#i'm still very proud i came up with a way to make rhys an ass in this entire kidnapping situation lol

[cinaja]

Before the Wall part 48

Masterlist

A/N: This chapter took ages, I'm really sorry. Last week week was kind of bad for me, so I didn't really feel like writing much.

----

Mor sits on a fence in Jurian’s camp and silently glares at Jurian, who is talking with one of his captains. Andromache’s army has been stationed here for over two days now, which means that Mor spends more time than she wants to in Jurian’s company.

As if sensing her attention, Jurian turns around to look at her. Mor quickly averts her eyes, but Jurian is already walking towards her. He leans against the fence next to her. Mor turns her head away and pointedly ignores him. Unfortunately, he seems intent to ignore the hint.

“You got a problem, Mor?”

She presses her lips together and makes herself turn around to him. “Yes,” she says, voice sharp, “I actually do have a problem.”

He is the problem. Him and his stupid nonchalance. He doesn’t even pretend to feel bad about what he did.

Jurian gives her a small smile, sharp as a knife. “If my presence is so unbearable to you, you are free to leave. No one forces you to sit around in my camp and glare at me as if my presence personally offends you.”

Mor bristles. How dare he act like she is the one in the wrong? When he is the one who did such terrible things to Clythia and doesn’t even feel bad about it. She jumps off the fence and turns her back to Jurian. She is about to walk away, but she can’t do so without further comment, can’t let him have this victory.

Over her shoulder, she snaps, “And you wonder why Miryam left you.”

She stalks off, but before she makes it more than a few steps, Jurian grabs her by the arm and spins her around to face him. His eyes are dark with anger. Mor rips her arm out of his grip and glares right back.

“You think this is why Miryam left?” Jurian asks and lets out a sharp laugh. “You don’t know her at all, do you?”

Mor presses her lips together. “She would never stand for torture.”

“Miryam,” Jurian says, each word clipped, “understands what is necessary.”

And if she gets tortured and killed because of you, will she understand that as well? Mor thinks. She longs to throw the words into his face, but both Andromache and Drakon told her to never, under any circumstances tell Jurian the true reason why Miryam got captured. So she swallows the words and merely turns around, walking off towards Andromache’s tent.

The guards waiting at the entrance are proof enough that Andromache is inside. Mor walks past them into the tent. She firmly closes the door behind herself, then turns around to the queen who is sitting in her desk.

“Why are we coddling him?” She asks, each word biting.

Andromache puts down the letter she was looking through. She looks tired – as far as Mor knows, she hasn’t slept since Miryam vanished. “Jurian?” She asks.

“Yes, Jurian,” Mor snaps. “He is the reason Miryam might be getting tortured and killed, yet you and Drakon have nothing better to do than coddle him like he’s some innocent child.”

It’s infuriating. Who cares about Jurian’s feelings? He caused the trouble they are in right now, yet all everyone seems to care about how he might suffer under the truth. Even more infuriating is that Andromache simply shakes her head like she is being unreasonable.

“Jurian,” she says, “is suffering and you know it. And making him suffer further won’t save Miryam.” She frowns at her. “It’s unlike you to want to make him unhappy just to punish him.”

Mor taps her foot against the ground in annoyance. Now, the problem is her? Jurian tortures and slaughters a woman, and somehow, she is the one to blame for being angry with him for it? Has everyone lost their mind?

“Maybe I simply do not like men who nail women to things,” she snaps.

Andromache taps her quill against the table, wincing slightly. “Sorry,” she says. “I get that this situation might be… difficult for you.”

“I simply don’t understand why you treat him the way you do!” She says. “It’s bad enough that Jurian is terrible now, but I don’t understand why everyone insists on acting like he’s the victim in this!”

It’s driving her crazy. All the lines are getting blurred, and nothing makes sense anymore. Even Drakon seems to be mostly concerned with making sure Jurian is well, and Mor just doesn’t understand.

“But you must realize that this is not the same thing,” Andromache says. “It’s not like Jurian went and murdered some poor, innocent girl. Clythia was a Loyalist commander. She killed and tortured thousands of humans!”

“This isn’t about her actions, it’s about Jurian’s.” Mor glares at her. “That she was horrible doesn’t make what Jurian did acceptable.”

How does Andromache not understand this? It doesn’t matter that Clythia was terrible, Jurian shouldn’t have done what he did. He is meant to be the good guy, a member of the Alliance, her friend. One of them. Yet what he did to Clythia wasn’t good at all, it was terrible, and he doesn’t even have an explanation for why he did it.

So that must mean Jurian is an enemy now. He did a terrible, unforgivable thing, after all. Yet she seems to be the only one who sees it that way.

“It doesn’t make it right,” Andromache replies, “but it certainly means I don’t feel a lick of sympathy for what happened to Clythia. I’m never in favour of needless cruelty, but that doesn’t mean I don’t also think that Clythia got what she deserved.”

Mor shakes her head. She can’t believe this. Clythia was the one who got murdered. She cannot, by definition, be the one who was in the wrong in that situation. Andromache shouldn’t be saying this, she shouldn’t be defending what Jurian did.

This entire situation blurs the lines. It blurs the lines in all the wrong ways.

“No one deserves that!” Mor snaps. “Just because she owns slaves – “

“Just?” Andromache cuts her off. Now, any hint of understanding, of sympathy, is gone from her voice. “Just slavery? That is how you see it?”

“No!” Mor wildly shakes her head. Dread shoots through her body, turning her blood to ice. “No, I didn’t mean that. It came out all wrong, I was just trying to –“

“And anyways,” Andromache cuts her off, “it wasn’t just owning slaves, either. She actively fought us to keep owning slaves. She spent centuries torturing humans with delight. And don’t get me started on how absolutely fucked her interest in Jurian was.”

Mor lifts her hands. Her heart is pounding. She has seen Andromache this angry before, but not with her. Never with her. She shouldn’t have said it like that. Cauldron, why did she say it like that?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” She doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.

Andromache shakes her head. “I think I’d rather be alone right now,” she says. “I’ll talk to you later.”

----

Drakon can’t sleep.

In fact, he hasn’t been able to sleep much ever since Miryam got kidnapped. He keeps jolting awake, drenched in sweat, unable to shake off the images of Miryam tied to the ceiling in a torture chamber, Miryam bleeding and screaming in pain as a faceless man approached with a knife.

According to Sinna’s sources, Miryam isn’t being tortured, but that knowledge barely manages to ease his worry. So he keeps tossing and turning in his bed, shifting from one position to another. The images keep rising, and no matter how hard he tries, he doesn’t manage to chase them away.

A few hours past midnight, he gives up. If he can’t sleep anyways, he’ll go for a walk around the battlements. There will surely be some night guards around and they usually appreciate having company.

But when he opens the door to his rooms, the guards waiting outside step into his way. They exchange nervous glances. Lisi, one of the newest captains in his guard, seems to be in charge of the team tonight, and she looks entirely uncomfortable in her skin.

Drakon arches an eyebrow at her. “Am I grounded?” He asks jokingly.

“No, of course not, Your Highness,” Lisi says, stepping from one foot to the other. She seems distinctly uncomfortable in her skin.

Drakon looks between her and the other guards for a moment. This behaviour has only one possible explanation. And it means that Drakon needs to have a conversation with Sinna about which orders she can and cannot give his guards. Right now.

“I’ll go visit Sinna,” he says and shoulders past his guards. At least they don’t try to stop him, although Lisi looks more than a little uncomfortable in her skin.

The room Sinna and Nephelle share is just a few doors down the hall. Drakon only remembers that they are likely sleeping after he already knocked sharply at the door. To his surprise, it flies open almost immediately. Nephelle stands in the doorway, already fully dressed.

“Drakon,” she says. Surprise colours her voice and the smile she gives him is half-hearted at best.

“I wanted to talk to Sinna,” Drakon says.

“Oh.” Nephelle winces slightly, eyes drifting over to Lisi. “Uhm.”

“Nephelle.” Drakon looks between her and the guards, who suddenly seem to find huge interest in their shoes. “Where is Sinna?”

----

Lying flat on his stomach, Rhys stares down at the fort below. His army is waiting behind him in a ridge, safely hidden from the eyes of the guards standing along the walls of the fort. But Rhys wanted to get a good view of the terrain before the battle begins, so he climbed up the side of the ridge and found a viewpoint behind a small boulder.

From up here, the fort doesn’t look like much. It’s carved into the mountain, sure, but it doesn’t seem to be much better protected than the average castle. At least the mountain is nowhere near as massive as the one the Hewn City is built under. Really, Rhys doesn’t know what all the fuss is about. Even the wards aren’t that great, at least as far as he can tell from up here.

The Heseia Fort, he decides, is far less impressive than its reputation.

Carefully, Rhys slides down the slope, wings flared to keep his balance. Little stones loosen under his feet and roll down the mountain. His soldiers stare at him as he walks past. He can feel the anger boiling under the surface, but the Illyirans under his command have learned not to question his orders by now. Strength and brutality are the only languages they care to understand, and Rhys spent the past years teaching them in that exact language that he doesn’t care to be questioned. (Sometimes, Rhys feels a stab of embarrassment at it, but it is necessary. Even if most of his current friends probably wouldn’t understand, but that’s just how they are – too soft.)

His captains are standing together by the edge of the makeshift camp. They are mid-conversation, but fall silent when Rhys approaches. They even incline their heads, although he can see the anger in their eyes.

“Is the army ready?” Rhys asks.

“We are Illyrians,” one of his captains says gruffly. “We are always ready for battle. But you had the army flying for ten hours straight to get here. Giving them rest before battle would improve their performances.”

“And any moment we wait increases the risk of being discovered,” Rhys counters. “The moment of surprise is our biggest advantage.”

Amarantha likely knows by now that the Alliance chose not to save Miryam, so she won’t expect any action from them. She’ll likely keep tabs on both Jurian and Drakon, but with both of their armies still firmly at their intended positions, she’ll have no reason to suspect an attack. And that is exactly why Rhys will succeed where no one else would.

“We attack now,” he says firmly.

His captains exchange looks. “And you are truly asking us to risk our lives to save that…” His lips curl in disgust. “…that witch?”

That is perhaps the one detail of the plan that angers his soldiers the most. They don’t fear death, but apparently, dying for a witch is a dishonour. Rhys couldn’t care less for their stupid superstitions. There’s really no difference if they die in this battle or in another.

“I’m not asking,” he says in a voice he copied from his father and that usually gets people to do what he wants. Just to top it off, he also flares his power. “I’m ordering.”

“You, or the council?” A second captain challenges. “Because so far, you’ve never been put in charge of a battle on your own. Why now?”

Rhys doesn’t have a convincing lie ready to explain why the council suddenly gave up its absurd dedication to keeping Rhys condemned to the side lines, so he simply stretches out a hand. Dark power shoots from his fingertips and wraps itself around the captain who spoke up. The man grits his teeth, a vein bulges at his temple, but he bears the pain in silence.

“Last I checked,” Rhys says coolly, “I did not need to explain myself to you.”

He might need to explain himself to the council when they find out, though. And to his father. He doubts any of them will be pleased to find out about what he did.

But it won’t matter. Once this battle is over and he freed Miryam, no one will care that he went against orders. He will be a hero. After more than six years of war spent as a grunt, following orders and never being allowed to do anything on his own, this will be his moment. After that, everyone will know him as the one who freed the leader of the Alliance, who managed to do so against all odds and when even the most brilliant generals like Jurian and Sinna did not dare.

This is his chance. And he won’t let anyone keep him from it. Not his captains or his father, not the council, and not Sinna and Drakon with their exaggerated caution.

Even if he really doesn’t understand why Sinna refused to act. For Drakon, it makes sense – although Rhys would have thought his mate getting captured would be enough to get him to give up his usual caution. But apparently, Drakon entirely lacks the edge it takes to lead an army, or a country for that matter. One of the biggest mysteries in Rhys’s life remains how someone like Drakon ever managed to get this popular amongst the young Fae (if not amongst the older ones). It’s not that Rhys doesn’t like him, but he’s… well, not quite sharp enough for his taste. But Rhys was sure Sinna would press for action.

Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like he needs their approval.

He releases his hold on his magic, allowing the captain to sag to the ground. “We attack,” he says. “Now.”

----

“I don’t believe this,” Drakon mutters. He stops his pacing and turns around to Nephelle, who sat down on the couch. They are alone in her quarters, the guards happily remaining outside. “You didn’t.”

Nephelle shakes her head. “Sinna left four hours ago, together with ten of her best soldiers.”

A part of Drakon is still waiting for her to laugh and tell him that this is a joke. Unfortunately, she doesn’t.

“You mean to tell me,” he says softly, “that my High General takes a group of my soldiers on a mission to save my wife, and no one thought to tell me?”

Nephelle winces slightly. “Sinna didn’t want you to worry,” she says.

She didn’t want him to worry. Well, that’s just great, isn’t it? Slowly, he lets himself drop to the couch next to Nephelle and presses his hands against his face.

“How does she even plan to get Miryam out?” He asks, face still pressed in his hands. “Not even Sinna will be able to take the Heseia Fort with only ten soldiers.”

“There will be a diversion,” Nephelle says. She shifts around in her seat. “I wanted to go with them, but Sinna wouldn’t let me.”

On another day, Drakon would have tried to comfort her. He is about to do just that, but then, he remembers that Nephelle helped Sinna and his guards and everyone else with lying to him and remains silent.

“What kind of diversion?” He asks instead.

If Sinna took part of his army… But no, she couldn’t have. The ability to winnow is rare amongst Seraphim – it is actually not a Seraphim ability at all, but people with distant High Fae heritage sometimes get it – and Sinna would never have been able to get more than a hundred soldiers to the Heseia Fort this quickly. Which means that somehow, she got her hands on another army.

Nephelle winces slightly, looking more than a little guilty. “Rhysand and his army,” she says.

----

It takes exactly thirteen minutes from the first arrow being fired for Rhys to lose control of his army completely. It all happens so quickly that he barely understands what is going on, let alone give orders to avoid it.

The first five minutes went well. Rhys ordered the attack, and from there, everything worked flawlessly. He did everything just right. And really, he couldn’t have known that there was a trap woven into one of the wards around the fort. How could he have known? Breaking the ward was the logical choice, and what happened afterwards was not his fault.

Still, the blast of pure energy it set off killed a good fourth of his soldiers in one go and sent the rest into complete panic.

“Reform the lines!” Rhys roars at them, but now, arrows are raining down on them from the fort. Their tips are made from a blueish stone, and they pierce Rhysand’s shields easily. “Get back into formation!”

No one listens. Rhys isn’t even sure if his captains are still alive. They were likely at the front lines and got hit by the blast, while Rhys himself hung back to provide magical cover. Not that it did them any good so far.

He raises his hands and sends a wave of dark power crashing for the fort walls. It sizzles out uselessly against the first layer of wards. Their enemies don’t even bother with open combat, they just keep raining arrows, boulders and cans of burning oil down on them.

“Commander!” Someone yells far too close to Rhys’s ear. He spins around and comes face to face with one of his captains. Seems like at least one of them survived this far. “We need to retreat,” the man pants.

“No!” Rhys shouts back.

He can’t retreat. He can’t. Not after everything he risked to get here. If he returns with half his soldiers – maybe more by now – dead and nothing to show for, he will be done. They will put him on trial for disregarding a direct order, and his father will make sure he gets the highest possible punishment.

Another volley of arrow comes shooting down from the fort. One of them hits Rhys, slipping through a slit in his armour and burying itself in his arm. He hisses in pain.

“We need to retreat!” His captain repeats. “Or we will all die.”

No. No, he can’t do this. “There’s no honour in retreat!” He doesn’t care about honour, just about the consequences this might have for him, but this might convince his soldiers to keep fighting.

“There is no honour in stupidity!” The captain shouts back at him. “If you don’t order a retreat right now, we’ll all be dead within minutes!”

Rhys looks around the battlefield, then. All around him, his soldiers are dying. They aren’t even attacking, can’t manage to get through the wards, but they can’t run, either, not without his permission.

There are so many dead soldiers on the ground. Half his army. More.

The realization hits Rhys like a punch to the stomach. They aren’t getting into that fort. It is completely and utterly impossible. This entire mission is doomed, has been from the beginning. And if they stay her for a moment longer, they will all die.

“Retreat!” Rhys shouts. His voice barely manages to rise over the general noise, but his soldiers pick up the call soon enough. “Retreat!”

There’s nothing orderly about the retreat. They simply turn and run.

They don’t even make it a hundred feet before the first soldiers slam into an invisible barrier. A ward – one that surely wasn’t here before. Rhys sends his power barrelling into it. The air shimmers for a moment, but the ward doesn’t shatter.

And still, the arrows keep flying. Rhys looks around wildly, searching for a way out, but there is none. He is trapped and now, he and his soldiers will die.

Suddenly, the onslaught of arrows stops. Rhys looks up, startles, just as a woman steps onto the battlements of the fort. She is wearing black armour and a helmet, but her red hair is unbound underneath and it flies in the wind like a flag. General Amarantha, if Rhys’s guess is correct.

“Look at what we got there,” she says, voice carrying easily over the crowd. “Not quite the quarry I hoped for. But we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

Silence is her only answer. The Illyrians that are still alive – a bare third of the soldiers Rhys arrived with – seem to relish the pause.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Amarantha calls down at them. “Whichever idiot is in charge of this army should probably announce their surrender now, before I decide to let my soldiers use you sorry lot for target practice.”

----

“Your Highness,” a muffled voice says through the door. “General Sinna is back.”

Drakon tries to sit up too quickly, gets tangled up in his wings and nearly falls off the couch. He manages to flare his wings and regain his balance just in time. By the time he manages to get his feet back under himself, Nephelle is already on her feet and halfway to the door.

She rips the door open so hard it slams against the wall with a bang. “Where?” She asks the servant who brought the news.

Drakon is glad she asked, he doesn’t think he would have been able to get a word out. Sinna is back. That must mean she’s alive. But Miryam… She has to be alive as well. It must have worked – Sinna’s plans always work. She is simply too stubborn to fail.

“In the medical wing, My Lady,” the servant replies.

Nephelle nods and sets off at a full sprint. Drakon follows, easily keeping up with his longer legs. His heart is racing. In running, he catches a glimpse of a pink sky and the rising sun through one of the windows. Sunrise. Him and Nephelle spent the last six hours trying and failing to control their rising panic as they desperately waited for a sign from Sinna.

They round a corner and Drakon narrowly avoids colliding with a guard. “Sorry!” He calls over his shoulder, but he doesn’t stop running.

The medical wing is five stories down on the other side of the castle. By the time Nephelle and Drakon arrive, they are both out of breath and Nephelle’s wings tremble.

There is a small commotion in front of one of the treatment rooms. At first, Drakon can’t make out individual people in the chaos. Him and Nephelle just stand frozen in the hallways, desperately scanning the small crowd.

Then, Nephelle surges forward. “Sinna!” She shouts, voice rising over the noise.

A figure breaks apart from the group. Drakon barely catches more than a glance at Sinna before Nephelle crashes into her arms. Sinna catches her, stumbling back a step under the impact.

“It’s alright,” she whispers to Nephelle. She says something else after that, but it is too quiet for Drakon to hear.

Nephelle keeps clinging to Sinna, as if she’s scared that she will vanish if she lets go. Sinna runs a hand through her hair, then kisses her on the spot between her eyebrows.

Drakon remains rooted to the spot. He wants to walk over, wants to see if Sinna is alright, wants to ask after Miryam, but his body won’t obey. He is completely frozen, unable to move or speak. Even when Sinna gently frees herself from Nephelle’s grip and turns to Drakon, he doesn’t manage to get the question out. Did you succeed?

Sinna simply looks at him for a moment. Then, she inclines her head towards the room to her right. “She’s in there,” she says.

And just like that, Drakon snaps out of his stupor. He is at the door before he truly realized he is moving. He rips the door open and comes face to face with three startled healers.

Miryam lies in the bed behind them. She looks scarily frail under her white blanket, frail and far younger than she usually does. There is a fading bruise on the left side of her face. And other injuries are hidden by the blanket someone draped over her.

Slowly, Drakon steps forward, but one of the healers steps into his way. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” they say. “But you can’t be in here.”

Drakon slowly shakes his head. “But I need to…” He needs to be there for her, he can’t just go and leave her on her own. Not while she is hurt and he doesn’t know if she…

“You can wait outside, Your Highness,”

“No.” Drakon tries to step past them, but the healer gently takes him by the arm. “No, I need to… I need to see…”

“She isn’t going to die,” the healer says firmly. With a start, he realizes that he’s trembling. “None of her injuries are lethal, Your Highness, she will be fine. But I generally do not permit family to be in the room while I work unless explicitly demanded by the patient. So you will have to go wait outside while I do my job, and I will come talk to you after I am done.” They smile at Drakon. “Is that alright with you, Your Highness?”

Drakon nods numbly and allows the healer to gently push him out of the room. Sinna and Nephelle are both gone from the corridor. Somehow, Drakon ends up sitting on a chair somewhere on the hallway, staring down at his feet.

Miryam looked injured. Their spies might have reported that she didn’t get tortured, but maybe they were wrong. They might have been wrong. And then…

A pair of leather boots appears in his line of vision, making Drakon look up at the owner.

“You alright?” Sinna asks. She is still dressed in her armour, the grey leather splattered with dried blood. There is a bandage around her left arm and a shallow slice marring her cheek.

Drakon nods slowly. He isn’t sure if he can speak right now.

“We should probably talk,” Sinna says. “But not here. Come on.”

Drakon wants to object that he can’t go, that he needs to wait for the healers to finish, but he has been waiting for at least an hour now and no one came to talk to him. For all he knows, it might be several more hours before he gets any news, and he assumes that should the healers finish their work while he is gone, they will simply send someone to fetch him.

They don’t go far, anyways. Sinna pulls open the next best door and steps into a supply closet. Neatly stacked boxes line the walls, each with a label marking its contents. Bandages of varying sizes, alcohol to disinfect the wounds and dried mushrooms against the pain.

“We used our contact to get inside,” Sinna says. “It was rather easy, with everyone so focused on the attacking army that they didn’t even notice us. We had to kill a couple of guards, but that was it. In and out within just over an hour.”

Drakon just stares at her. He has no idea what to say. How is he supposed to react? What kind of reaction does she want?

“Rhysand’s army has been defeated,” Sinna announces. “Half of his soldiers are dead, the rest captured – him included, if my sources are correct.”

Drakon slowly shakes his head. “Seven hundred soldiers,” he says. He can’t manage to keep the shock out of his voice. “You sent seven hundred soldiers to their deaths?”

“I did no such thing,” Sinna says. She sounds far too detached. How can she talk about this so neutrally? “I did not tell Rhysand to take his army on some suicide mission trying to take a fort with less than half the soldiers that would be required to actually pull it off. I told him not to. I told him they would all die, and Miryam with them. But it was painfully obvious that the idiot boy wouldn’t listen. And if he was already going to get himself and his soldiers killed, why shouldn’t I at least make sure they don’t die in vain?”

Drakon can’t stop shaking his head. “You could have stopped him,” he points out, even though he doesn’t know if he would have wanted her to.

All of his morals tell him that it is wrong, completely and utterly wrong, to let hundreds of people die to save one. And Rhys might have chosen to risk his life, but those soldiers certainly didn’t. Sacrificing them was wrong. But at the same time, selfishly, Drakon is glad Sinna acted the way she did. Sacrificing hundreds of lives for one seems far less wrong when the one live belongs to the person you love and the hundreds are mostly strangers.

Only those strangers will have families and friends, too. People who care about them, people who lost their loved ones tonight.

“You’re right,” Sinna says. “I could have. But I didn’t. I chose to save Miryam, because she is important to this war and important to you.”

Drakon just stares at Sinna. He doesn’t know what to do, whether to hug her or yell. He is torn between gratitude and anger, both feelings so intense that he is nearly choking on them.

“Would it help if I apologized?” Sinna asks.

“Are you sorry?” Drakon asks.

Sinna seems to consider it for a moment. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” she says. “But as for the rest? I would do it again.”

“Then no, an apology wouldn’t help,” Drakon says drily. Now, anger is winning over gratitude, if narrowly. “You should have told me.”

“Possibly,” Sinna agrees.

“Certainly. You can’t just…” He shakes his head. “You can’t just go behind my back like this. On purpose. It’s not like I require you to discuss every little detail with me – we both know you’re better at this than I’ll ever be – but this, you should have told me about. And you knew, since you conspired with my guards to keep me from finding out.”

Sinna crosses her arms. “I didn’t conspire,” she says pointedly. “I merely asked them to keep you in your room for the night, if at all possible.”

This is decidedly the wrong detail to focus on. “You should have told me,” Drakon repeats.

“But I didn’t,” Sinna says. “And because I didn’t, you will be able to look Miryam and Morrigan and anyone else who might ask in the eye and tell them that you had no part in sending Rhysand and his soldiers to their deaths and it will be the truth.”

“Well, I’d rather be able to tell people that I’m in charge of my own country and have it be the truth.”

Doesn’t she understand this? Drakon might not care much about his reputation and what the other royals think of him, but so far, he could always safely say that the things they said about him were lies. But if Sinna is ready to go behind his back so easily…

Sinna presses her lips together. “But would you have wanted to make that choice?” She asks. “I did not send the soldiers working for Rhysand to their deaths, but I willingly accepted it. I traded hundreds of lives for one. Is this the type of choice you would have liked?” She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Trading lives like this is never easy, and these choices always stay with you. Forever.”

Drakon’s stomach twists, but he shakes his head. “But making those choices is my duty.” It’s not about choice, not about what he wants. And maybe it’s stupid that he has the final say on military matters when Sinna is so much more experienced – maybe he will change it one day – but for the moment, this is his duty. “You do not help me if you try to shield me from it.”

“You are too young,” Sinna says. “You shouldn’t be forced to make these choices.”

Drakon doesn’t say that Miryam and Jurian are also young, and Andromache, Mor and Rhys aren’t that much older than the three of them. “But you can’t change that,” he says softly. “I am Prince, whether you like it or not. These choices are mine to make. Just as any guilt they might bring is mine to bear.”

----

Andromache knows she has been too sharp. She knows that what her father did to her still haunts Mor, knows that it sometimes makes her snap. When that happens, her emotions run wild with her, making her say things she doesn’t mean. Maybe a better person than Andromache would have taken it with grace, would have let the comment slide.

But Andromache also has her sore points, and one of them is Fae – especially High Fae, and especially High Fae nobles – so clearly favouring Fae over humans. And for all she knows that Mor didn’t mean what she said, she also can’t shake the thought that no one says anything like this without meaning it at least a little bit.

“What did the two of you argue about, anyways?” Yanis asks. He is lying sprawled on Andromache’s bed, which is probably his unique interpretation of being on guard.

Andromache shrugs. “Jurian,” she says. “Mor doesn’t like what he did.”

“You don’t like what he did, either,” Yanis counters.

Andromache crosses her arms and turns around to him in her chair. She doesn’t have a reply to that, at least not one she can properly articulate, and she hates not having a reply. The thing is, she doesn’t have a problem with the fact that Mor dislikes Jurian’s actions, she has a problem with the how.

“She can just…” She shakes her head. “Sometimes, she’s so…” She gestures around in the air, searching for words. “Fae,” she finishes, hoping that Yanis will know what she means.

She doesn’t fault Mor for being Fae, not at all. But sometimes, she does things that make it painfully clear that she isn’t quite like her. Which, again, Andromache wouldn’t mind, if she wasn’t so…  

Yanis sighs. “Anny.” It’s her childhood nickname, and one he hasn’t used in years. At least since she became queen. "Do you really think that Mor's problem with what Jurian did is that he's human?"

Andromache makes a face. She doesn't think that, not really. Probably. At least not consciously. Mor certainly isn't like Shey and these other bastards on the council, but still, the way she judges Jurian doesn't sit well with Andromache.

"She doesn't have a problem with torture when Azriel does it," she says. "Or when Rhysand beats his soldiers because he's too incompetent a commander to get them in line through other methods."

And that's probably the core of the problem. (Well, that and the "just slavery" comment.) She would have no problem at all with Mor judging Jurian if she was consequent about it. But she is completely fine with torture when her Fae friends do it, even though their actions are arguably worse since they keep doing it and don't have the excuse of not being entirely in control of their own actions.

"Why is she fine with it then, but has a problem when Jurian does it?" Andromache asks.

"Because she can pretend that they only act that way because they don't have a choice and that they aren't actually like this," Yanis says. He has always been the more perceptive one of the two of them, the one who managed to look at things from all angles. "Rhysand has this entire thing going about how him being an asshole is only a mask, and Azriel can claim he's made to do it by his High Lord."

Andromache snorts. Of all the excuses she heard, 'I was just pretending to be an asshole' always seemed like the most idiotic one. If you torture someone, saying that you were just pretending certainly doesn’t make it right. You can’t just pretend to hurt people, you actually hurt them, and your reasons will never be able to ease the pain you caused.

“Mor,” Yanis says, “likes clear lines. Good and bad and little in between. And stupid as her friends’ reasonings might be, they allow her to still place them in the Good category. What Jurian did blurs the lines, and she doesn’t like that.”

Now, Andromache feels really stupid. Yanis is right, of course, and she can’t believe she had to let him explain her own partner to her. She knows that Mor generally sees people as either good or bad, no in-between. Anything that blurs those lines tends to make her upset, so of course she wouldn’t be fond of what Jurian did.

“Talk to her,” Yanis says. “Unless you are so upset that you want to end things, that is.”

Andromache flinches at the notion. “No!” Of course she doesn’t want to end things. It was one argument – one she already feels stupid about, if she’s being honest. She certainly isn’t fine with what Mor said, but she should have just dropped the topic instead of allowing it to escalate.

“Can you winnow me to Telique?” She asks. She originally hadn’t meant to leave the camp, but Jurian has been remarkably civil in the days since Miryam got kidnapped. He seems content to wait around for Amarantha to arrive, and he shows no sign of wanting to change his strategy, so she can probably risk leaving him alone for an hour.

Yanis slowly climbs out of her bed, yawning. “Sure,” he mutters.

 Mor is in her suite in Telique, as some of the palace guards inform Andromache when she arrives. Yanis leaves her behind to go visit his sister who works in the stables, and so Andromache is alone when she stands in front of Mor’s door. She allows herself a moment’s hesitation before she knocks.

Mor opens after only a moment. She freezes in the door when she sees Andromache, then gives her an awkward smile. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Andromache echoes. “Can I come in?”

It occurs to her that this is their first real argument. They had smaller disagreements, like the one about Mor’s interest in her powers, but they never really argued until yesterday.

“Sure.” Mor steps aside.

Andromache enters the spacious receiving room that belongs to the emissary’s suite. Mor closes the door, and then, they both stand around awkwardly, staring at each other. Andromache opens her mouth to apologize, but after the just slavery comment, she actually feels like it’s up to Mor to make the first step. Which she fortunately does.

“I’m sorry,” Mor says. “That comment I made… I didn’t mean to say it like that, it came out all wrong.” She shakes her head. “I was trying to say that torture is never okay, no matter against whom.”

Andromache sighs. “I know.” Even if that comment still echoes through her mind, and will likely remain with her for a while yet. “And I’m sorry, too. It’s just… I spent the past few days trying to get the council in line, which really isn’t easy without Miryam. And all the Fae who went on and on about how horrible Jurian’s actions were only seemed to have a problem with it because he’s human.” She offers Mor a half-hearted smile. “So you kind of hit a sore spot there.”

“Oh.” Mor winces. “I didn’t know that. Sorry.” She gives Andromache a tentative smile. “So we are still fine?” She asks in a small voice.

Andromache takes her hands and squeezes them. “Of course we are,” she says softly.

Mor smiles, eyes glittering wetly. Then, she throws her arms around Andromache and hugs her. Andromache absentmindedly trails her fingers through her light hair.

Perhaps Jurian isn’t the only one who’s slowly falling apart. They are all struggling, all desperately grasping for any ways to make this world of theirs more bearable. And if Mor likes to divide things into neat categories, if she doesn’t like to see that order interrupted, maybe that is fine.

A knock sounds on the door. Mor quickly lets go of her and steps back, putting some distance between them. She discreetly wipes her eyes.

Andromache waits until she composed herself, then calls, “Come in!”

To her surprise, Yanis steps inside. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, glancing between them. “But I thought you might want to hear this.”

“What?” Andromache asks. Her throat suddenly feels tight. If there’s one thing over six years of war taught her, it’s that urgent news are usually bad. Mor silently takes her hand, as if she, too, is bracing herself.

“I just got a letter from Drakon,” Yanis says. “He didn’t give any details, but apparently, they somehow got Miryam out of the Heseia fort. She’s alive and safe.”

Andromache is silent for a moment. Slowly, she turns to look at Mor, who seems equally shocked. Then, she slowly begins to smile. Andromache begins grinning herself, and then, they are hugging, holding each other tight.

Some good news. Finally some good news.

“There’s something else,” Yanis says. Now, he is looking at Mor only. “I’m sorry, Mor,” he says, “but your cousin got captured by Amarantha.”

----

A/N: I don't like Rhys, and I hope the veiled criticism came across in this chapter lol. (I also wasn't very enthusiastic about the entire storyline of Miryam getting kidnapped, so I'm glad that's done now.) And I DO like Mor, but I still felt like I needed to hint at her having some characteristics (a certain tendency to divide into “good” and “bad” and ignore the nuances) that allow her to be a part of a government like the Inner Circle later on.

Tags: @croissantcitysucks @femtopulsed