#if tamlin only knew who the king's weapon was lol

[azrielsiphons]

Shadows and Darkness: One and the Same (ch.1)

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This fic is meant to be read in connection with my Azriel-centric prequel stories. I would highly suggest reading those first to get the full reading experience of this fic. 

It’s finally here, friends! Chapter 1 of the follow up fic to my Azriel-centric prequels which you should definitely read before reading this if you haven’t already. This fic will span across and after the events of ACOWAR. 

I really hope you guys enjoy this chapter, it will explain (almost) everything that has happened since the end of the prequels up until now concerning our dearest Lena. Enjoy!

“Come on Cassian,” Lena said with a grin, ducking his swing and winnowing behind him. He whirled in frustration. “You can do better than that.��

Cassian growled, swinging with his left arm while trapping her footing at her right ankle. She saw the move coming though and used his own hulking weight against him to throw them both to the ground, laughing as he cursed — clearly pinned.

“You’ve been going easy on me in group training,” Cassian muttered as she helped him to his feet. “Tell Rhys or Az about this and you’re dead.”

Lena only laughed, already bounding out of the training room. “As if you could kill me!”

Bounding down the hall she ran into Mor, her cousin’s blonde hair shining like the sun itself.

“Hello Mor,” Lena sing-songed, touching Mor’s wrists as she walked by, turning so that she was walking backwards and looking at her cousin. “How’s Andromache?”

“Lovely as ever,” Mor said with a wistful smile. “She’ll be here in a few days. You’ll join us for dinner?”

“But of course!” Lena called down the hall, Mor laughing as she disappeared around another corner. Always going, always moving, never slowing down.

In the kitchen, Rhys whined as she twirled behind him and nicked a piece of fruit he was eating right out of his hand.

“That was mine,” he said with a teasing glare.

“Was it?” Lena popped the fruit into her mouth with a shrug. “I had no idea. See you later!”

“It’s a good thing I love you!”

Lena chuckled, smiling wide as she jogged right for the open balcony overlooking Velaris and threw herself off of it. Two seconds later she snapped her wings wide and flew to the rooftop. To their spot.

She landed right in front of him, his hazel eyes bright and full of love — love for her. His hair was tousled as ever and she couldn’t help but reach up and run her fingers through it.

“All these centuries and you still take my breath away,” he murmured, placing his hands on her waist and capturing her lips in his own. Lena fell into the touch, humming against him. She whined when he pulled away. “Hello my beautiful mate.”

Lena grinned, Azriel’s eyes lighting up. “Hello to you too, mate.”

The floor gave way beneath her then — and as Lena screamed, reaching out for her mate to catch her, the world exploded.

“Time to wake up, princess.”

Lena woke with a gasp.

Her chest was on fire, her limbs felt like they weighed hundreds and hundreds of pounds. There was a ringing in her ears. She was so disoriented, where was she?

What just happened? I was just with… Where am I, where is Rhys, where is —

“Good morning, pet.”

The tears began immediately. That was his voice — the devil’s voice.

She remembered the truth now.

It didn’t matter how many times she went through it. Waking up from that perfect dream just to be face to face with the King of Hybern was the real nightmare. Realizing that she had been trapped in that false reality, forced inside her wildest dreams only to discover none of it was real — that was the punishment. That was the real pain. Never knowing it wasn’t real until she was woken for whatever awful plans the King had in mind for her.

A weapon. That’s all Lena was anymore. All she had been for the past four and a half centuries — everyone she cared about thinking her dead. Her brother, Rhys, made High Lord after their father murdered the Spring Lord for killing their mother. And for all Rhys knew, the Spring Lord had murdered her, too.

Centuries with no one knowing who she really was — the Daughter of the Night Court. A title she used to resent but would give anything to be known as now. Her amazing brother — thinking himself an orphan with no one of his blood left in the world.

And Azriel — her sweet Azriel… her friend, her lover, her mate. Thinking she was dead and never able to tell anyone that they had been together since it had been a secret before she had been taken. His life was tied to her magic by the King so that if she defied his orders or did anything to escape, he would die — instantly.

This was the nightmare that the King had promised her. Asleep for years — decades, sometimes — until he required her. Trapped in a dream world of her idea of a perfect reality.

Only to wake to her actual reality. Her personal hell.

“How long?” She croaked. The magic that the King put her to sleep by preserved her body, but it always hurt like hell whenever she woke up all the same. The longer she was asleep, the worse it felt to wake up.

The King laughed once more, calling over two guards to unhook the magic cancelling chains wrapped around her body. He knew Lena wouldn’t try anything — she couldn’t. Her mate would die if she did.

“Quite a while,” he said vaguely.

The chains clattered away to the floor a moment later, and Lena arched her back and screamed, falling off of the table and to the stone floor beneath her as her magic came back to fruition like a flood.

It burned worse than ever. She could feel her skin peeling, blood pouring from her nose and ears as that horrible, deep well of magic within her filled back to the brim. The moment her skin tore it was stitched back together, only to repeat the process all over again. She shook, blood and saliva and sweat pouring from her trembling body.

It had never been that bad, had never felt so much like fire in her very veins.

Then she remembered. What had happened right before she had gone under this most recent time. She had been Under the Mountain. Hiding in the shadows like he had always taught her. She was supposed to keep an eye on Amarantha, supposed to keep her in check. The redheaded bitch had always been afraid of her — with good reason.

Then she had seen him. Her brother, her sweet, kind, loving brother. His eyes twin to hers and yet beneath that mountain they had been filled with cruelty and hate and sorrow. She had taken a step towards him out of instinct only to pull herself back with a flinch.

He wasn’t her brother anymore. Because she was supposed to be dead.

She had stood back and watched, her eyes never leaving Rhys. She hadn’t seen him in a couple centuries. He looked the exact same and yet more different than ever. The Rhys she knew had been full of life and love. This Rhys was… broken. Not beyond repair like her, but broken all the same.

She had opened her mouth to scream when she had smelt what Amarantha had done to the wine. Only for those damned chains to be wrapped around her face before she could make a sound of warning, the ancient relics gagging her and stifling her magic all at once. The King had laughed in her ear, telling her to watch as her mighty brother’s kingdom fell.

As her kingdom fell.

That was the only time she thought she might have actually broken through those chains, her magic boiling deep within her with rage as she silently watched her brother’s powers be stripped.

The King had put her to sleep that time out of fear for himself — and they both knew it.

“How long?” Lena hissed, spitting on the ground by the King’s feet from where she lay shaking before him.

“50 years, give or take a few months.”

Lena screamed, throwing herself at the King only to be blown backwards with a white light, her body slamming into the wall behind her. She felt the blood dripping from the back of her head as she hit the ground once again.

Every fiber of her being was telling her to let loose that horrible power deep within her, to rip the King apart limb from limb — and she could do it, too.

But doing that meant sentencing Azriel to death. Sentencing her mate to death.

She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

Lena stood to her feet, cracking her neck as the sheer power radiating through her healed her injuries in a few mere seconds. She let the darkness wash over her, breathing in deeply through her nose. She closed her eyes, letting that rage, that complete and utter hatred for the King wash over her and fuel her.

When she opened her eyes, she thought she saw the briefest flash of fear cross the King’s face.

“Is he alive?” Lena’s voice was blunt, to the point, sharp. Like the weapon she was.

“Your brother is alive, yes.” The King smiled cruelly, watching the darkness playing over her fingertips with both adoration and envy. “Your Shadowsinger and the other bastard I’m not so sure about though.”

Lena was in front of him in an instant, their chests touching as she snarled.

“Relax, my pet,” the King said with a bemused chuckle. “I’m sure they recovered perfectly fine.”

“From what?”

“Well your Shadowsinger had an arrow in his chest the last time I saw him. And the other one’s poor wings were shredded protecting him. Such a shame, they were lovely wings.”

Lena felt like she was ripped from the inside out. She showed nothing.

“Perhaps you and the Commander will match now,” said the King with a cruel smile.

“Why did you wake me?”

“I’m sending you to the Spring Court.”

Lena snarled, whirling on her heel and taking a few steps, her darkness flaring yet again. She had learned to control her magic long ago as a necessity to keep Azriel safe from the King’s clutches, but it was always the hardest to handle when she first woke up.

“Why?” She snapped, not even deigning to look at the King.

Lena had only been on two Spring Court missions on behalf of the King in all her years of imprisonment to him. She loathed stepping foot in that territory — the territory that had belonged to the male who killed her mother, the territory where Rhys had been made High Lord when their father was murdered.

He had been all alone. That burden had fell upon his shoulders through no fault of his own and she hadn’t been there. It was the place of her greatest failure to her family.

“Amarantha is no longer with us,” the King said casually. Lena whipped her head over to him in shock. “Tamlin killed her. Over a human woman no less.”

Lena stared in shock. “What?”

And so the King told her. Of the curse Amarantha placed on Tamlin, of all the High Lords trapped beneath that mountain after Lena had been put to sleep, of the mortal woman that had saved them all and broken the curse out of her love for Tamlin, of that same woman dying and being made High Fae — something Rhys had played a part in, and of her brother stealing the female away from Tamlin.

She stood stock still throughout the entire story, the King grinning as she grew more and more devastated.

Who had Rhys become? Imprisoned beneath that horrible mountain with Amarantha for 49 years had turned him into someone that would steal away an innocent female? That wasn’t the brother she knew.

How could Azriel and Cassian and Mor have let that happen? Or the other creature — Amren — the one that Rhys had freed from the Prison shortly after he became High Lord. How could they have let Rhys wreck that girl’s life?

That wasn’t her brother. The Rhys that the King was describing was more like Aeron than Lena ever imagined possible. Worse, even.

“I don’t understand,” Lena whispered. The King only grinned.

“Oh?”

“He stole the girl, the Cursebreaker, from Tamlin as part of their deal… but then she stayed? She came here for the Cauldron with him. With… the others.” She couldn’t say his name. She hadn’t said it in years. Not since she had seen him in the Middle. “Why didn’t she get away? Their bargain was only for a week every month.”

The King grinned wider. “Oh my pet. Your brother broke into her mind… convinced her to stay, made her one of them to keep her away from Tamlin. He would do anything to hurt him. After all… his father killed your mother. And killed you.”

Lena flinched. All those years and she would never get used to being the dead girl.

But deep down in her soul she knew that the King was lying — or at the very least withholding information. She knew her brother. She knew Rhys. He would blame Tamlin for the sins of his father, but only to an extent.

He wouldn’t steal an innocent girl or break into her mind… he just wouldn’t. And the others wouldn’t have let him get so far. It simply wasn’t fathomable.

“But now the Cursebreaker is back in the Spring Court with Tamlin, who is using his Court to help us bring down that horrible wall. Jurian, Brannagh, and Dagdan are already there awaiting your arrival. They’ll be the only ones who know who you really are so make sure to keep that pretty face of yours hidden.”

“Jurian?” Lena asked in shock. “Jurian the human? He’s been dead for centuries, I don’t understand—” Lena froze, the King chuckling as the realization dawned on her. “You used the Cauldron. Of course.” She rolled her eyes. Not killing that human piece of shit would be yet another test of her will. She flexed her fingers, magic shooting off of her fingertips. “Well what do you want me to do in the Spring Court?”  

The King had made Lena do things that would haunt her for the rest of her days, however many that may be. She had tortured, maimed, killed, kidnapped, and manipulated countless people. Innocent people.

And if the King made her hurt this innocent girl more than her brother already had, she would do it. She would hate every second of it, another piece of her would begin to rot inside as a result, but she would do it.

“Monitor,” the King said with a shrug. “Keep Brannagh and Dagdan in line. They’re arrogant, they would be the ones to ruin my plans just to feel like real royalty for a second. They fear you. So scare them.”

Lena hoped the King wouldn’t see the flash of excitement on her face. He did anyways and she cursed herself.

This was who she had become. Who the King had forged her to be: a weapon, a terrible knife in the dark.

When you spent years trapped in a perfect dream world only to wake up to the realization that none of it was real, that you were a dead girl walking with no one to love or to love you in return…

You had to become the nightmare to survive.

~~~~~

“Well, well, well, look who we have here,” Jurian drawled.

Feyre whirled as she heard footsteps behind her. She stood in the dining room of the Spring Manor with Jurian. She had come down looking for Lucien only to find Jurian instead and had just been leaving when someone walked in behind her.

The stranger stood in the doorway wearing a ratty brown cloak that hid their face in shadow. She hadn’t heard the stranger enter, and as she sniffed the air she realized they were somehow cloaking their own scent.

She didn’t know that was possible.

“I had heard you were being woken up,” Jurian continued, leaning against the wall and chuckling. The stranger was completely still. “The King told me all about your… condition. Shame about your br—”

The snarl that ripped from the stranger made Feyre jump.

“Easy,” Jurian crooned, though Feyre could tell he was spooked too. “I meant no disrespect. I’ve heard stories though… quite the weapon, you are.”

Jurian let his eyes drift to Feyre, smirking wickedly.

“Have you met our Cursebreaker?” He asked mockingly. Feyre stiffened as the stranger turned to her. “Meet Feyre. She’s Tamlin’s—”

Whatever Jurian had been about to say next caught in his throat as a thread of magic wrapped around his neck. Before Feyre could blink she was being shoved against the wall, the stranger’s forearm at her throat as she growled. The very foundation of the manor shook around them.

Feyre’s instincts kicked in immediately — hiding her powers be damned. She snarled back at the stranger, her hands grabbing their wrists beneath the heavy cloak still hiding their face as she let Beron’s fire bubble to her fingertips.

Feyre could smell burning flesh and yet — the stranger didn’t even move. Jurian continued to choke behind her.

“Let me go,” Feyre hissed, talons pushing out from her knuckles.

The stranger said nothing and Feyre thrashed against their hold — how was this person so strong? Stronger than her? She had the power of all the Courts and they were completely unaffected. She had burned their skin almost all the way off and… they didn’t even flinch.

Suddenly the stranger leaned in and pressed their nose against her throat. Feyre thrashed against them, but to no avail. Wind and darkness whipped around the both of them, but the stranger remained.

“Don’t touch me,” Feyre gasped. She saw over the stranger’s shoulder that Jurian was turning purple. “Tamlin!” She screamed. “Luc—”

The stranger jerked away, flinching as if… as if in pain.

Jurian gasped behind them, inhaling as much air as he possibly could as the stranger released their hold on his throat.

“Who are you?” Feyre asked.

The stranger said nothing. A beat passed and they slowly raised their hand. Feyre raised her arms, darkness radiating out of her. The stranger hesitated, but only reached up and slowly pulled back their hood.

It was a female. Golden brown skin, and hair as black as midnight. Feyre felt a pang of longing shoot through her chest as she thought of Rhys.

The female’s eyes and face were hidden as she looked down and away from Feyre at the ground.

No, not at the ground. At Feyre’s arm.

Her tattooed arm — her status as High Lady.

Feyre pulled the arm behind her back. The stranger was still silent.

“Who are you?” Feyre asked louder.

Jurian slumped to the ground unconscious behind them. The stranger hadn’t moved. If it weren’t for his breathing Feyre would have thought he was dead.

Slowly, hauntingly, the stranger raised her face to meet Feyre’s eyes.

Feyre froze. She couldn’t even gasp, she couldn’t even breathe.

Because she was looking right at Rhys’s eyes. The slightest shade darker — but those were his eyes. A horrible dark raised scar cut across the female’s face beneath her left eye and extended down her cheek and neck. Feyre forced herself not to flinch as she tried to slow down her heart rate.

“The question is,” the female began. Feyre did flinch at the sound of her voice — full of rage, bitterness, sorrow. “Who are you really, Cursebreaker? And why the hell do you still smell like my brother?”

~~~~~

Lena wasn’t sure Feyre was breathing.

“Hey,” she snapped, literally snapping her fingers in Feyre’s face. The Cursebreaker started, pushing her hand away. “Why do you still smell like him? I thought you had been here for a week. Do you not bathe?”

“Bathe?” Feyre spluttered. “I — your brother? But…”

Lena rolled her eyes, sighing dramatically. “For the Cauldron’s sake get it together, Cursebreaker. You weren’t even supposed to see my face, I’m breaking every rule I’ve ever set for myself right now. And I really don’t want to have to break into your mind like I did poor Jurian over there and make you forget everything, so how about you cooperate with me.”

At the mention of messing with her mind, Feyre growled. Lena only chuckled in response.

“Who are you?” Feyre hissed.

“I believe I asked you first.”

“Why do you look like him?”

“Am I not being as obvious as I intended?” Lena asked sharply, taking a step closer. “My brother, Cursebreaker, is your kidnapper. Now from what I understand he’s supposed to be far away from here in the Night Court, but you still smell like him. Now I know that I just got here and hopefully your Tamlin will fill me in further, but I’d rather hear directly from you. So tell me, why do you smell like Rhysand?”

Feyre was trembling, her mouth parted in shock. Silver lined her eyes.

“You’re… you’re her? But you’re—”

“Dead, deceased, gone forever, yes I know. I was beheaded and my wings are nailed to the wall somewhere in this house. Congratulations, you were tricked.”

Feyre flinched at Lena’s voice and deep down inside, Lena felt a wave of shame. But she could hear Tamlin and Lucien approaching the manor and didn’t have the time to feel shame. She would be kind later. She needed to understand, needed to confirm if this female was really who she suspected.

Feyre was silent though, completely and utterly stunned. Lena could see the gears in her mind churning, but she was taking too long.

With a scoff and another roll of her eyes, Lena reached forward and grabbed Feyre’s tattooed arm — the tattoo that was clearly glamoured.

Feyre growled, starting to jerk her arm back and burn Lena yet again, but stopped at the last second. She tensed, but let Lena turn her arm every which way and examine the tattoo.

“That’s… impossible,” Lena whispered.

She couldn’t be seeing it correctly. That tattoo, what it meant… it wasn’t possible. This female, the Cursebreaker, Tamlin’s bride stolen away from him…

She was High Lady. The High Lady of the Night Court — of Lena’s court.

And she was even more than that. Lena understood what she was smelling now.

“You’re his mate?”

Lena had learned how to wear a hundred masks, had hidden her face beneath her mother’s old cloak for centuries — but she couldn’t hide the devastation on her face in that moment as she stood before her brother’s mate.

Feyre swallowed. Tamlin and Lucien were close enough to the manor now that they could both hear them. Almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

Lena stepped back as if she had just been shot, dropping Feyre’s arm. Her breaths were shallow, her heart beating rapidly in her chest.

The King had conveniently left this part out.

With a deep breath, Lena rolled her shoulders and stood tall. It took not even a second for her to replace that mask of the King’s weapon back on her face. Feyre could only stare.

“You didn’t see my face,” Lena said simply, eyes darting to the door Tamlin and Lucien would be walking through any minute. “I didn’t speak to you. Jurian was being facetious so I knocked him out right before they walked in. Do you understand me?” Feyre only continued to stare. “Feyre, do you understand me? They can’t know who I am, I must remain nameless and faceless to them.”

Feyre nodded quickly and Lena loosed a breath. She went to raise her hood and cloak her face in darkness when Feyre spoke.

“What’s your name?” She asked quickly.

Lena froze, a wave of ruin washing over her.

“They never told you my name?” Her voice hadn’t sounded so weak in almost five centuries. Feyre shook her head. “It’s... it’s Lena. My name is Lena.”

Feyre continued to stare, but smiled softly. Lena couldn’t find any sentiment within her to return it.

Lena pulled up her hood in one smooth motion, hiding her face once again as Tamlin and Lucien burst into the room.

[maevelin]

1/2 What I found so difficult to grasp in acowar (I hated the entire trilogy, although acotar had a lot of potential), was that Feyre didn't fight. It completely contradicts her whole arc and journey up till that point. Acomaf was her realising that she wanted to play a part in the war, she wanted to fight to defend her sisters and Prythian. One of her biggest arguments with Tamlin revolved around that. She spent acomaf learning how to fight, how to use her powers. Except she didn't.

2/2 Worse, she didn’t want to. The only reason SJM did this was because she wanted a satellite to showcase what was going on and Feyre was right there for her to use. All seven of the High Lords fought, but the High Lady, who was supposed to be the strongest, didn’t. She spent her time observing and being with her mate. That’s all she did. Even her actions in the Spring Court turned against her. I hated ACOWAR for many reasons, but that was definitely one of my top ones.

—

ACOWAR was a mess in many ways. I don’t hate the trilogy (except Acowar lol) but I do think it is awfully overrated. Generally speaking SJM has the tendency to hype things to an epic extent and in the end, she just can’t deliver (anyone remembers the riddle in the first book? lol). It is beyond her writing capabilities in my opinion. She does have a vision that should it be executed correctly it would indeed give a great pay off that obviously, the execution was bad. There was no substance. No real stakes. No loss that gave no realism whatsoever so everything was just polished (as a conclusion because the writing and the editing were anything but) and easy. No substance. Most of the things were convenient and anticlimactic. Basically, we had so many pages leading to a halfhearted lukewarm narration because everything was more telling than showing. You could take out 1/3 of the book and it would be the same. In the end, all the buildup and led to a sloppy mess.

That been said I didn’t mind that Feyre didn’t fight. Yes, the first person PoV can limit some of the options to the writers that don’t know how to use it correctly so SJM used -badly- Feyre’s voice as a satellite around everything as you pointed out.

But in the narrative, it wasn’t exactly out of reason. Yes, everything before that seemed to be leading there. But the issue Feyre had with Tamlin was not that he was not letting her fight exactly. It was the lack of choice. She had no voice. She had no options. She was not free to decide if she was going to fight or not. That was decided for her and in the end what she wanted, what she thought, what she felt had no importance and was sidelined. Feyre breaking free from that and eventually deciding for herself not to fight was as empowering as it would be for her to fight. Because it was her decision and hers alone. 

Yes she is a massive weapon given the powerhouse she turned to be (and I have things to say about this that fall to the Mary Sue special snowflake department but I digress) and under a different leadership her powers could have been applied far more effectively but in the end Feyre’s worth was not defined by her powers and she was not treated as an object to win a war. Should she have been? Given how this war was described and the lack of options and what would happen if they lost (which they knew very well) and how it was a matter of desperately needing all hands on deck and not having the luxury of stepping back…mmm… It is a big discussion. That can bring arguments both in favor of it and against such a decision. Military wise it was one of the book’s weaknesses in the way it was handled anyway. Everything about this war was simplified and romanticized and didn’t add up with what we were told it was going to be or what it was presented to be.

The thing, however, is that Feyre was just 20 years old. She was and is too young. She barely had been able to tap into her powers and their potential. She had been traumatized and was still healing and struggling. She had never been in a war. It is easy to say ‘but why didn’t she fight’ but it is not so simple. She had never been inside an army. She never knew the horrifying reality of it. Sure, in theory, it was easy to say I’ll fight but the reality of it was different. Taking a very young inexperienced civilian (from another country to add to that) that has no understanding of what war means, has never been into a bloody battlefield and has no training whatsoever when it comes to this and throwing them into the field and expecting them to go for the slaughter and act like a badass soldier and even more so as a badass leader is far more unrealistic and I feel many people would also jump at the opportunity to point that out. It seems that in some cases Feyre can’t win no matter what she does or how she acts and by extension neither can SJM. But the truth is that into the battlefield someone like Feyre could be instead of an asset a liability. 

My issue in Acowar was not that Feyre didn’t fight but how everyone else fought and acted or didn’t. 

How these people won the war is something beyond my understanding. I am even putting the extreme powers, everyone conveniently has, aside. In the end, wars are won by careful planning and strategy. Did we see anything of that at any point? They were all acting like headless chicken running around.There was disarray. Everyone was doing what they wanted without any consistency or consequence. This was meant to be a tight teamwork under strong leadership. Did we actually see that? 

Rhysand had no plan really. He winged most of all and somehow his hidden agendas and ‘plans’ that were treated as “hey I have a secret ace in my sleeve that I haven’t told anyone about. Surprise!’ and were delivered as twists and it was just a sloppy mess. 

Azriel was able to infiltrate the Hybern camp so easily with no worry for the consequences and what it would mean for the outcome of the war if he died or was captured (given his position along with Feyre’s) or what it would mean if he went into the battlefield injured (imagine that) but then this was pointed as heroic instead of plain stupid. Yeah yeah they saved Elain and it was important but we are talking about a WAR here. 

Cassian was meant to be THE General. The Commander. He was instead a suicidal idiot that instead of leading the armies he was all over the place. Generals like him lose wars. 

Morrigan is my main issue here. Feyre not fighting made sense. You know what didn’t make any sense whatsoever? The fact that in the previous books it was hyped that she was THE Morrigan. That in the previous war she made a name for herself. That she had this awesome power that made her a legend. That in the battlefield this would be one of the saving graces that could win any war. Please do tell me what Morrigan’s power is? Really I want to know. I may have missed it somehow. What was her extraordinary value in the field? She fought yes. She supposedly has moves. Good. And we were told that she did and how good she is in combat. Great sure. I am not devaluing it but the writing itself did. Because the trilogy was not leading to that anticlimactic performance that basically gave no answers to the questions and the hype that surrounded Morrigan. Did you see the Night Court’s Third in Command anywhere in the book and more so in the final battle? I am not even here to address Rhysand’s constant vile treatment that deprived her her choices and her options and even her leadership (which was Feyre’s issue with Tamlin but here for The Night Court’s third in command it was just swept under the rug). But really. What was Morrigan’s extraordinary indomitable might everyone feared? Because if she had all that power that even the King of Hybern had seen in Acomaf and was in awe of then what was she waiting for? Why didn’t ANYONE had a strategy here? Why didn’t she used it? She was an awesome kickass fighter but so were all the soldiers that fought out there. What made her so different? They got to the point where they were losing the war and we didn’t see Morrigan being THE Morrigan. Morrigan that is centuries old. Morrigan that had fought in wars and was actually fighting in that one too. The Morrigan you know. Really…I couldn’t believe what I was reading or what I wasn’t reading for that matter.

In the end, everyone had an idea (usually wacky and stupid) and were like let us do that. Sure Jan. Go for it. It is not as if there is anyone taking charge and actually leading.

And do not get me started on how everyone was stopping in the middle of the battle to frigging CHAT! Like are you kidding me? Go and gossip and babble in your free time you idiots! 

Like seriously! It was no wonder that Elain was able to freely and easily take a walk through the battlefield and stab the King. No one else would have been able to do it anyway. It was not just the element of surprise. It was basic incompetence. From all sides concerned.

Not to mention that their half-assed master plan with the cauldron almost destroyed the world/universe because you know they were so clever about it. Which showed in the way they handled themselves in the war and in the whole book really. I mean I shouldn’t have expected much from the people that had as a great plan to show their ‘true’ selves instead of their ridiculous asshole facade and not stay calm in one meeting and couldn’t do that. And while they couldn’t decide with their mean girl invitations where they would meet and what they would wear the King of Hybern ‘ambushed them’ and acted faster which was such a surprise and such a twist.Who would have thought? Right? Riiiiight.

And then the actual war came and …sigh…

I kid you not I kept reading and for the most part when I was not rolling my eyes I was like…morons. 

That sentiment has not really gone away tbh. And that is not even me talking about the other parts of the book that made me salty like the OOC and the suicide pacts and the nonsense in general. 

[kitashiwrites]

The Tangled Webs We Weave - A Rhys Fic

Series: A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas Characters: Feyre, Rhysand, Cassian, Amren, The Weaver of the Wood POV: Rhys Ship: Feyre/Rhysand Rating: T Word Count: 5719 Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9446600

Summary: Chapter 20-21 of A Court of Mist and Fury from Rhys’s POV.

The Bone Carver has confirmed Rhys’s suspicions that Feyre could possibly locate the Book of Breathings. And what better way to test this theory than with an object that he hasn’t seen in centuries... held by one of the most dangerous beings in all of Prythian.

Comments: This idea was requested by Emily in my comments on Ao3 awhile ago, and I've had it on my list of ideas to write eventually. I think I did more than was originally requested, but I kinda got carried away ^^; In any case, I hope you like it!

A big thanks (as always), to the best tumblr bestie in the whole wide world, @illyriantremors, who I honestly can't thank enough for all she puts up with in regards to me lol

----

I strode down the hall to Feyre’s room at false dawn, knowing thanks to our bond that her nightmares had kept her—and subsequently me—awake and restless all night. Haunted by the memory of those two faeries she’d had to kill to save us all and the ash knife she'd used. Of the bone I’d given the Bone Carver, her face carved onto it in despair and agony. Knowing now what she had admitted to him in the Prison, that she'd been waiting for an opportunity to turn that knife on herself once she'd freed us… it worried me that she maybe still thought it was a viable option to rid herself of her suffering.

I knocked on the door, and as soon as I heard her permission to come in, I stalked in and chucked the belt of knives I’d brought with me to the foot of her bed. “Hurry,” I said flinging open the doors of her armoire and yanking out her fighting leathers, tossing them on her bed too. “I want to be gone before the sun is fully up.”

“Why?” she asked, pushing back the covers. She looked exhausted, but we didn't have time for her to sleep in more.

“Because time is of the essence.” I dug into her drawers and grabbed a pair of socks and her boots. “Once the King of Hybern realizes that someone is searching for the Book of Breathings to nullify the powers of the Cauldron, then his agents will begin hunting for it, too.”

“You suspected this for a while, though. The Cauldron, the king, the Book… You wanted it confirmed, but you were waiting for me.” Matter of fact, no question in her tone.

“Had you agreed to work with me two months ago, I would have taken you right to the Bone Carver to see if he confirmed my suspicions about your talents. But things didn't go as planned.” That was an understatement, really. Things going as I planned wouldn't have had Tamlin as a factor at all, let alone letting him neglect her until I had to intervene. It wouldn't involve her hating me, her neck being snapped before my eyes, or keeping this mate bond of ours a secret from her either.

“The reading,” she mused almost to herself, sliding her feet into her fleece lined slippers. “That's why you insisted on the lessons. So if your suspicions were true and I could harness the Book… I could actually read it—or any translation of whatever is inside.” She was sharp, but that was no surprise to me.

“Again,” I said moving over to her dresser, “had you started to work with me, I would have told you why. I couldn't risk discovery otherwise.” I paused with my hand on the knob, trying to choose my words carefully. “You should have learned to read no matter what. But yes, when I told you it served my own purposes—it was because of this. Do you blame me for it?”

“No.” She sounded sincere. “But I’d prefer to be notified of any future schemes.”

“Duly noted.” I yanked open the drawer, and to my surprise, I was greeted by a drawer full of fabric scraps and lace—the things that were likely brought back when Mor got involved in shopping for her ‘new best friend’. I picked up a silky midnight colored number off the top and chuckled as I dangled them from my fingers, eyeing her suggestively. “I’m surprised you didn't demand Nuala and Cerridwen buy you something else.” Though I couldn't say I was disappointed.

She stalked over to me and snatched it from my hands. “You're drooling on the carpet,” she snapped and stalked into her bathroom, slamming the door behind her. I wiped my mouth, just to make sure I actually wasn't, and took a deep breath, laying out the belt of knives I’d brought for her. I eyed the harness with some apprehension. This whole mission was dangerous. Everything was dangerous for her where I was concerned. Just being around me was painting a target on her back. Being my mate only made it larger, especially if anyone besides Mor or Amren found out. But sending her into the Weaver’s cottage… I knew it served two purposes and I had chosen it for this reason. But I had no idea what she would find in there and I worried for her safety. Knowing the stories of the Weaver of the Wood, the Illyrian sword strapped my spine gave me very little comfort.

When she emerged from her bathroom, it was all I could do to keep my face from giving me away. Her leathers clung to her body attractively, which had finally begun to look a little healthier now that she'd been eating properly and actually keeping it down. I was suddenly grateful that my own leathers hid just how turned on I was. It didn't help that I knew underneath were the delicate scraps of lace and silk she’d snatched from me. Before I could start fantasizing about seducing her back onto her bed and seeing if they made her look even more delicious than I already thought she was, I grabbed the belt of knives. I needed to focus on something, anything, else. She deserved better than that. “No swords, no bow, no arrows,” I said. I was proud my voice came out as steady as it did.

She looked at me skeptically. “But knives are fine?” I knelt in front of her and spread the web of leather and Illyrian steel, motioning for her to stick her leg though the first loop and bracing her as she stepped through the second loop.

“She will not notice a knife, as she has has knives in her cottage for eating and her work,” I said as  as I buckled and tightened the belts until they fit her body snugly. “But things that are out of place—objects that may have not been there… A sword, a bow and arrow… She might sense those things.” There wasn't even a guarantee this would work, but it was our best shot.

“What about me?” she asked. I tightened the strap around her leg. It was becoming harder for me—in more ways than one—being this close to her and keeping myself in check as my hands brushed against her while I checked my work.

“Do not make a sound, do not touch anything but the object she took from me.” I looked up at her and braced my hands on her thighs. I thought of the tattoos on my knees, my vow to myself, and not for the first time, knew that I’d be happy and willing to bow before her and worship her if she would let me. “If we are right about your powers, if the Bone Carver wasn't lying to us, then you and the object will have the same…” I searched for the right word. “...imprint, thanks to the preserving spells I placed on it long ago.” A partial truth, but necessary. There were spells on it, and I had placed some of them when I wore it in the Illyrian camps. “You are one and the same. She will not notice your presence so long as you touch only it. You will be invisible to her.” At least, that was how it was supposed to work. I’d never tried this, and no other High Lord's thieves had made it out to tell us if we were right.

“She's blind?” Feyre asked. I nodded.

“But her other senses are lethal. So be quick, and quiet. Find the object and run out, Feyre.” I let my hands wander to the back of her legs, unwilling to let go just yet.

“And if she notices me?”

A fair question. My grip tightened involuntarily. “Then we’ll learn precisely how skilled you are.” She glared at me, and I shrugged. “Would you rather I locked you in the House of Wind and stuffed you with food and made you wear fine clothes and plan my parties?”

“Go to hell,” she snapped. She looked at me curiously. “Why not get this object yourself, if it is so important?”

Because my mother wanted my future wife or mate to be the one to retrieve it, I wanted to tell her. Such a loaded question that had an equally loaded answer. But she already barely tolerated me—most of the time hated me—and I knew that answer would not be met with a reaction I’d like. “Because the Weaver knows me—and if I am caught, there would be a steep price. High Lords are not to interfere with her, no matter the direness of the situation. There are many treasures in her hoard, some she has kept for millennia. Most will never be retrieved—because the High Lords do not dare be caught, thanks to the laws that protect her, thanks to her wrath. Any thieves on their behalf… Either they do not return, or they are never sent, for fear of it leading back to their High Lord. But you… She does not know you. You belong to every court.”

“So I’m your huntress and thief?” she asked sardonically. My hands slid to the backs of her knees and I gave her a roguish grin. “You are my salvation, Feyre.” And so much more.

~~

I winnowed us into the neutral wood. The natural, tightly woven canopy of the trees made it nearly as dark as my court on a night of the new moon, but without a single guiding star to provide comfort.

“Where are we?” Feyre breathed, her voice barely a whisper.

“In the heart of Prythian,” I replied, keeping my hands in casual reach of my weapons to fend off any potentially nasty surprises, “there is a large, empty territory that divides the North and South. At the center of it is our sacred mountain.” The place I never wanted to be this close to again if I could help it. The darkness of this forest was far too reminiscent of those caves and catacombs. “This forest is on the eastern edge of that neutral territory. Here, there is no High Lord. Here, the law is made by who is strongest, meanest, most cunning. And the Weaver of the Wood is at the top of their food chain.” Though there was no wind to shift them, the trees groaned, as though in agreement.

“Amarantha didn't wipe them out?” Feyre questioned.

“Amarantha was no fool,” I said darkly. “She did not touch these creatures or disturb the wood. For years, I tried to find ways to manipulate her to make that foolish mistake, but she never bought it.” If she had, so much of this could have been avoided. I thought back to one such instance, where I had suggested Amarantha try to ally with the Weaver, to use her to torture her enemies. After she reminded me that was something I did so well though, it barely even received a response.

“And now we're disturbing her—for a mere test.” The disbelief in Feyre's voice rang clear.

I chuckled. “Cassian tried to convince me last night not to take you. I thought he might punch me.” Indeed, he thought this test was dangerous—which it was—and could easily be proved in another way. Which it could.

“Why?”

“Who knows? With Cassian, he’s probably more interested in fucking you than protecting you.” Truthfully, it was more the compassionate commander in him, the one who didn't risk his men’s lives on hunches and fool’s errands. And I also felt he saw a kindred spirit in Feyre, related to her hardships growing up.

“You're a pig,” she snapped. She was nervous, focusing on what was ahead and letting it eat her from the inside out. And while what lay in wait in that cottage was without a doubt a cause for concern, she needed a distraction.

I knew just what to do.

“You could, you know,” I said carefully, holding up the branch of a beech tree for her to slide under. “If you needed to move on in a physical sense, I’m sure Cassian would be more than happy to oblige.” I said it, though I didn't actually believe it. He’d ribbed me too hard after finding out that it was her wedding I’d abandoned drinking with him to go crash. And besides, he’d learned his lesson after The Incident and how it had affected his relationship with Azriel for a time. None of us ever wanted to feel that division in our brotherhood again.

“Then tell him to come to my room tonight,” she crooned.

I knew she was bluffing. “If you survive this test.”

She paused, standing atop a lichen-crusted rock, and looked at me. Like this, she was almost eye level with me. “You seem pleased by the idea that I won't.”

“Quite the opposite, Feyre.” I prowled over to her, noting that she seemed almost unnerved by the charged air between us. I was close. “I’ll let Cassian know you are open to his… advances,” I lied. The hell I would.

“Good,” she said hollowly. I eyed her stiff posture and sent a bit of my power—the darkness that soothes, the darkness of lovers—to calm her. It had the opposite effect, recognizing the spark of itself in her; like called to like, stirring in answer to the presence of itself in her blood and bones. Before she could move away, jump off of the stone and break this moment, I gripped her chin, looking deep into her beautiful blue grey eyes.

“Did you enjoy the sight of me kneeling before you?” I asked silkily. It would be easy, so simple really, to kiss her right now. I could hear her heart thundering in her chest, nervous, her pupils dilating. She wouldn't turn me away. However, she quickly recovered and gave me a hateful little smirk, yanking her chin out of my grip and leaping off of the stone. I moved out of the way just in time to avoid her landing on my feet, which I couldn't shake the feeling was on purpose.

“Isn't that all you males are good for, anyway?” Her tone, breathless and tight, didn't match her smile at all. Her shield was down enough that I could feel that potent anger she'd shown me the day she'd thrown not one, but two shoes at my head.

I gave her a dark, flirtatious smile. I’d won.

She seemed to realize it too. “Nice try,” she said hoarsely. I shrugged and walked towards the trees ahead of us, her irritation and sexual frustration shooting uninhibited past her shields and down our bond. I couldn't help but feel pleased with myself.

I held up my hand as we stopped before the clearing, ruining her chance to retaliate. The white washed, inviting looking cottage of the most violent and nasty creature in these woods sat in front of us in the center, innocent and unassuming. I turned to Feyre, who eyed it with some apprehension, and inclined my head, bowing gracefully.

Good luck, I mouthed at her. She gave me a vulgar gesture, but didn't hesitate as she slowly and silently made her way to the front door. I winnowed into the tree branches above the house and watched as she looked back to see if I was still there. The thought crossed our bond that she wondered if she should have asked if I would come for her if she were in mortal peril.

As if I would willingly let her die.

It was fascinating to watch her as she fell into what I imagined must be muscle memory for her—the mortal huntress that had kept her family alive through harsh winters and taken down Tamlin's sentinel. The woman who had taken down the Middengard Wyrm merely using ingenuity and what she had around her. She made her way soundlessly to the threshold, and after a moment of listening, opened the door and slipped inside.

I let out a breath I didn't know I’d been holding in. The first part was done. I listened hard, but the only sound I could hear was the very faint humming that I imagined was meant to draw in prey for the Weaver. Feyre was so focused that even her shields were perfect; not so much as a crack I could slip into.

Settling in for what could potentially be a long wait, I sat on the branch, keeping an eye on the front door for any sign of Feyre. Once she had it and was out of the house, I would winnow her back to Velaris. There was no reason to make it more difficult than it needed to be.

The minutes crept by as I heard nothing but the unintelligible song coming from the cottage. The only thing that kept me in place was that I knew I couldn't interfere—both because the Weaver would know me and because I knew Feyre could do this.

I was beginning to get anxious though. Feyre hadn't appeared yet, and she'd been inside the cottage longer than I expected. It was quiet. Too quiet. I couldn't put my finger on—

The song. It has stopped.

I heard the door to cottage shut audibly. There was no Feyre. I was on my feet and searched our bond frantically. Her shield was still tight, but it had a small crack—not enough to get through, but enough to hear.

“Who’s in my house?” A woman's voice said softly. I froze. She'd somehow attracted the Weaver’s attention. This was not good.

Suddenly, her shield disappeared, and I was met with a blast of fear and the image of a woman that, if you looked only at her body, would be enticing and attractive. Her face though, hidden behind silky black hair, was grey—wrinkled and sagging and dry. And where her eyes should have been were rotting, empty black pits. Her lips had withered to nothing but deep, dark lines around a hole of full of jagged stumps of teeth, and her nose had caved in.

“What are you?” she said in a beautiful voice that did not match her at all. She took a step towards Feyre. “What is like all,” she mused, “but unlike all?” She had noticed. She wouldn't link Feyre back to the Night Court. But that wasn't as comforting as it would be if it were anyone else in that house. Suddenly, Feyre lunged for the table in front of her and grabbed a burning candle, hurtling it against a wall of fabric—the Weaver’s work.

I heard the Weaver’s shriek through our bond and with my own ears, splitting the silence of the forest like a cleaver. Feyre made a dash for the hearth, taking advantage of the Weaver’s distraction, and worked her way up the chimney. A smart move.

Until she got stuck. I contemplated winnowing in there and getting her out, consequences be damned. She'd gotten this far. Her dying for this was not worth it.

“What little mouse is climbing about in my chimney?” The Weaver’s voice echoed again, and upon seeing her face, Feyre’s head emptied out of everything but blind panic. She was suddenly Under the Mountain again, the Middengard Wyrm barreling for her, and she couldn't breathe. She was frozen.

“Did you think you could steal and flee, thief?”

That was it. I couldn't watch this. Couldn’t—

Stop.

The word crossed our bond, like she had heard me.

Stop, she ordered herself. Breathe. Think.

Stop. Stop, stop, stop.

Think.

She suddenly started pounding on the bricks in front of her. I watched her curiously through the bond as I felt her inner strength return to that of the huntress. Of the woman I’d fallen in love with.

I heard the Weaver roar in anger as I was suddenly thrown from her head and blinked as I suddenly was met by normal light. I looked to the cottage and saw Feyre climbing out over the lip of the chimney and tumbling onto the roof. The front door banged open.

“WHERE ARE YOU?” The Weaver screamed. But Feyre had already taken to the tree branches scrambling through the treetops. She had moved past me and was clearly trying to put as much distance between her and that butcher’s cottage as she could.

I winnowed closer to her location and lounged against the tree trunk, draping an arm over the branch. She skidded to a stop in front of me, covered in something shiny and greasy, and also something that looked like hair. “What the hell did you do?” I couldn't keep the smirk of pride off my face, nor the feeling of relief from spreading through me. She’d made it out. She was alive.

“You,” she hissed, her eyes flashing. I put a finger to my lips and winnowed over to her, grabbing her waist with one hand and cupping the back of her neck with the other.

We appeared just above the House of Wind and began to free fall. I waited for a scream that never came and released my wings, spreading them wide and curving us into a glide through the window of the war room. Cassian and Amren froze, mid argument it seemed, and stared at us as we landed.

“You smell like barbecue,” Amren said to Feyre, cringing. Cassian relaxed his stance, taking his hand off of the knife at his thigh. Feyre was panting hard.

“You kill her?” Cassian asked, eyeing Feyre curiously.

“No,” I answered, sensing she was in no state to be talking. “But given how much the Weaver was screaming, I’m dying to know what Feyre darling did.”

Feyre vomited all over the floor. Cassian swore and Amren waved a hand, cleaning up the mess on the floor and on Feyre.

“She… detected me somehow,” she managed to say, slumping against the large black table and wiping her mouth against the shoulder of her leathers. “And locked the doors and windows. So I had to climb out through the chimney. I got stuck, and when she tried to climb up, I threw a brick at her face.”

Amren turned to me. “And where were you?” There was clear accusation in her voice.

“Waiting, far enough away that she couldn't detect me.”

“I could have used some help,” Feyre snarled at me.

“You survived,” I said simply. I looked at her hard. “And found a way to help yourself.”

Realization crossed her face. “That's what this was also about,” she spat. “Not just this stupid ring,” She reached into her pocket and slammed it down on the table, “or my abilities, but if I can master my panic.”

Cassian swore again as he stared at my mother's star sapphire ring sitting in the middle of the table. He and Azriel had been there the day my mother had taken it back from me. He knew what it meant—what I was declaring by having sent her in for it. Even if he didn't know all of it.

Feyre, of course, knew nothing.

Amren shook her head, her dark hair swaying. “Brutal, but effective.”

“Now you know,” I said. “That you can use your abilities to hunt our objects, and thus track the Book at the Summer Court, and master yourself.”

“You're a prick, Rhysand,” Cassian said quietly.

I tucked my wings in with a snap. “You’d do the same.” He shrugged, as if to agree begrudgingly, but we both knew he would have.

Feyre looked at her nails, cracked and bloody from her encounter. The scrapes and scratches on her face hadn't healed yet either. She looked up at Cassian. “I want you to teach me—how to fight. To get strong. If the offer to train still stands.”

Cassian’s brows rose. “You’ll be calling me a prick pretty damn fast if we train,” he said, not looking at me. “And I don't know anything about training humans—how breakable your bodies are. Were, I mean.” He winced. “We’ll figure it out.”

“I don't want my only option to be running,” she said.

“Running,” Amren cut in, “kept you alive today.”

Feyre ignored her. “I want to know how to fight my way out. I don't want to have to wait on anyone to rescue me.” She faced me, crossing her arms defiantly. “Well? Have I proved myself?”

I picked up the ring off of the table. I hadn't seen it in centuries. It had some shelf wear, but with a little care, the twisted strands of gold, silver and pearl would be shined up in no time. I nodded my thanks to her. “It was my mother's ring.”

“How did you lose it?” she demanded.

“I didn't. My mother gave it to me as a keepsake, then took it back when I reached maturity—and gave it to the Weaver for safekeeping.”

“Why?”

“So I wouldn't waste it.” So I wouldn't give it to anyone I wasn't sure I wanted to spend the rest of my immortal life with. Feyre looked like she wanted to say something, but her knees buckled suddenly. She needed quiet and a bath, she'd accidentally shouted down our bond, and without thinking or saying a word, I grabbed her hand and flared my wings out, and took off into the air. I snapped my wings shut and let us freefall for a few heartbeats before winnowing us into her bedroom. I could hear the water running in her bathroom—Nuala or Cerridwen had clearly either heard us or just knew her well enough that she would appreciate the gesture.

As she staggered towards the tub, a thought crossed my mind. “And what about training your other… gifts?” If she'd had those, it would be another weapon in her arsenal—so she could keep herself safe. And I couldn't lie that I was rather interested in watching her train with Cassian for a few reasons.

“I think you and I would shred each other to bits.” Through the rising steam, I could see she just wanted to take her bath, but this was necessary.

“Oh, we most definitely will,” I said leaning against the bathing room threshold. “But it wouldn't be fun otherwise. Consider our training now officially part of your work requirements with me.” I jerked my chin at her. “Go ahead—try to get past my shields.”

She looked at me wearily. “I’m tired. The bath will go cold.”

“I promise it will be just as hot in a few moments. Or, if you mastered your gifts, you might be able to take care of that yourself.” I knew she just wanted to relax, but the momentum we’d built up was too good to let go to waste—I could still feel the sparks of adrenaline from her escape in her blood, and I didn't want to squander it. She frowned at me, but took a step toward me, then another, making me take a step, then two, into the bedroom. She held my stare and I could feel that emotion bubbling up in her veins again—the power she could wield so effortlessly if we trained her even just a little bit. I couldn't help but think again of what a fool Tamlin had been in trying to ignore it, when as a High Lord he knew what letting magic build up, especially ours, could do to her.

“You feel it, don't you,” I said in a low voice, probably not suited to what we were doing. “Your power, stalking under your skin, purring in your ear.”

“So what if I do?” She played right along.

I shrugged. “I’m surprised Ianthe didn't carve you up on an altar to see what that power looks like inside you.”

“What, precisely, is your issue with her?” That she still didn't see it, after how the priestess had practically set up her wedding to fail, even if I hadn't come in to rescue her when she placed those red rose petals, was maddening.

“I find the High Priestesses to be a perversion of what they once were—once promised to be. Ianthe among the worst of them,” I said evasively.

“Why do you say that?”

“Get past my shields and I’ll show you,” I taunted. She held my stare, and then I felt her in our bond, that braided bit of light, feeling at my shields for an easy way in. But I wouldn't make this that simple. I knew she could do this if she tried.

“I’ve had enough tests for the day,” she said tiredly. I crossed the two feet between us. She couldn't give up just yet.

“The High Priestesses have burrowed into a few of the courts—Dawn, Day, and Winter, mostly. They've entrenched themselves so thoroughly that their spies are everywhere, their followers near-fanatic with devotion. And yet, during those fifty years, they escaped. They remained hidden. I would not be surprised if Ianthe sought to establish a foothold in the Spring Court.”

“You mean to tell me they're all black-hearted villains?”

“No. Some, yes. Some are compassionate, selfless, and wise.” I thought of the one temple on the outskirts of Velaris, where one who came from the Summer Court had established a place of worship, but did not use her rank to interfere with my rule or try to oust me like I’d seen some try. “But there are some who are merely self-righteous… Though those are the ones that always seem the most dangerous to me.”

“And Ianthe?” Feyre asked. I gave her a knowing look, and I could feel she was furious at herself for falling for my trap. She was too curious to let it go now.

I felt her slam into my shields with a lash of power that made them reverberate as surely as she'd hit them with her body. I chuckled at the fire in her eyes, the strength of will that had always been something I’d loved about her, as she panted from the effort that had taken out of her. “Admirable—sloppy, but an admirable effort.”

I took her hand, loving how perfectly it fit into mine. “Just for trying…” Our bond went taut, and I could feel her once again at my shields. This time, she merely brushed a mental hand against the dark adamant wall. The spark of power I’d given her reacted again to our closeness, and I had to bite my lip to keep from letting out a groan at the feeling of her there. It just wasn't damn fair.

I opened my mental shields, just a section, so she could see why. She strolled in, trusting. Her first mistake. And as she saw Ianthe lounging naked in the middle of my bed in the Hewn City, she reeled back at the memory in front of her. She quickly tried to escape, and realized I’d closed her in when she wasn't paying attention. But it was important for her to see this; to understand.

It was harder to relive this moment than I thought it would be. I’d not viewed it like this since Feyre had freed me from Amarantha, and now, having lived basically what Ianthe had wanted from me, I knew I had made the right choice in throwing her out on her ass. I was nearly as angry as the day I had done it. But at least with Amarantha, I’d gained something from it—the lives and safety of my family and my court.

As the memory ended and I released Feyre from my mind, she stumbled physically before me, blinking and getting used to reality again as I had when I’d watched her in the Weaver’s cottage. “Rule one,” I said, willing myself to calm down, “don't go into someone's mind unless you hold the way open. A daemati might leave their minds spread wide for you—and then shut you inside, turn you into their willing slave. Rule two—”

“When was that,” she blurted out. “When did that happen between you?”

The rage I’d almost gotten under control came back, a blast of icy anger. “A hundred years ago. At the Court of Nightmares. I allowed her to visit after she'd begged for years, insisting she wanted to build ties between the Night Court and the priestesses. I’d heard rumors about her nature, but she was young and untried, and I hoped that perhaps a new High Priestess might indeed be the change her order needed. It turned out she was already well trained by some of her less-benevolent sisters.”

Feyre swallowed hard, clearly shaken by the memory. “She—she didn't act that way at…” she froze, as if she'd realized something. I wondered if Ianthe had been up to her old tricks in the Spring Court as well, and if so, who had been her unlucky victim.

“Rule two,” I continued, “be prepared to see things you might not like.”

Before she could ask me anymore questions, I winnowed away, to the roof of the House of Wind. It had only been an hour or two since I had walked into her room, and yet it felt so much longer. In such a short span of time, I’d felt everything from fear, anger, anxiety, lust… love. I knew I should be tired, but all I felt now was restless.

I fingered the ring in my pocket carefully, and for a brief moment, wondered if I’d ever have the chance to give it to her—where she'd possibly accept it, and me.

I shook my head, as if it would clear away the idealistic, hopeful thought. I threw myself off the roof and let myself free fall until I knew I had to pull up, I snapped open my wings and let myself zone out as I circled my city lazily, trying to think of anything and anyone else.

But that small hand that had fit so perfectly in mine wouldn't leave my thoughts, now with the star sapphire ring I hoped would one day adorn it.

I was well and officially screwed.