you to be part of her court.”

Lucien leaned back, gaze flicking between the three of you. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just here to observe.” 

“And not report back to the Night Court?” Jurian cut in, voice dry and dripping sarcasm, “as their Emissary? That their precious Lady of the Night is alive and well and their High Lord has a daughter?”

“We’ve already gone over the threats when he first found out,” you reminded flatly, not bothering to hide the warning in your tone.

Jurian made a sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a grunt and a groan.

“Now that’s boring,” 

You shot him a look. “Try diplomacy sometime.”

“I have. That’s why I prefer swords.”

Lucien let out a low hum, studying the two of you with mild amusement. “I’d have figured you two would have nothing but disdain for each other.”

You didn’t miss the twitch of a smile at the corner of Jurian’s mouth.

“You should see how he and Vassa argue,” you said, sipping your wine. “It’s less debate, more bloodsport.”

“She’s the one who throws things,” Jurian muttered.

“Only because you talk like that,” Vassa snapped, not looking up from her plate.

You stared at the three of them for a beat. Vassa stabbing her roast with a bit too much force. Jurian smug as ever. Estella happily chewing on a stolen piece of bread and whispering to her cup like it might answer her.

You were surrounded by children.

Truly.

And somehow, that realization tugged at something in your chest—something you’d buried.

It crept in uninvited, that ache of memory. Of home.

Of the Inner Court.

Of Cassian challenging you to a drinking contest and losing spectacularly, his laughter echoing into the night. Of Mor and Cassian shouting at the top of their lungs to see whose drunken voice would carry farther. Of Azriel sitting beside you in the shadows, silently snorting before asking if he needed to go drag them apart. Of Amren muttering under her breath about why she stayed in this court of fools in the first place.

And of Rhys.

Rhys, who would simply snort, kiss your forehead, and murmur, “Come on, my dear—let’s sneak away and leave the drunks to their fun.”

You blinked, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Those nights were lifetimes ago. And still, some part of you felt them—echoing.

You set your glass down. Carefully.

Because if you let yourself fall into that feeling, if you truly allowed yourself to spiral into the ache curling in your chest like a long-forgotten flame, you weren’t sure you’d find your way back out again. You had spent so long containing it—pressing your grief, your longing, your history into neat corners of yourself, shoving it all down where it couldn't touch anything tender. But it was still there, waiting in the hollows. And tonight, in the quiet of the garden, in the lull between breaths and stars, it stirred.

I want to go home.

The thought didn’t just rise—it split through you. Choking and sudden. Like lightning flashing down your spine, lighting every dark corner you’d sealed away with that single truth.

And that had been dangerous to think.

Because in a world like this—where magic listened, where power didn’t always respect boundaries—desire had weight. It was a tether, a beacon. A whisper that could become a call. And when you let yourself want something badly enough, the world had a habit of listening. Of answering.

You should have known better.

And yet—tonight, the sky had been so impossibly beautiful. The kind of beauty that made you forget the years, the wars, the politics, the fear. Stars scattered like a blessing across the velvet dark, glowing long after the palace had settled into silence.

You’d wandered into the palace gardens barefoot, the stone cool beneath your soles, the scent of night-blooming flowers curling through the air like silk. There was no sound beyond the hush of wind in the hedges and the soft rustle of leaves. And in that stillness, you stood utterly alone—wrapped in the gentle hush of a world not watching. The kind of quiet you’d forgotten you missed. The kind that only came when no one else was listening.

That was when you felt it.

A brush of cold across your skin—too precise to be wind.

A whisper at your shoulder—not sound, not touch, but something in between. A ripple in the world around you, like a memory trying to take shape.

Your breath caught.

And then they came.

The shadows.

They slithered over the stone like ink through water, curling gently around your ankle, brushing along your wrist—not grasping, not threatening. Just… remembering. They wove through your hair like a breeze that hadn’t been there a moment before.

Because you knew them. Even now, after everything, you knew them.

Azriel’s shadows.

You hadn’t felt them in a long time, they hardly ever left his side. The way they moved. The way they lingered. The way they never pressed unless invited.

They weren’t urgent now. They weren’t warning you or dragging you away from danger.

They were just... here.

Searching. Remembering. Recognizing.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Not even when the air behind you shifted, when the stillness turned thick and heavy, like the entire garden had gone breathless. Not even when instinct told you you were no longer alone.

You stayed still—frozen in the moment between one life and the next.

Until you heard it.

Soft. Rough around the edges. A voice like gravel and shadow, like dusk curling into midnight.

“You’re alive.”

Your eyes slipped closed.

Because you knew that voice was family.

And when you finally turned, slow and unwilling, he was there.

Azriel.

Standing just beyond the hedges, wrapped in his shadows like he had never left them.

Like he had stepped out of memory itself.

Like seeing a beloved dead person hadn’t just shattered his world completely.

[dreamdragonkadia]

As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - Ø Word Count: 2.4k A/N: Do I know where I’m going with this series? No, not a clue. But I had a dream about this and decided to make it a series. I’m aiming for around 15 parts, but who knows? Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Next ✦ Ao3

What was regret?

A cruel trick of the mind? A wound that festered despite the years?

Was this something you regretted doing? 

The answer was simple.

No. 

Not now. Not in a million years.

Not even as you looked upon the child nestled against your chest—your daughter, your blood, the spitting image of her father. Not even as your heart rattled like a caged bird in your ribs, as the room spun, as the taste of iron filled your mouth.

She was here. Finally, she was here.

And she would never see him.

Not while she ruled. Not while the Bitch Queen sat atop her stolen throne, choking Prythian in a grip of blood and bone and hollow, endless suffering.

Would this child even know her mother?

Perhaps not.

Not while you bled out on the floor of this home, hidden away in the depths of human lands that still whispered with old magic, where mist curled like ghostly fingers through the cracks in the wood and windows. Not while the Fae you had fought for, had nearly died for, hovered above you, their panic a distant hum beneath the ragged sound of your breathing.

The child against your chest stirred, wiggling against the blood-soaked fabric of your dress. She whimpered, her tiny hands grasping at nothing, and when her eyes finally opened—

And the stars blinked back at you.

Violet, deep and endless, like the midnight sky over Velaris. Like his.

Rhysand’s eyes.

A sob wrenched itself from your throat, as raw as the wounds along your skin, as the jagged remains of what could have been.

The eyes of the man you had loved. 

The eyes of the man you had left behind for his own good.

The truth of the last twenty years since the great escape settled upon you, no longer an abstraction, no longer distant. It was here. Now. Wrapping around your throat like a noose, crushing your ribs, making it impossible to breathe. You had saved who you could. The ones you had pulled from Under the Mountain, the ones who had trusted you to lead them to safety. 

The ones you had knelt before a death god for.

This was her doing.

The Weaver.

Stryga had known. She had known before you had even suspected.

She had felt the magic coil within you before you ever realized that the aching exhaustion, the odd pull of your body, was not from the life you were forced to endure at Amarantha’s side.

And for nothing more than her amusement, for some twisted game only she understood, she had sealed your womb—had locked your daughter in time, preventing her from being born when she was meant to be.

A blessing and a curse.

You had been carrying her all these years.

All these years.

A world where her father was nothing more than a beautifully painted mask, a High Lord forced to play the role of Amarantha’s whore.

A world where you were a ghost, a traitor, a woman who had run and run and run, who had spilled blood across these lands in a desperate attempt to save even a handful of lives.

A world where you had not been his mate.

The thought burned.

Not because you had once hoped for more. Not because you had let yourself believe, in those stolen nights beneath the stars, that maybe, just maybe, you had been enough.

No.

The child against your chest whimpered, as if she, too, could feel the way your mind turned, the way your thoughts splintered into jagged edges of what now? what now? what now?

And your mind reeled back—

Back twenty-one years ago.

When you had sat on your knees before the Weaver, a death god wrapped in darkness, your heart a war drum against your ribs.

You had needed her help.

Would’ve done anything for the Fae waiting outside that decrepit cabin, those who had fled with you, who had trusted you to lead them to freedom.

Even if it meant offering your life in exchange.

Even if it meant offering more than that.

Her shadow loomed over you. 

“How many?”

The Weaver’s voice was a rasp, curling around the edges of the dimly lit room like the hands of something waiting.

You had to hurry.

Had to move.

Amarantha would find out soon enough. She would send her creatures for you, for the Fae you had smuggled away. And she would make him—Rhys—deliver the killing blow himself.

She would make him kill his own wife.

Would make him watch as the life drained from your body. Would make him stand over you, blood on his hands, and smile.

But it would not be real. You knew that.

He would not smile because he wanted to. He would smile because he had to.

Because the alternative—showing even a fraction of what he felt, of what he had felt, of what he might still feel—would be a death sentence for him, too.

The Weaver crouched lower, “You do not have time to stall, child. How many?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

The question shouldn’t have confused you. It should have been obvious. You wondered if Stryga was asking how many had been saved.

Or how many had to die for this moment to come to pass.

Or maybe how many you would be willing to give to the Death god in order to save the rest. 

“What?” The word whispered past your lips, barely more than breath.

Stryga only tilted her head, her lips curling in something that was not quite amusement, not quite pity. “How many years?”

“I-”

“Pick,” she ordered. Her voice did not rise, did not demand. It did not need to. “Unless,” she murmured, “you wish to face the monsters she’s sent for you.”

Amarantha.

Your mind raced.

Fuck. She had found out. Shit. Shit.

Panic clawed at your throat, clawed at the edges of your ribs like a wild animal trapped in too small a space.

“Twenty!”

A whisper. A curse. A plea.

The Weaver’s white, pupil-less eyes gleamed.

And then—

Then she had smiled. A slow, knowing thing.

The Weaver had touched your chest, right above your collarbone and you felt the burn of magic.

And twenty years later to the day, you would come to understand the truth of her question.

When you had felt the shift of magic. And a week later, you had found yourself hurling into a bucket.

Pregnant.

You had gawked, then laughed at the healer, telling him to check again. And he had confirmed it. Again.

If that hadn’t shocked everyone, then the first whispered question had.

Who had you slept with?

Rumors had spread like wildfire, swirling through this little hidden court of Fae who had already thought you some kind of savior. And now—now they thought you a prophet.

At least, until you pieced together what Stryga had done.

But what did all of that matter now?

Your body swayed dangerously. The loss of blood had finally caught up, the edges of your vision darkening, flickering, your breath coming shallower, sharper.

A coo pulled you back, an anchor in the rising tide of oblivion.

You blinked sluggishly, barely aware of the way your arms tightened instinctively around the small bundle. The door creaked open. Hushed voices. The sound of hurried footsteps, too heavy to belong to the Fae you had gathered around you.

You could not leave this beautiful child unprotected.

You could not leave her undefended.

A voice—your name, called once.

Twice.

And with much effort, your gaze tore from the sleeping face nestled against you and flickered toward the human woman standing in front of you.

Eyes like the sea before a storm, wide and filled with panic.

Vassa.

Or—Her Majesty, the Sixth Queen of the Mortal Lands.

A mouth full.

You swallowed thickly, pain curling through you in vicious waves.

"Hello, Vassa—" Your voice came weaker than you wanted, more breath than sound. You forced your lips into a faint smile. "Er—your majesty. I apologize for the unsightly appearance."

It felt like it took too long for the words to spill past your lips, your tongue thick in your mouth.

“I could care less.” The Queen of Scythia murmured, eyes darting between you and the child, looking just as panicked as the court of Fae surrounding you. “You cannot die. You are not allowed.”

Oh, this sweet child.

Vassa was still so young, still fresh off her own grief, still learning what it meant to rule with a mother buried beneath the earth and a father unworthy of her name.

You had grieved the loss of her mother, too. The Queen who had dreamed of a better world. The woman who had taken your hand in secret, who had whispered a bargain that had become your salvation.

And in turn, you had been hers.

Your hand lifted, shaking, brushing over Vassa’s cheek.

She may not have been your daughter by blood.

But you had watched this child come into the world, had held her when her mother was too busy, had been there when she took her first steps, when she spoke her first words.

Vassa caught your hand with both of hers, pressing it tightly against her face.

“You cannot leave me,” she whispered as if she was a child again. 

You exhaled shakily. "I need you to bargain something with me."

A plea, a desperate rasp, and then your gaze turned toward the others in the room.

The council of Fae that governed this secret part of the world, the ones you had given everything for. A city built in shadows, a sanctuary where the lost could thrive, untouched by war.

A secret.

Just like Velaris.

The thought of the Court of Dreams and Starlight pushed fresh tears down your face, the weight of it all settling into your bones.

“I need you all to bargain something for me.”

The silence that followed was heavy, stretching across the room like a shroud.

Your breaths were uneven.

“If I return to the Mother tonight, if I pass the gates to the immortal land—" your voice hitched, but you forced yourself to go on, "do not let her forget me."

Silence.

Vassa’s grip on your hand tightened.

“Do not let her forget who she is,” you continued, your words slower, heavier. “But teach her kindness as I have tried to show you all. Teach her to be fierce and loyal, and love her in the way that I would. For she is dear.”

Your eyes flickered down to the infant, still sleeping despite the tension pressing against the air, her tiny fingers curling around the fabric of your dress.

“And she was wanted more than she could ever know.” A tear slipped down your cheek, staining the small blanket. Bloodstained. Everything was bloodstained.

“Let her be happy.”

Your throat ached, your chest constricting.

You looked at each of them, your expression hardening despite the exhaustion on you.

“Swear it.”

A ripple of something ancient passed through the room. A promise yet to be spoken, but already sealed in the space between heartbeats.

Vassa’s lips parted. The Fae around you shifted, exchanging looks, but there was no hesitation.

No refusal.

Only quiet acceptance.

And then—one by one, they pressed their hands over their hearts.

A vow written into the very marrow of this city.

And as the magic of it settled over the room, you allowed your body to sag, your strength finally slipping.

The bargain had been struck.

And when the burning began, you did not flinch.

But they did.

The Queen, the healers, the warriors, the Fae who had stood beside you all these years—they felt it. A power curling into their very bones, into the depths of their skin.

A mark of magic.

They shuddered as the bond settled into place, as the vow etched itself permanently into flesh.

For making a bargain with anyone in the Night Court meant a mark that would never fade, never be erased, a reminder written in the language of power itself.

And making a bargain with the Lady of the Night—

That meant something else entirely.

Something beautiful.

Something claiming.

You had heard the whispers before, the stories that spread like smoke through Prythian. That those who bore the marks of your bargains were not merely bound, but claimed.

That their souls—their very essence—had been sold to you, had been tied to something far more than a mere promise.

And perhaps that was true.

Perhaps, if anyone saw the shimmering marks curling over their skin, the elegant, starlit script of a promise sealed beneath a dark sky, they would know—

They would know they belonged to you.

Or so many believed. You let them think it. Perhaps, for the first time, it was not entirely untrue.

A soft cry broke through the silence.

The child. Your daughter.

You allowed her to be moved from your arms, to be taken by sure hands as the healers rushed forward. Barely noticing the whispered orders, the rustling of fabric, the touch of cool fingers pressing against your wrist, your throat, checking—

Checking if there was anything left to save.

But you only listened to the quiet coos of the child, the way her small hands grasped at the air, searching for something unseen.

You had done what you could.

And for the first time in twenty years—

You let yourself rest.

Then a voice. Distant. Soft. Familiar. 

A call back to the world of the living.

“What is her name?”

Vassa’s voice barely registered, a whisper through the haze pulling you under.

But still—still, you smiled. For there was only one name you could give her. Only one name that did not require discussion.

A name that Rhysand would have approved of.

A name the Inner Court would have accepted without question.

A name written in fate itself.

Your lips parted, the words fragile as a breath of wind. 

A name of stars.

A name of dreams.

A name that meant light in the darkness.

A name that—no matter how many years passed—Rhysand would know was his.

"Estella."

[dreamdragonkadia]

Part V is absolutely stressing me out, not gonna lie. And yes, I am fully doing this to myself. No one to blame but me. But like—the poor, poor Starseer. The universe really looked at you and said, “Get fucked.” With love. Maybe. Not in this current moment though.

[dreamdragonkadia]

Everyone saying that Estella reminds them of Rhysand as a kid means I am doing my job right while writing her.

Also love that everyone is liking the fic so far!!

[dreamdragonkadia]

Shower thoughts hit different, y’all

Cooked up some ideas today for As Written Above, So Shall Be Below and… they’re kinda messed up. Like, in a morally gray, kind of dark “do I really want to put my characters through this” kinda way. But also… I might do it (Estella is safe, don't worry)

There’s still a happy ending (I think), but let’s just say the road there is going to be full of questionable decisions, unsettling reveals, and a whole lot of emotional damage.

And don’t forget, our Lady Starseer is from Hwen City. Yes, that Hwen City. The one Amarantha modeled Under the Mountain after. So like… yeah. Trauma is in the architecture. But also, she was raised with questionable beliefs.

Pray for them.

[dreamdragonkadia]

A little peak into Part III.

Vassa’s breath came quickly, a sound full of disbelief and restrained fury. “You are trapped in a cage worse than mine,” she said, not unkindly, but with the bitter taste of someone who recognized the bars even if they were invisible.

You gave a soft, mirthless laugh, shaking your head. “I’m at least free to walk around.”

“No,” Vassa snapped, pushing off the wall and stepping closer, her voice trembling with rage she hadn’t given permission to surface. “You’re not. You’re more chained than I've ever been. You can’t even escape your title when the entire world thinks you’re dead. And even now, even here—when no one demands it of you—you keep taking on burdens that aren’t yours. That no one asked you to carry.”

Still, you didn’t flinch. You just turned your face to her, your expression unbothered. “And I’m fine with that,” you said softly. “Someone has to do it. Someone has to bear it with a stiff lip. I’ve always been good at that. Carrying what others can’t—or won’t.”

She stared at you, the anger in her eyes giving way to something else—something closer to grief. “You’re destroying yourself,” she said, and this time it wasn’t anger at all. It was heartbreak.

[dreamdragonkadia]

Jurian is here for the drama and becomes the "I will kill for this child." type.

"No?" Jurian echoed, blinking again. "As in, not at all? Not even the slightest clue?"

"Not even the slightest. I didn’t even know."

Jurian let out a low whistle, stepping back as if he needed a moment to process the absolute madness of the situation.

"So let me get this straight—" he counted on his fingers, dramatically. "You disappeared. You let the world believe you were dead. And in all that time, Rhysand had not the faintest idea that you were carrying his kid?"

You exhaled slowly, your patience thinning. "Yes, Jurian. That is exactly what I just said."

"Fucking hell." He let out a giddy laugh, pacing a few steps. "And here I thought my return to the living was going to be boring."

Vassa sighed loudly, shifting Estella slightly in her arms, brushing the child’s hair away from her face as she sleepily blinked up at Jurian.

"You do realize," Jurian continued, tapping his chin thoughtfully, "that if Rhysand ever finds out, it will be the single greatest meltdown Prythian has ever witnessed?"

[dreamdragonkadia]

I have the next chapter of As Written Above, So Shall Be Below plotted; I just have to write it. I'm hoping by either Saturday or Sunday to get it up,

[dreamdragonkadia]

Writing Azriel and building that relationship between him and the reader is so much fun. He’s such a ride-or-die—it’s like having a baby brother who would absolutely commit murder for you without hesitation.

In the next chapter, we’re also getting more glimpses into the past from Az’s POV.

You’d grin over the rim of your cup and say, “Spymaster, ShadowSinger, Prince of Brooding—gods help us if they knew you liked lavender tarts.”

He didn’t like them. Not really.

He just liked that you did.

[dreamdragonkadia]

Can't wait for you guys to read the next chapter. I didn't even mean for it to go this way, but hey, the spirits took over and said this is happening

Everyone saying that Estella reminds them of Rhysand as a kid means I am doing my job right while writing her.

Also love that everyone is liking the fic so far!!