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hrizantemy · 17 days ago

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Feyre’s voice shook the walls of the House of Wind as she let her rage spill free.

“It was supposed to be us! Nesta, Elain, and me!” she shouted, her chest heaving, her hands fisted at her sides as she glared at them all—her Inner Circle. The people she trusted, the people she loved. But right now, she felt nothing but fury toward them. “Do you understand what you just did? Do you even see it? You tore into her. You all stood there, watching, saying nothing as Amren ripped her apart. And then Taryn—” Feyre let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “A stranger defended my sister when none of us did. When I didn’t. Do you have any idea how wrong that is? How disgusting that is?”

Her voice cracked on the last words, but she didn’t stop, didn’t care.

Rhysand exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair, his jaw tight as he finally spoke, his voice the controlled, reasonable tone he always used when trying to calm her.

“Feyre—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, cutting him off, her rage turning toward him. “Don’t stand there and try to explain this to me, Rhys. Don’t act like you had no part in it. You stood there and let it happen. You let Amren shame her, humiliate her, like she was nothing more than a stain on this court. Like she hadn’t fought, like she hadn’t bled for all of us!”

Rhysand’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t let his composure slip. “She needed to hear it,” he said, calm, as if he truly believed it. “Nesta has spent the last year destroying herself, and we have done everything to try and help her. She refused it. We had no choice—”

“No choice?” Feyre’s voice rose again, incredulous. “You always have a choice, Rhys. Always. And what you chose was cruelty. What you chose was to let Amren belittle her, let everyone sit in their silence while Taryn—TARYN—was the only one to stand up for her.”

She turned her furious gaze to Amren, who had remained quiet, her face unreadable. “And you—what the hell was that? You didn’t try to help. You didn’t try to fix anything. You just wanted to break her down, just like you did before. Just like you always do when someone isn’t what you want them to be.”

Amren’s silver eyes narrowed. “I told her the truth.”

“No, you shamed her,” Feyre snapped. “You humiliated her. And the worst part is that you all let it happen. You all let her drown in it. Again.”

She turned to Cassian now, who hadn’t spoken once, his wings tucked tight, his expression unreadable.

“And you,” she breathed, the betrayal sharp in her voice. “You just stood there. You, out of everyone, should have said something. Should have done something.”

Cassian’s throat bobbed, but he said nothing.

Feyre let out a shaky breath, looking at all of them, her closest friends, her family. And for the first time in a long, long time, she didn’t recognize them.

“Look what you did,” she whispered. “Look what you all did.”

Morrigan shifted where she stood, arms crossed over her chest, her golden eyes flicking between them before finally landing on Feyre. Her voice was measured, careful, but there was a sharpness to it that Feyre immediately bristled at.

“Taryn doesn’t know what Nesta did to you,” Morrigan said, her tone low but firm. “She doesn’t know how Nesta treated you, how she—”

“Don’t,” Feyre snapped, cutting her off so abruptly that Morrigan blinked in surprise. “Don’t you dare bring that up right now.”

The heat of her anger reignited, searing through her veins as she turned on Morrigan fully. “Nesta was cruel to me. I know that. I lived it. I am not pretending otherwise. But you—all of you—are pretending that your behavior tonight was justified. That shaming her, belittling her, proving to her once again that she has no place here was somehow the right thing to do.”

She shook her head, letting out a breathless, bitter laugh. “And the fact that Taryn doesn’t know what happened between me and Nesta? Maybe that’s a good thing. Because for once, someone looked at Nesta and didn’t see her as the villain you’ve all made her out to be. Someone saw her, not just her mistakes.”

Morrigan’s expression tightened, as if she wanted to argue, but Feyre wasn’t done.

“Nesta tried to hurt me. She lashed out at me in ways I’ll never forget, and I won’t excuse that.” Feyre’s voice was shaking now, but she refused to back down. “But I am standing here, Morrigan. I survived it. I moved on. And if I can do that, why the hell can’t any of you?”

Amren exhaled sharply, her silver eyes narrowing as she finally stepped forward, her expression unreadable.

“Then why don’t you stop them?”

Feyre’s brows furrowed, confusion flickering across her face. “What?”

Amren tilted her head slightly, watching her with a gaze so sharp it felt like it cut right through her. “You act like you’re separate from this, like you weren’t part of it. But you were. Every time someone said something about Nesta, every time we tore into her, you were the one who told us what she was like before we even met her. You were the one who made sure we knew every cruel thing she ever said to you. And each time we said something about her, what did you do?”

Amren let the silence settle, let the weight of her words sink in before delivering the final blow.

“Nothing.”

Feyre’s lips parted, but Amren kept going, her voice steady, unrelenting.

“If you did say something, it was half-hearted at best. You never truly defended her, not really. And don’t pretend you did. Because if you had, we wouldn’t have spoken about her the way we did tonight. We wouldn’t have seen her as nothing more than a disgrace to this court. We wouldn’t have thought of her as someone who deserved to be punished.”

A long, heavy pause.

“And isn’t that what you wanted, Feyre?” Amren asked, her voice softer now, but no less damning. “For her to be punished? To feel what you felt? To pay for what she did to you?”

Feyre’s throat was dry.

She wanted to argue. She wanted to deny it, to fight back, as proof that she wasn’t wrong. But the words wouldn’t come.

Because for the first time, Feyre didn’t know what to say.

She had no words.

Rhysand’s power darkened the room, his rage curling around them like a storm ready to break. His growl was low, dangerous, a warning that echoed through the tense silence.

“You will not speak to your High Lady like that,” he snarled, his voice laced with authority, violet eyes burning as he fixed Amren with a look that would have made most people tremble.

But Amren was not most people.

She merely scoffed, rolling her eyes as if he were nothing more than an impatient child. “Oh, spare me the dramatics, Rhysand,” she said, utterly unimpressed by his display of power. “You think your title scares me? That I should bow and scrape because she wears a crown? I was drinking the blood of worlds before you were even born—I don’t give a damn what you call yourself.”

Rhysand’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides, but Amren only continued, voice dry with amusement. “You don’t like the truth, fine. But don’t act like I said anything you don’t already know.”

She turned back to Feyre then, silver eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “You’ve spent all this time pretending you wanted to help her. But deep down? You wanted to see her suffer. You wanted her to feel as alone as she made you feel. And you let us do the dirty work for you.”

Feyre flinched.

Rhysand stepped closer, his power crackling in the air, but Amren didn’t so much as blink. “You can growl all you want, High Lord,” she said, voice laced with sharp amusement. “But we both know I’m right.”

The room was still tense, thick with everything that had been said, everything that still wasn’t being said. And then, a small voice broke through the silence.

“It was my fault.”

Elain’s voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, but in the heavy stillness of the room, it was deafening.

Everyone turned to her. She stood near the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself, looking smaller than ever. She swallowed, her brown eyes flickering to Feyre before dropping to the floor.

“I was the one who told Nesta about the plan,” she admitted, her voice barely steady. “I— I didn’t mean to, I just—” She took a shaky breath. “I was angry. And I told her. And now—”

She trailed off, shaking her head, as if trying to process everything all over again.

Feyre’s throat tightened. “Elain—no,” she said immediately, shaking her head, stepping forward. “It’s not your fault.”

Something in Elain’s shoulders loosened, and she let out a small breath, as if she had been waiting for Feyre to say those exact words.

But before the moment could settle, Amren let out a sharp, unamused snort.

“Of course it’s your fault,” Amren said flatly, silver eyes gleaming as she crossed her arms. “You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, and now here we are.”

Elain’s face flushed, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress, but she didn’t argue.

Feyre turned sharply toward Amren, her anger reigniting. “Enough,” she snapped.

But Amren only raised a brow. “Why? Because you don’t want to admit that she did exactly what you didn’t want her to do? That she let Nesta in on the little secret you all kept from her?”

Feyre clenched her jaw, but Amren just let out another scoff.

“None of us are innocent here,” Amren said coolly, looking around at them all. “Not you, not me, not Elain. Not a single damn one of us.”

Cassian finally stepped forward, his broad frame tense, wings tucked tightly against his back. His hazel eyes burned with frustration, but there was something else there too—something pleading.

“It was to help her,” he said, his voice firm, yet softer than it had been all night. “She’ll understand that, Feyre. Eventually, she’ll see that we did what we had to do.”

Feyre turned to him, something like disbelief flashing across her face.

“No, she won’t,” Feyre said, shaking her head. “She won’t understand, Cassian.”

Cassian’s jaw clenched, but Feyre didn’t stop.

“Nesta doesn’t see it that way. She never has. She won’t look at what we did and think, ‘Oh, they were just trying to help me.’ She’ll see it as exactly what it was—a punishment. A choice that was made for her, not with her. A way to control her, to make her into something we were all more comfortable with.”

Her voice wavered slightly, but she pushed on. “And after tonight, after what you all just did, do you really think she’ll ever look back on this and believe it was done out of love?”

Cassian’s hands curled into fists, but he had no response. Because he knew—deep down, he knew—that Feyre was right.

Morrigan exhaled sharply, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned against the wall. Her golden eyes flicked to Feyre, then to Cassian, and finally, she let out a scoff.

“Good riddance, then.”

The words were casual, dismissive, but they sliced through the already-tense room like a blade.

Feyre’s head snapped toward her, disbelief flashing across her face. “What?”

Morrigan shrugged, her expression impassive. “She’s made her choice. She never wanted to be here anyway. She’s spent the last year making it clear that she wants nothing to do with us, with this court, with you. So fine. Let her go.”

Cassian stiffened, his wings flaring slightly, but he said nothing. Amren merely arched a brow, as if she weren’t surprised by Morrigan’s response.

“You all act like we forced her into misery,” Morrigan continued, her tone sharpening. “Like we held her down and made her suffer. But Nesta was already suffering. We tried. Over and over again, we tried. And she spat in our faces every single time. So if she wants to run off with that girl—if she wants to leave this court—good. She’s not our problem anymore.”

Feyre stared at her, her breath coming short. “How can you say that?”

Morrigan raised a brow. “Because it’s the truth. And I’m sick of pretending otherwise.”

Her words left a chilling silence in their wake, one that settled into the cracks already forming between them. And this time, no one rushed to fill it.

Morrigan shrugged, entirely unbothered by the weight of the silence pressing down on the room. Her golden eyes flicked between them all before she let out a dry laugh.

“Am I wrong?” she asked, her voice deceptively light. “She healed herself, didn’t she? She got better without us. She obviously wants nothing to do with Cassian—I mean, she’s already found herself a new lover, someone who’s more than just a warm bed to her.”

Cassian flinched, just barely, but it was enough.

Morrigan turned toward him now, her sharp gaze locking onto him. “And yet here we are, still talking about her like she’s our responsibility. Like she’s still our problem. But she made her choice, Cassian. She’s done with you. And you’re just sitting here, waiting for what? For her to change her mind?”

Cassian’s jaw clenched, but Morrigan wasn’t finished.

“She’s rotten, Cassian,” Morrigan went on, her voice turning sharper, crueler. “What she’s doing to you—leading you on, using you when it’s convenient, discarding you when she’s had enough—it’s disgusting. And you’re just letting her.”

Cassian finally moved, his wings flaring slightly as he turned to glare at her. “That’s enough, Mor.”

“Is it?” she challenged, tilting her head. “Because I think someone needed to say it. Nesta Archeron takes and takes, and when she’s done, she walks away like none of it ever mattered. And she just did it again.”

Feyre’s breathing was ragged now, her hands shaking at her sides, but Morrigan didn’t seem to care.

“So why are we still standing here pretending like she deserves our sympathy?” Morrigan finished, her voice ringing through the room, leaving behind a silence that felt far too final.

Feyre’s hands were shaking now, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The fury, the disbelief, the exhaustion of it all was pressing down on her, suffocating her.

“I invited her,” she said, her voice cracking slightly before she forced herself to steady it. “I was trying to mend my relationship with her. I wanted her here, I wanted to talk to her—to try to fix this.”

She turned sharply on Rhysand now, her rage burning anew.

“And you—” she practically seethed, “you didn’t even tell me they were going to be here.”

Rhysand’s violet eyes darkened, but he didn’t flinch. “It was a precaution,” he said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just shattered what little control Feyre had left. “Nesta isn’t stable—”

“Do you really think Nesta would hurt me?” Feyre cut him off, her voice rising, her face twisting with something raw, something wounded.

Rhysand exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. “I think Nesta is unpredictable. I think her temper is volatile, and I won’t take any chances when it comes to you—”

“She’s my sister,” Feyre snapped, “not some rabid animal you need to monitor!”

Rhysand didn’t say anything, just looked at her, and the answer was written all over his face.

And it broke something in her.

“You don’t trust her,” Feyre whispered, the weight of it settling in her chest. “You don’t trust her, and you never have.”

Rhysand’s silence was all the confirmation she needed.

Feyre’s breath came fast, her heart pounding in her chest as she stared at Rhysand, at all of them. At the people who claimed they tried with Nesta, who claimed they wanted her to be better, to be part of this family.

But then she thought about it—really thought about it.

Nesta had a life now. A real life. She had a job, a home, a purpose. She was stable enough that she had even paid them back every copper mark of the money she had taken, had forced it into Feyre’s hands despite her protests. She came to Solstice when asked, she showed up when she didn’t have to.

And yet, it still wasn’t enough for them.

“She’s happy,” Feyre breathed, realization slamming into her like a punch to the ribs. “She has a life, a job, she even paid us back for the drinking. She comes to Solstice when I ask her to. What more do you want from her?”

No one answered.

Feyre let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “She’s not perfect, but she’s trying. She’s open, she’s—” Her voice wavered, and she had to swallow hard before continuing. “She brought someone she loved around us, and what did we do?”

She looked at all of them, at the silence, at the shame flickering over Cassian’s face, at Morrigan’s crossed arms, at Amren’s cool, unwavering stare, at Rhysand’s carefully measured expression.

“We ruined it,” Feyre said, her voice breaking now. “We ruined everything.”

Even Elain, who had remained quiet for most of the conversation, began to fiddle with her dress, her fingers twisting in the fabric, her lips pressed together like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. She kept her eyes down, refusing to meet Feyre’s gaze.

Feyre exhaled sharply, her hands shaking at her sides, but she didn’t let herself stop. She couldn’t stop.

“I wanted her to be part of this family,” she said, her voice raw with the weight of it all. “I wanted my sister here. And that’s what she is—Nesta is my sister.”

She turned to look at them, at each of them, her anger barely contained, but underneath it was something deeper, something far more painful.

“The same sister who fought in the war,” Feyre continued, her voice growing stronger, “the same sister who stood before the High Lords and spoke for me when no one else did. The same sister who threw her body over Cassian’s when he was about to die. The same sister who helped kill the King of Hybern when none of you could.”

Silence.

A thick, choking silence.

Even Amren’s expression faltered slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through her silver eyes. Morrigan had stopped leaning against the wall, now standing rigid, as if Feyre’s words had knocked something loose inside her.

Amren examined her nails, utterly unbothered by the heavy silence that had settled over the room. She let it stretch, let them sit in it, before she finally spoke, her tone almost bored.

“Speaking of things Nesta did,” she mused, “there’s something else.”

Feyre stiffened, her heart lurching.

Rhysand’s head snapped toward Amren, his voice tight, controlled. “Amren.”

Amren flicked her silver eyes up to him, unimpressed. “What, boy? You were going to say it eventually.”

Feyre’s stomach twisted. “Say what?”

Amren sighed, as if this were all terribly tedious for her, before she finally looked at Feyre directly.

“We need Nesta to scry.”

The words hit Feyre like a slap.

She glanced at Rhysand, at Cassian, at the way neither of them were looking at her, and something cold curled in her stomach.

“You need her to what?” Feyre asked, her voice dangerously quiet. Amren just raised a brow. “You heard me.”

Rhysand let out a long, tired sigh, rubbing his temple as if this conversation had drained him. He glanced at Amren once more, then finally turned to Feyre, his expression carefully measured.

“Amren has been doing some research,” he admitted, his voice low, careful. “She found something about the Dread Trove… something we can’t ignore.”

Feyre crossed her arms. “And what exactly did she find?”

Rhysand inhaled sharply before answering. “Their original maker was the Cauldron. Some of them were created hundreds—thousands—of years ago and were used by various Fae rulers to secure their rule.” His violet eyes darkened slightly as he went on. “Only three of the ancient Trove have survived. The Crown, the Mask, and the Harp. The rest were either lost to time or misplaced.”

A chill ran down Feyre’s spine.

“And?” she pushed.

Rhysand hesitated. Just for a moment.

“And the only two people connected to the Cauldron,” Amren said, finishing for him, her silver eyes gleaming, “are Nesta and Elain.”

Feyre’s stomach turned to ice.

Her gaze flicked to Elain, who had paled considerably, her hands tightening on the fabric of her dress.

“You need her to scry,” Feyre whispered, the words tasting like ash on her tongue.

Rhysand exhaled slowly. “Yes.”

Feyre’s hands curled into fists at her sides, her jaw tightening as she tried to steady her breathing. The weight of what they were saying, of what they were asking, settled heavily over her like a storm ready to break.

“Why?” she demanded, her voice sharp, barely holding back the rage simmering beneath her skin. “Why do you need Nesta to do this?”

Amren let out a sharp sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose before leveling Feyre with an unimpressed look.

“Are you really this stupid?” Amren snapped, her patience wearing thin. “Because your sister—brilliant as always—managed to piss off the human queen Briallyn. And now that wretched girl is after the Trove. If she gets them before we do, we’ll have another war on our hands, one we may not win.”

Feyre’s stomach dropped.

“Briallyn,” she echoed, barely getting the name out.

Rhysand nodded grimly. “She’s been moving in the shadows for some time now. She’s not just after power, Feyre—she’s after revenge. Nesta insulted her, humiliated her, and Briallyn has not forgotten. If she gets her hands on the Trove…” He trailed off, but the implication was clear.

Elain was deathly pale now, her fingers digging into her dress so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

Feyre swallowed, trying to push past the rush of anger, the exhaustion clawing at her.

“So now you want Nesta to fix it,” Feyre said bitterly, shaking her head. “After everything, after tonight, you still expect her to do this for you?”

Amren didn’t even blink.

“She doesn’t have a choice,” Amren said simply. “None of us do.”

Feyre shook her head, her throat tightening as she struggled to contain the sheer exhaustion clawing at her.

“I’m not forcing her,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Then, louder, more resolute, “I won’t force her.”

She looked at them all—Rhysand, Amren, Cassian, Morrigan—and then finally turned to Elain, whose face was pale, stricken.

“You know what happened last time Nesta scryed,” Feyre said, her voice shaking slightly. “You know what it did to her.”

Elain swallowed hard, but she didn’t look away.

Amren, however, only sighed as if Feyre were the most naive creature in the world. “So? Then we use Elain.”

Elain tensed.

Amren tilted her head, her silver eyes glinting. “We all know Nesta would never allow that. She’d take her place. Willingly.”

Feyre blanched, the blood draining from her face.

“We are not manipulating Nesta,” she snapped, her voice shaking.

Amren just arched a brow. “Aren’t we?”

The words felt like a slap.

Rhysand exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple, but he didn’t deny it. And Feyre—Feyre hated the truth in Amren’s words, hated that they all knew Nesta would never let Elain be the one to suffer. That even after everything, even after all that had been said tonight, Nesta would still choose to protect them.

And now, they were going to use that against her.

Feyre’s fists clenched, her nails biting into her palms. “I’ll ask her,” she said, her voice unwavering. “But if she doesn’t want to do it, then that’s the end of it.”

Amren let out a sharp, amused laugh, shaking her head. “Gods, you really are naive, aren’t you?”

Feyre snapped her head toward her, but before she could say anything, she caught movement from the corner of her eye.

Rhysand.

He wasn’t looking at her. Not directly. His expression was unreadable, his arms crossed, his power curling subtly around him—not in anger, not in disagreement, but in something… calculating.

Feyre’s stomach twisted.

“Rhys,” she said slowly, her voice quieter now, more fragile.

He finally met her eyes, and in that single moment, Feyre knew.

He didn’t oppose it.

He wasn’t against what Amren had just said.

“You would risk war,” Amren mused, her silver eyes gleaming, “just so Nesta gets a precious choice?”

Feyre’s breath hitched.

Because the way Amren said it—the way Rhysand didn’t argue—made it clear. They didn’t intend to give Nesta a choice at all.

Feyre’s hands were shaking, but she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders. The room felt suffocating, filled with the weight of all the unspoken words, of the choices already made without her. Without Nesta.

“I am your High Lady,” she said, her voice ringing through the room, hard and unyielding. “And I am commanding you—Nesta will have a choice. If she says no, that is the end of it. Do you understand me?”

Amren just smiled, sharp and amused, but didn’t argue.

Morrigan’s expression was unreadable.

Elain still looked as if she wanted to sink into the floor.

Cassian had turned away, his jaw tight.

But it was Rhysand Feyre was waiting for.

Her mate, her partner, the one who had always promised her that she was his equal.

Rhysand’s violet eyes darkened, his power crackling faintly in the air. But he didn’t argue, didn’t fight her on it.

“Of course, Feyre darling,” he said smoothly. Too smoothly.

She didn’t trust it.

Didn’t trust any of them.

Feyre swallowed hard, the weight of everything pressing against her chest, constricting her breath. Even as she stood there, back straight, chin lifted, she wasn’t sure if any of them truly heard her—if they truly listened.

And worse than that, she didn’t even know if Nesta would speak to her.

After everything that had happened tonight—after the way they had ripped into her, humiliated her, torn her apart in front of the one person she had been brave enough to bring around them—would Nesta even listen? Would she even let Feyre get a single word out before walking away?

Feyre wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.

Gods, she wouldn’t blame her.

The memory of Nesta’s face—stone-cold, her blue-gray eyes blazing, not with fury but with something far worse, something like disgust—burned in Feyre’s mind.

Would Nesta even care about what she had to say?

Would she even look at her after tonight?

Feyre let out a slow, shuddering breath, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She knew—gods, she knew—how horribly this had gone. How horribly every attempt had gone.

She had tried. Over and over, she had tried to reach out, to mend what had been broken between them. But every time, it had ended the same way.

Repetitive. Exhausting.

She would offer an olive branch, a quiet invitation, a moment of peace—and something would always happen. Some cutting remark from Nesta, some argument neither of them knew how to stop, some fresh wound torn open that made everything worse.

Or worse than that—the silence.

The unbearable, suffocating silence.

Nesta would shut her out, ice over completely, make Feyre feel like an intruder in her own sister’s presence. And Feyre had stopped knowing what to do with that—had stopped knowing how to fix something that had been shattered so long ago.

And now?

Now, after tonight?

Feyre could feel it in her bones.

This time, there might not be another attempt. This time, Nesta might not let her try again.

Feyre looked at them all, at these people who had stood by her side for so long, the people she had fought for, bled for, nearly died for. And yet, as she met each of their gazes, she felt utterly alone. Like she was speaking to herself, like none of them truly heard her. Like they had already decided what they were going to do, with or without her permission.

“I will ask Nesta,” she said firmly, her voice even, though she felt something inside of her breaking as she spoke. “I will write her a letter. Whether she chooses to respond or not is her choice.”

She could already see the reaction before it came. The barely masked irritation flashing across Amren’s face, the way Morrigan exhaled sharply through her nose, like Feyre was a child clinging to a fantasy. The way Rhysand’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling ever so slightly at his sides. And then, predictably, Amren scoffed, shaking her head in that way she always did when she thought Feyre was being unreasonable.

“We don’t have time for letters,” Amren said coolly, folding her arms as if the matter was already settled. “This isn’t a social call, girl. Briallyn is moving now. We can’t sit around and wait for Nesta to make up her mind.”

Feyre’s temper flared, sharp and sudden, and she snapped her gaze toward Amren, glared at her, at all of them.

“I don’t care how much time we have,” she said, her voice no longer calm, no longer controlled. “Whether she chooses to respond or not is her decision. Not ours. Not yours. Not mine. Hers.”

Amren only arched a brow, but before she could respond, Rhysand spoke, his voice measured, steady, but with an undeniable edge.

“This is war, Feyre,” Rhysand said, and something in his voice made the hair on her arms rise. “And war doesn’t wait for people to make choices. You know that better than anyone.”

Feyre’s throat tightened, but she didn’t budge.

“And yet, you will wait,” she said, lifting her chin, daring him to argue. “Because I am your High Lady, and I am telling you that this is how we will do it. We will ask her. We will give her the choice you have all so clearly tried to take from her. And if she refuses, that is the end of it.”

Rhysand held her gaze, the room silent around them, the weight of her words hanging between them like a blade.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t agree.

But Feyre had drawn her line, and this time, she would not let them cross it.

Though now, she didn’t care if Rhysand agreed.

Tag list: @litnerdwrites @viajandopelomar @wolfinsocks

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

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hrizantemy · 12 days ago

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It had been two days.

Two days trapped in this house. Two days where she had barely left her room, where she had refused to speak to anyone, where she had ignored the knocks at her door, the hushed conversations outside it, the presence of Cassian lingering just beyond, waiting for her to crack. Two days where Taryn had remained asleep, unmoving, her chest rising and falling in shallow, steady breaths, her golden light dimmed, quiet, unresponsive.

Two days where Rhysand had finally relented, had written a carefully worded response to Thesan, agreeing to comply with his request. And so, a meeting had been set. A formal exchange, because of course Thesan would not just winnow in and take her, would not just snap her away like she was nothing. No, the Dawn Court was too diplomatic for that. And so today—today was the day.

Taryn was leaving.

Nesta was coming with them.

The order had already been given. It hadn’t been phrased as one, of course. Rhysand had graciously requested her presence. Had told her that if she wanted to see Taryn go, if she wanted to know exactly what was going to happen to her, then she needed to be there. It was not a command, but it was an expectation, and Nesta—Nesta hated it.

She hated all of it.

Hated the feeling of being caged, of being powerless, of being trapped in this House like a bird who had once known flight but had since been clipped, left to do nothing but watch as the world continued without her.

She hated that Taryn was leaving.

Hated that there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Nesta’s fingers tightened around the fabric of the dress as she pulled it over her head, the fine, deliberate material clinging to her skin as she straightened it over her hips. She hated these dresses, these elegant, constraining, ornamental things. They were not meant for fighting, not meant for movement. They were meant to be looked at, meant to be admired. And that was all she was here—something to observe, something to monitor, something to contain.

She tugged at the sleeves, scowling at her reflection in the mirror, at the way the midnight blue fabric shimmered in the morning light, Night Court colors, not hers, never hers. She should have fought more, should have screamed and raged the way she wanted to, but she had already lost so many battles. They had worn her down, whittled her to the point where fighting back felt pointless, because no matter how much she snarled, no matter how much she hissed, no matter how much she fought—

They still won.

She still ended up here.

Nesta’s hands curled into fists at her sides, her jaw tightening as she forced her breath to steady, forced herself to not break something, to not burn something down just to feel like she could do something.

Because in the end, it wouldn’t change a damn thing.

She was still putting on this dress.

She was still walking out that door.

She was still being taken to watch as the only person who had chosen her, who had stayed with her, who had never asked for anything in return—

Was taken away.

Nesta sat before the mirror, her fingers working through the familiar motions, twisting sections of her hair into thick, woven braids. Her movements were mechanical, precise—something ingrained in her, something she had done so many times before that she no longer had to think about it. And yet, this morning, with the weight of everything pressing against her chest, the motion felt heavier, felt sharper, like it meant something more than it should.

She imagined they were Taryn’s fingers instead.

Taryn, who always touched her carefully, who always lingered, who was never afraid to trace Nesta’s jaw, to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, to comb through the dark waves with a patience that Nesta did not deserve. Taryn had liked it best when Nesta left her hair unbound, when it was loose and wild, cascading down her back in long, unrestrained waves. She had said it made Nesta look softer, more herself. Nesta couldn’t remember the last time she had let it fall free like that.

Her mother had never allowed it.

From the moment she had been old enough to sit still for it, her mother had braided her hair into a crown, twisting and looping it around her head until it was a perfect, seamless circlet—an illusion of grace, of power, of control. A queen does not let her hair fall unkempt around her shoulders like a tavern girl, she had once said, yanking too hard as she pulled the braids tight. A queen is put together, refined, untouchable.

And Nesta—Nesta had hated it.

She had hated the tightness of it, hated the way it constricted her, hated the way it made her feel like something contained, something meant to be looked at but never touched. And yet—when her mother died, when there had been no one left to braid it for her, no one left to pull the strands tight and shape her into something she wasn’t—Nesta had done it herself. Had sat before the mirror, had parted her own hair with shaking hands, had wound the thick braids around her skull because it was the only thing she still knew how to do.

So now, as she twisted the last section into place, as she pinned the strands against her scalp in the exact same way she had always done, she shouldn’t have felt anything.

And yet, the moment she finished, the moment she caught her own reflection in the mirror—

She hated it again.

Because her mother had always braided her hair into a crown.

And so had she.

A knock sounded at the door, sharp but hesitant, a quiet interruption in the thick, suffocating silence of her room. Nesta didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge it, just stared at her reflection in the mirror, at the braids coiled around her head like a crown she didn’t want to wear.

The door opened.

Feyre stepped inside.

Nesta didn’t turn to look at her, didn’t shift, didn’t acknowledge her presence except for the way her eyes flicked up in the mirror, locking onto her sister’s reflection with a cold, unreadable stare. A glare. Because this—this entire situation, this trap she’d been placed in—had Feyre’s hands all over it. It didn’t matter how much she claimed to be trying, how much she insisted she didn’t want to do this, didn’t agree with Rhysand, didn’t want Nesta to be a prisoner—Nesta was still here, wasn’t she? Feyre was still standing in her doorway, still watching her with that guilt-ridden expression, still coming to fetch her for something she wanted no part of.

“Are you ready?” Feyre asked, her voice gentle, careful, like she thought if she spoke too loudly, Nesta might snap.

Nesta’s hands tightened against the vanity. She didn’t answer. Just let her gaze harden in the mirror, let the silence stretch between them like an open wound, thick with unspoken resentment, with something uglier lurking beneath the surface.

Feyre sighed, stepping further into the room, her fingers wringing together as she hesitated, like she didn’t know how to reach her, like she was trying to find a way to make Nesta listen. “Please, Nesta,” she murmured, her voice soft, pleading. “I don’t want to fight. Not today.”

Nesta’s teeth ground together.

Not today.

Because today, they were sending Taryn away. Today, Nesta was expected to stand there and watch as the only person who had been loyal to her, who had never asked her to be anything other than who she was, was taken—because of them.

Because they had decided she was too much.

Because Rhysand had decided she was a threat.

Because Feyre had stood there and let it happen.

Nesta turned in her chair slowly, her posture rigid, her knuckles white against the vanity. She met Feyre’s eyes for the first time—not through a mirror, not through glass, but directly. And she let her rage simmer beneath the surface, let it linger between them, let it be felt.

“Neither do I,” Nesta said, her voice low, measured, carefully contained rage curling around each syllable like a whisper of flame.

But the next words she left unspoken still burned between them.

Then stop making me fight.

Nesta stood, her movements sharp, deliberate, her muscles coiled tight with barely restrained fury. She didn’t give Feyre another look, didn’t offer her any words, didn’t waste her time pretending any of this was fine. She brushed past her, not caring if her shoulder clipped Feyre’s as she strode toward the door, her heartbeat roaring in her ears as she moved into the common room.

They were all already assembled.

Cassian, standing stiffly, his arms crossed over his chest, his hazel eyes flicking toward her the moment she entered. Azriel, quiet and unreadable, shadows curling at his feet like they could sense the tension in the room, whispering secrets only he could hear. Morrigan, golden and tense, leaning against the far wall with a look of wary detachment. Amren, watching, waiting, her silver eyes gleaming with sharp interest. Elain, small and uncertain, her fingers tangling together as she stood near the fireplace, her expression one of uneasy guilt.

Rhysand was missing.

Which meant he was the one guiding Thesan and his court inside, playing the part of the diplomatic, reasonable High Lord while he prepared to hand over a woman he had deemed a threat—a woman who had done nothing but stand by Nesta’s side.

And Taryn—

Taryn was still unconscious.

Still lying where they had placed her on the chaise, still motionless, her chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. Beautiful, even now, untouched by whatever battle had raged inside of her, unmoved by the storm that had swept through them all. Copper skin glowing in the morning light, dark, thick waves of hair spilling over the cushions, those striking green eyes still closed, still hiding whatever secrets lay behind them.

Nesta didn’t even have time to admire the sight, to drink in the details, to let herself ache at the thought of losing her, because—

A rumble of power shook the walls.

A low, thundering hum that vibrated through the floors, through the air itself, like something ancient and vast had just stepped into their world.

A sudden shift, a pull of magic that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, that sent a sharp jolt down her spine, something immense pressing into the space around them, something powerful in a way that felt different than the High Lords, different than anything Nesta had felt before.

Then—

The doors to the House of Wind opened.

And Thesan stepped inside.

It wasn’t just Thesan who stepped into the room.

Beside him, as always, was his lover, the male whose name Nesta couldn’t recall but whose presence was just as commanding, his dark eyes flickering over the room, assessing, watching, as if he were measuring each of them in quiet calculation. But it was the other male—the one at Thesan’s other side—that caught Nesta’s full attention.

Wings.

Large, feathered, a striking contrast to the leathery Illyrian ones she had grown used to seeing. They flexed slightly as he moved, shifting with the careful precision of a warrior whose instincts never truly allowed him to be at rest. Not an advisor, not a diplomat. A soldier. A commander. And the way his sharp gaze scanned the room, assessed the threats, the way his hand hovered ever-so-slightly at his side, close to where a weapon might have been hidden beneath the flowing fabric of his tunic—Nesta knew exactly who he was.

A captain.

Thesan’s warrior, his sword and shield, the one who ensured Dawn’s armies remained strong, who had likely fought in battles centuries before she had even been born. And unlike the calm, diplomatic expression Thesan wore, this male’s gaze was hard, unrelenting, his focus shifting immediately toward where Taryn lay, unconscious, still motionless on the chaise.

Behind them, the rest of Thesan’s court followed, figures cloaked in rich robes of gold and red, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods, moving with an unsettling grace that made Nesta’s spine prickle. Priestesses. They had to be. The very sight of them made something in her curl, a memory of the library’s sacred corridors flickering to the surface, but she shoved it down, buried it deep, because now was not the time for that.

The air was thick, charged, as the two courts faced each other, as tension pressed against every surface, the weight of this moment settling into the very bones of the room itself.

Rhysand was the first to speak.

“High Lord Thesan,” he greeted, his voice smooth, as if he hadn’t spent the last two days strategizing on how to handle this exact conversation, as if he were perfectly at ease despite the fact that his court was now facing an unknown variable. He spread his hands in a display of welcome, his violet eyes calm, collected, unreadable. Deceptive. “Welcome to the Night Court.”

Thesan inclined his head, the movement elegant, but there was something cool in his gaze, something that wasn’t entirely pleased despite the outward politeness of his expression.

“Thank you for receiving us,” he said, his voice as light as silk, but Nesta could hear the weight beneath it, the quiet warning that this was not a visit of pleasantries.

No, this was a claim.

And Nesta braced herself for what was coming next.

Thesan’s gaze drifted past Rhysand, past the assembled members of the Night Court, and settled on Taryn. His dark eyes lingered on the still figure sprawled across the chaise, his expression carefully neutral, unreadable in a way that told Nesta he had already made his assessments, had already drawn his own conclusions before he had even stepped foot inside this house.

“I assume she will not be waking?” Thesan finally said, his voice smooth, polite, but there was something pointed beneath the words, something that made the silence in the room sharpen.

Rhysand barely hesitated, his response just as measured, just as carefully placed as everything he ever said. “There was an incident,” he admitted, his tone even, controlled. “She has not awoken since, but we have had our own healers tend to her. We assure you, everything is fine.”

Fine.

The word made something in Nesta’s stomach curl, made her nails dig into her palms, because fine was a word used to smooth over disasters, to cover up the damage that couldn’t be undone.

And Thesan—he didn’t look convinced.

Not entirely.

But he also didn’t press it.

Didn’t let his expression shift, didn’t let his true thoughts show on his face. Instead, he merely nodded, a slow, deliberate motion, before turning slightly, and with a mere tilt of his head, the priestesses moved.

They didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause as they swept forward, their golden and red robes whispering against the stone floors, as they gently, reverently lifted Taryn into their arms, their movements so practiced that it was almost as if they had done this before. Carried one of their own away. Taken back what belonged to them.

Nesta’s body tensed, her breath caught halfway up her throat, because the sight of it—the finality of it—made something in her lurch, made her instinctively want to reach out, to pull her back, to stop them. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Because this had already been decided.

Because this was already happening.

“Is that all, then?” Rhysand asked smoothly, and the way he said it, the way he was already preparing to turn the page, to be done with this, made Nesta’s fingers twitch, made her teeth grind together as she braced herself for the sight of Taryn disappearing through that door.

But just as the priestesses turned, just as the room braced for closure, Thesan’s gaze flicked away from Taryn—

And landed on Nesta.

Directly.

Thesan’s gaze didn’t waver as it settled on her, calm, unhurried, but there was something behind it, something deliberate that made the air in the room shift, made every muscle in Nesta’s body tighten in anticipation. His dark eyes flickered briefly to Rhysand before returning to her, and when he spoke, it was smooth, polite, but with that quiet sort of purpose that Nesta had always recognized in rulers who chose their words carefully. “Lady Nesta,” he said, inclining his head slightly, the formal address drawing sharp attention to the space she held in this room, to the undeniable weight of her presence. “I have heard much about you.”

His lips curled into something like a smile, but there was an edge to it, a hint of something knowing, as if he had already decided exactly what this moment would be before he had even spoken.

Rhysand stepped forward, his posture still easy, still controlled, but Nesta saw the flicker of something tight in his expression, something warning, as he spoke. “Nesta is a member of this court,” he said, the statement firm, possessive, and it made something deep inside Nesta’s chest curl with defiance, with the same quiet, simmering rage she had always felt whenever someone tried to decide for her. As if she had ever belonged to him, as if she had ever chosen to be here, as if she had not been cast aside by this very court until it became convenient to keep her caged.

Thesan’s brows lifted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching with something like polite amusement, as though he had expected that response, as though he had anticipated it down to the exact syllable. “That does not mean she is to stay forever,” he replied easily, smoothly, his tone light but precisely weighted, like he was merely stating a simple fact. He turned back to her, his expression softening, becoming something that could almost be called kind, and Nesta hated that it caught her off guard, that she wasn’t used to anyone looking at her that way without an ulterior motive.

“Would you like to join us?” Thesan asked, and though the question was spoken gently, there was a careful sort of invitation in his voice, as if he was offering something more than just a place at his side. A way out.

Rhysand tensed, his shoulders going rigid, his violet eyes darkening with the kind of subtle warning Nesta had seen him use on political adversaries before, the kind that meant he was about to shut this down before it could go any further. But before he could even open his mouth, before he could try to speak for her, Thesan tilted his head slightly and added, “Unless, of course, there is some reason she cannot.”

The air in the room changed.

It was daring, a challenge cloaked in diplomacy, and Nesta knew exactly what he was doing, exactly what he was implying. He was asking Rhysand, without asking, if there was something binding her here. Some secret reason why the High Lord of the Night Court had refused to let her go. But Thesan knew—they all knew—that Rhysand wouldn’t say it. Wouldn’t tell him about the Dread Trove, about what Nesta had taken from the Cauldron, about the power she had barely begun to understand.

So Nesta answered for herself.

Nesta didn’t hesitate. Didn’t pause. Didn’t look at Feyre, or Cassian, or anyone else in the room for permission. She lifted her chin, her shoulders squared, her voice steady and clear as she spoke the words that had been sitting on her tongue, the ones that felt like freedom, like defiance, like the only thing she could control in a world that had tried to control her.

“Yes,” she said, looking directly at Thesan, refusing to glance at Rhysand or see the reaction that would come next. “I would like to.”

The silence was instant.

Sharp.

She felt it before she even turned her head, before she even acknowledged the way the air seemed to go thick, the way shadows coiled tighter, the way Rhysand’s presence darkened as if her words had physically struck him.

“Nesta,” Rhysand said, his voice smooth but tight, like he was barely keeping his temper in check. “You are the sister of my mate. We would like to keep you close.”

The words settled into the air like a claim, possessive, something designed to make her feel like she owed them something, like she was an extension of Feyre, rather than her own person. Nesta finally turned to face him, her body rigid, her nails digging into her palms, ready to snap, to tell him that she wasn’t his to keep, wasn’t a pawn to be moved on his board, when she noticed something—

Thesan was still smiling.

But his lover had tensed.

And the priestesses behind him had shifted, just slightly, just enough for Nesta to notice, their robed figures moving like a ripple in still water, like something had just disrupted their calm.

“Please don’t misunderstand,” Thesan said smoothly, still composed, still unbothered, but there was something pointed in his voice now, something that suggested that he was not, in fact, asking. “The invitation was more of a formality than anything else. Surely, Rhysand, you must understand how valuable High Priestesses are to a court. And surely, you must understand what happens when one is harmed.”

The words landed like a blade, and Rhysand’s power flared before he could stop it. A pulse of darkness, curling around the room, his violet eyes hard, his fingers twitching, like he had to physically restrain himself from reacting further.

“What are you talking about?” Feyre asked quickly, her voice edged with confusion, her eyes flicking toward her mate. Because she didn’t know. She had no idea what Thesan was implying.

But Nesta—Nesta knew before Thesan even said it.

Thesan merely tilted his head slightly, as if he were considering his words, as if he were debating just how much he wanted to reveal. “I have heard reports,” he said, voice still calm, still too polite, but edged with something like steel, “that Lady Nesta was the cause of our own High Priestesses’… state. And we would like to investigate the matter ourselves.”

Cassian snarled, the sound low, furious, his wings flaring slightly, as if his body was already preparing for a fight, as if his instincts had decided that this was a threat, that Thesan’s words were a threat, that something was about to break apart in this room if it wasn’t stopped now.

Nesta felt it all around her.

The shift in the air.

The way the room hummed with tension.

Because what Thesan was saying—what he was implying—

It wasn’t just about Taryn anymore.

It was about her.

And the damage she had caused.

Cassian’s snarl tore through the room, his wings flaring, his entire body tensing like a predator preparing to strike. “You’re talking about torturing her,” he growled, his voice low, dangerous, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His eyes flicked toward Thesan, toward the robed figures behind him, challenging, as if he were already bracing to fight them all if they dared lay a hand on her.

Thesan, to his credit, didn’t react to the fury in Cassian’s voice. Didn’t even look offended at the accusation. He simply sighed, tilting his head slightly, his expression remaining calm, as if the very suggestion was beneath him. “Of course not,” he said smoothly, and yet there was no warmth in his tone, only fact, certainty, the undeniable weight of power behind his words. “But surely, General, you must know that we cannot let this matter slide. High Priestesses are sacred in Dawn, their well-being is our responsibility, and the fact remains that your Lady Nesta is responsible for what has happened to one. Intentional or not, her power caused this, and we are within our right to investigate what that means.”

Feyre looked at Rhysand then, a silent, desperate plea in her eyes, as if she expected him to stop this, as if she expected him to fix it, to smooth this over the way he always did. But for once, there was nothing Rhysand could do. There was no excuse, no clever wording, no diplomatic escape that wouldn’t sever ties with Dawn permanently. This had become bigger than them, had turned into something far more dangerous, something that not even he could brush aside.

Nesta saw it.

Saw the tightness in Feyre’s hands, the way she clenched them together, the way her breathing hitched ever so slightly as the realization set in—

There was nothing she could do.

So Nesta did it for her.

She stepped forward, her chin high, her spine straight, her steps measured and deliberate as she moved toward Thesan. “I’ll go.” Her voice was clear, unwavering, despite the tension that crackled in the air around her. “It was my power that did this, my power that caused whatever happened. So it’s only right that I should be the one to explain.” Cassian moved as if to stop her, his wings spreading, his expression raw with barely-contained fury, but Nesta didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. Didn’t even glance at him.

And then—

The claws scraped against her mind.

The sudden, sharp pressure against her mental shields made her gasp, made her stumble, just slightly. It was Rhysand—pushing at her defenses, searching, trying to stop her, trying to reach her, trying to command her to stay. But she was already past that. Already moving beyond him. And just as quickly as he had tried to slip in, he let go.

Because she was already behind Thesan.

The High Lord of Dawn smiled then, slow and measured, his golden skin gleaming in the soft light of the room. A ruler who had just secured exactly what he had wanted. “We will send reports on Lady Nesta, of course,” he said, his voice silken, his words meant for Rhysand alone. “And you are welcome to see her when our investigation has concluded.”

Rhysand’s face was stone, his expression unreadable.

But Cassian—Cassian looked like he might rip through every single person in the room.

His fists were shaking, his wings tensed, his breath uneven, his entire body brimming with the urge to stop this, to pull her back, to fight for her the way he always did.

But he didn’t move.

Because this was done.

And Nesta—Nesta had made her choice.

Rhysand’s lips barely moved as he spoke, his voice smooth, even, but there was a weight behind it, a carefully controlled tension that did not go unnoticed by anyone in the room. “Of course,” he said, the words as much a dismissal as they were an acceptance of what had just happened. He was letting her go, because he had no other choice, because to refuse now would be to declare war, and for all his power, all his mastery over politics and manipulation, Thesan had cornered him too well this time.

Thesan turned then, looking at Nesta, and for a moment, she thought she saw something curious flicker in his gaze. Not pity, not relief—something else entirely. Something assessing, something measuring her in a way that was not unkind but still made the hair on the back of her neck prickle. Then, without a word, he extended a hand toward her, his fingers steady, expectant, like he was offering something more than just an invitation.

The priestesses behind him moved in tandem, their golden and red robes shifting gracefully as they reached for one another, and in that fluid, practiced motion, one of them gripped Thesan’s lover’s arm, linking them together in a way that made it clear—this was ritual, this was sacred, this was something that had been done countless times before.

Thesan nodded once, looking back at Rhysand, that same calm expression settled across his sharp features, his dark wings relaxed at his back, his entire demeanor one of complete ease, as if this entire exchange had been nothing more than a formality to be carried out, a chess move that had played out exactly as expected. “Then we shall be in touch,” he said smoothly, his voice edged with finality, his grip firm around Nesta’s hand. “And thank you for your understanding.”

They were gone.

A rush of magic, a whisper of golden light, a ripple of power twisting through the space where they had stood only moments before, and then nothing—just an empty room, just the fading echo of something immense, something that felt permanent, something that marked a clear, undeniable shift in the balance of power that no one had been prepared for.

Nesta barely had a second to process the sensation of being pulled through space, of moving too fast, of magic shrouding her body, enclosing her, wrapping her in something unfamiliar, ancient, vast. The Night Court’s wards—the very barriers meant to keep everything and everyone out, the same ones that had caged her for days, had obviously been opened just long enough to allow them passage, and now—now she was gone from them entirely.

The second they landed, the air changed.

The scent of spiced wind, of sun-warmed stone, of open air and stillness greeted her as she stumbled forward, as her boots clicked against smooth marble, as the overwhelming quiet of the Dawn Court’s palace settled around her like an unfamiliar weight. Nesta’s breath was still uneven, her pulse thrumming, but she forced herself to stay upright, to plant her feet firmly against the cool floor beneath her, to regain her balance even as the world still seemed to spin slightly.

She was here.

No longer in the House of Wind, no longer in the Night Court, no longer under Rhysand’s control.

She had done it.

She had left.

A sigh of relief filled the air, so soft, so subtle that Nesta barely noticed it at first—until she turned and saw Thesan himself letting out a slow breath, his shoulders easing, his carefully composed expression flickering with something lighter, something that looked dangerously close to relief. His lover, the broad-winged male who had been watching everything with a keen, measuring eye, exhaled as well, shaking his head slightly as he murmured, “That was tense.”

Thesan gave a wry nod, his mouth tilting in something that was not quite a smile, but close enough. “Tense is one way to put it,” he murmured, his dark eyes flicking toward Nesta before shifting back to Taryn, still held in the arms of the priestesses, still motionless, her breathing deep and steady.

The priestesses who had carried Taryn removed their hoods.

Nesta had barely gotten a glimpse of them before, had only seen the faintest flicker of gold and red, of smooth, unreadable faces, but now—now she saw them fully. Women with calm, composed expressions, women who seemed utterly unshaken by the journey, by what had just transpired. And yet, as they shook their heads, as their braided hair fell free, there was a tension in their movements, something that spoke of discomfort, something that felt too close to relief for Nesta to ignore.

“Thank the Mother we got out of there,” one of them muttered, her voice low, sharp, but brimming with something like exhaustion.

Another priestess nodded immediately, her golden robes swishing as she exhaled and murmured, “I was beginning to think we wouldn’t.”

Nesta’s stomach twisted.

Because that—that was not the reaction she had expected.

Why would the Dawn Court priestesses—ones who had only come to retrieve Taryn, ones who had been treated with respect, with caution, with the kind of diplomatic politeness that Rhysand wielded like a blade—why would they speak as though they had just escaped something?

Thesan, if he had noticed Nesta’s confusion, did not immediately address it. His gaze had returned to Taryn, the stillness of her body, the way her long lashes rested against her cheeks, the way she remained so deeply unconscious despite everything. With quiet authority, he turned to the priestesses and said, “Take her to rest. I will send our own healers to tend to her.”

Nesta stiffened, her breath hitching in her throat.

Because this wasn’t making sense.

Because this wasn’t what she expected.

Because this felt like something far more complicated than she had been led to believe.

And she had a feeling—a creeping, twisting feeling—that whatever she had just stepped into, whatever she had just agreed to when she took Thesan’s hand, was about to unravel into something much, much bigger than she had anticipated.

Before Nesta could even open her mouth to ask the questions clawing at her throat, before she could demand to know why the priestesses looked so relieved to be free of the Night Court, why Thesan and his lover had exhaled as if they had just barely escaped disaster, the doors burst open.

The sound echoed through the vast chamber, loud and urgent, and a woman came rushing in, her robes billowing behind her, her dark hair loosened from its braids, strands escaping to frame a face etched with deep lines of worry and grief. And Nesta—Nesta didn’t need to be told who she was.

She looked exactly like Taryn.

The same copper skin, the same high cheekbones, the same full mouth, but her features were hardened by time, by pain, by something that spoke of years of worry and loss.

Taryn’s mother.

The same mother who Taryn had claimed she wasn’t close with.

A lie.

Because the moment the woman’s gaze landed on Taryn’s unconscious form, the moment she saw her daughter limp and unmoving in the priestesses’ arms, she sobbed, her breath shattering in the vast, open air of the palace. And before anyone could stop her, before Thesan could even step forward to greet her, she was moving, closing the distance in an instant, her hands shaking as she reached for Taryn, her voice breaking with rage and agony.

“What did those monsters do to her?”

The words pierced through the air, raw and unrestrained, filled with so much anguish that it sent a shiver racing down Nesta’s spine.

Because that—that was not grief born from distance.

That was not a mother detached from her child, unconcerned with her well-being.

That was a mother who had been waiting.

A mother who had spent every second of Taryn’s absence fearing the worst.

And the way she collapsed beside her daughter, the way her fingers brushed so carefully over Taryn’s face, the way she whispered words too soft for Nesta to hear, told her everything she needed to know.

Taryn had lied.

And now, Nesta had to wonder—

What else had she not been told?

Thesan moved immediately, stepping forward with graceful precision, his hands lifting gently to rest on the sobbing woman’s shoulders, a touch meant to steady, to soothe, but there was no mistaking the quiet urgency in his movements. “She is just sleeping,” he said softly, his voice calm, meant to be reassuring, though there was something too careful in the way he said it. “Likely exhaustion from whatever transpired, but nothing more. She will wake, in time.”

The woman’s breath shook, her hands still clutching at her daughter’s face, at the dark curls that had fallen across Taryn’s brow, but Thesan gently, firmly, added, “We have things to discuss. Please—wait.”

For a moment, she didn’t move.

Didn’t seem to even register his words, her gaze locked on her daughter’s unmoving form, her lips parted as if she might say something, might demand more answers, but then—slowly, her fingers loosened, her shoulders slumping under the weight of whatever pain she had been carrying.

Thesan turned his gaze to the priestesses, his golden robes glinting in the soft light as he gestured subtly. “Take her,” he said smoothly, his voice an order without being unyielding, a command wrapped in gentleness. “And see that her mother is taken care of as well.”

Then, his dark eyes flickered toward his lover, and the male, already understanding before a word had been spoken, gave a simple, silent nod, stepping forward without hesitation. “I will take them,” he murmured, his wings shifting as he moved, already guiding the two women toward the wide, sweeping halls of the Dawn Palace. Nesta watched them go, Taryn’s mother still looking back, her expression haunted, before they finally disappeared into the golden-lit corridors.

And then—it was just her and Thesan.

The doors closed with a quiet finality, and the weight of what had just transpired settled thick in the air between them.

Nesta inhaled deeply, forcing her voice to be steady, though everything inside of her was on edge, her mind spinning with questions, with too many missing pieces. “What,” she said slowly, firmly, “is going on?”

Thesan turned to her, his expression measured, but there was something warmer in his eyes now, something that spoke of understanding, of a truth he had known far longer than she had. And then, to her surprise, he sighed. “I apologize that I did not come sooner,” he murmured, genuine, though there was a quiet weariness to his tone. “Things have been… complicated.”

Nesta’s brows furrowed, her breath shortening, her frustration mounting at the careful way he was speaking, at the way he still wasn’t telling her what she needed to know. “How did you know?” she demanded, her voice low, edged with something dangerous. “Why? Why did you come for her?”

Thesan’s lips parted slightly, his expression softening, as if he had expected this question, as if he had prepared for it long before she even asked.

“Because Taryn wrote to us.”

The words landed like a stone, sending a sharp shockwave through Nesta’s body, making her breath hitch, making her fingers curl at her sides.

Thesan exhaled slowly, his gaze shifting toward the large, open windows that overlooked the golden expanse of his court, as if the memories he was about to speak of were ones he had long kept buried, ones that still weighed heavy on his mind. “To be honest,” he murmured, his voice quiet, almost as if he were speaking to himself, “most of us had assumed she was dead.”

Nesta’s brows furrowed, her pulse spiking at the weight of his words, the sharp certainty in them. “What?” she asked, her voice low, sharp, because that—that didn’t make sense. Taryn had been alive, had been here, had been walking the streets of Velaris, had been beside her for months. How could an entire court believe she had been dead this whole time?

Thesan turned to her then, and for the first time since she had met him, she saw something close to grief in his eyes. “Taryn disappeared during Amarantha’s reign,” he said, and the way he spoke—carefully, deliberately, as if he were revealing a piece of history long buried, made Nesta’s stomach twist. “When we were all trapped Under the Mountain, when no one could escape, when courts fell into chaos, when the world bled beneath Amarantha’s rule—she was taken from us. We did not know where she had gone, only that she had vanished. And when the dust finally settled, when Amarantha was dead and the world crawled out from the darkness she left behind, Taryn was nowhere to be found.”

Nesta’s breath hitched, something cold curling around her spine, something uneasy, something wrong.

“Amarantha sent out an order,” Thesan continued, his tone lowering, as if he were speaking of something forbidden, something too terrible to be spoken of freely. “She hunted the High Priestesses. Those in Dawn were no different. We had already been forced to surrender, forced into submission, but Amarantha feared our priestesses. Feared the power they held, feared their influence, feared that if given the chance, they would rally the people against her.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his shoulders stiffening as his voice darkened. “She ordered them slaughtered.”

Nesta felt the words like a knife to the chest, like something hot and sharp carving through her lungs, because even though she had known—had always known—the depths of Amarantha’s cruelty, she had never heard this. Never known that she had gone beyond the courts, beyond the High Lords, had actively sought to destroy those who stood in quiet resistance, who held power in ways that had nothing to do with swords or armies, but in faith, in knowledge, in hope.

“The temple was attacked,” Thesan went on, his voice tight, his dark eyes flashing with something dangerous, something that spoke of the rage of a High Lord who had not forgotten what had been taken from him. “Though it withstood for some time, it was eventually breached. The people inside were slaughtered. The records were burned. And Taryn—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “She was not found.”

Nesta’s entire body had gone rigid, her hands clenching into fists, her mind reeling with the weight of what he was saying, the implications of it, the utter impossibility of what she had just learned.

Taryn had been hunted.

Taryn had disappeared during one of the darkest eras of their history.

And yet—

She had been alive this entire time.

Living beside Nesta, walking the streets of Velaris, never once revealing who she was, where she had come from, what had been done to her.

And suddenly, Nesta realized—she had never known her at all.

Rage coiled in Nesta’s stomach, hot and immediate, a sharp, searing thing that burned through her veins like wildfire. Taryn had lied.

She had stood beside her, day after fucking day, had watched Nesta bare her soul, had listened to her fury, had seen her at her lowest, had been the only one she trusted—and she had lied. Nesta had told her things she had never spoken aloud to anyone, had let Taryn see the ugliest, darkest parts of her, the pieces she had never let anyone touch—and all this time, Taryn had been hiding herself.

Hiding this.

Hiding that she had been hunted, that she had been missing, that she had been declared dead by her own court. That she had survived something monstrous, something that should have killed her, and yet, instead of telling Nesta, instead of trusting her even a fraction as much as Nesta had trusted her, she had kept it to herself.

Nesta’s nails bit into her palms, her breath coming sharp, uneven, as she turned to Thesan, her body tensing, her anger a sharp, hot thing barely contained in her ribs. “She lied to me,” she hissed, the words ragged, furious, because they weren’t just words—they were betrayal, they were a knife to the back, they were everything she had never expected from Taryn and yet now made so much damn sense.

“She lied to me,” she repeated, quieter, but no less dangerous, no less filled with the weight of something broken and seething inside of her.

Because Nesta had trusted her.

Had let her in.

Had needed her.

Nesta’s anger was still burning, still boiling, still writhing beneath her skin, but another thought pierced through the fire, sharp and demanding.

“Are you going to question me?”

Thesan merely lifted an elegant brow, his face calm, composed in that way that made Nesta’s temper flare further. “Question you?” he repeated, mild, like the very idea was absurd.

“I hurt your High Priestesses,” Nesta pressed, her fingers curling into her arms, her voice laced with frustration, with the sharp edge of something she didn’t understand yet but needed to. “I thought that was why I was here. I thought you wanted to hold me accountable for what I did.”

Thesan’s mouth quirked, but his expression remained measured, his dark gaze flicking over her with something assessing, something that made Nesta feel as if she were a puzzle he had already solved, long before she had even arrived. “That was an excuse, Lady Nesta,” he said, his voice smooth, deliberate. “A formality, nothing more. I had to give Rhysand a reason to let you leave. But the truth? The real reason?”* He tilted his head slightly, and Nesta felt the weight of his next words before he even spoke them. “That was Taryn’s demand.”

Nesta stilled.

”…A demand for what?”

Thesan didn’t answer right away. Instead, his fingers moved gracefully, slipping into the folds of his golden robes, and when he pulled his hand free, there was a single folded note clutched between his fingers.

The parchment was worn, the edges creased, as if it had been handled many times, and yet Nesta’s eyes locked onto it instantly, because she knew that handwriting. She had seen it countless times, had watched those sharp, sure strokes scrawl across notes and letters, had read words written in that same steady hand for months.

Taryn’s.

Thesan extended the note toward her, his face unreadable. “For coming back,” he said simply.

Nesta’s fingers trembled slightly as she snatched the letter from his grasp, as she unfolded the parchment, as her eyes scanned the words Taryn had left behind.

To the High Lord of the Dawn Court, Thesan,

I do not know if this letter will reach you, nor if you will believe that it is truly from me. I know what you must think—that I am dead, that I have been dead for years. Perhaps it would have been easier that way, for all of us. But I am writing to tell you that I am alive. That I have been alive all this time, hidden in the Night Court, far from the temple.

I do not have time to explain why I stayed away. Only that I fear something is about to happen, something worse than all that has come before. I do not ask for myself alone. There is another—Nesta Archeron. She is not a citizen of Dawn, but she does not belong in the Night Court, either.

I will answer for what I have done. I will return to my place as High Priestess. But please—when you come, take Nesta with you. Remove her from the hands that would use her as a weapon, as a thing to be locked away or unleashed only when it serves their interests.

I will answer for any crime. I will stand before you, before all, and explain what I have done, what I know. But only if you do this for me.

Please, Thesan.

Come for us.

—Taryn

Nesta’s hands tightened around the parchment, her fingers curling so hard into the paper that she was half afraid it would tear under the sheer force of her grip. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t—loosen her hold. Not as she reread the words, again and again, her breath caught in her throat, her pulse pounding against her ribs, her mind whirling so violently she thought she might collapse under the weight of it.

It wasn’t just that Taryn had written to Thesan. That was expected, in some way, even if she had never known it. That was logical—a High Priestess sending word to her court, alerting them to her survival, explaining herself, offering to return. That was something Nesta could accept. Could understand.

But this.

This.

Taryn hadn’t just begged for herself.

She had begged for Nesta.

Nesta, who had spent months believing that she was the one protecting Taryn, shielding her, keeping her safe from the grasp of the Night Court. Nesta, who had thought—so stupidly—that she had been the one who had given Taryn something, who had been the one who had been needed.

But Taryn had seen her.

Seen through her, through the way she had been used, through the way they had tried to shape her into something that suited them, something that fit their version of Nesta Archeron, whether it was a weapon, a burden, or something that needed to be locked away.

Taryn had seen it.

Had known it before Nesta even admitted it to herself.

And she had begged.

Nesta read the words again, her chest constricting, her heart beating wildly, because she could see it now, could hear it in the way Taryn had phrased it, the way she had made it a plea, a demand, the way she had made it clear that she would answer for anything, that she would go back, stand before her people, bear whatever consequences awaited her—so long as Nesta was taken away, too.

Her fury cracked, then.

Not in the way it had before—not like a blade striking against iron, not like something meant to cut and destroy. This was different. This was shattering, a deep, aching kind of break, something that made her lungs feel too tight, her throat too dry, something that settled into her bones like grief, like disbelief, like something too raw to name.

Because no one—no one—had ever begged for her before.

Not like this.

Not in a way that had nothing to do with what she could offer, nothing to do with the power she wielded, nothing to do with the war she had fought in or the things she had taken from the Cauldron.

Taryn had begged because she cared.

Because she had seen Nesta drowning, and she had known that no matter how hard she fought, no matter how much she sharpened herself, the Night Court would never let her be free.

Nesta swallowed hard, her throat aching, her grip tightening on the letter, because she didn’t know what to do with this.

Didn’t know how to process it, how to hold it in her hands and not crumble beneath the weight of it.

Nesta’s breath came sharp, her chest tightening, her thoughts still reeling, still trying to grasp the full weight of what had just been revealed. But she forced herself to look up, forced herself to meet Thesan’s gaze, even as something unsteady churned inside her, something that felt too much like disbelief, like acceptance, like something she had never been given before and didn’t know how to hold.

“And you came,” she said, her voice low, but carrying the weight of everything she couldn’t say outright. “No questions asked.”

Thesan inclined his head, his expression unchanged, as if he had never once doubted his decision, never once hesitated in what needed to be done. “I did.”

Nesta swallowed, her pulse still pounding, but before she could ask why, before she could press for more, Thesan continued, “Though, if we are being technical, the letter did not come directly from Taryn herself. A young Fae woman sent it to me. I believe her name was—” He paused for only a moment, as if searching his memory, before nodding slightly to himself. “Elia, if I recall correctly.”

Nesta’s breath hitched, her spine going rigid, because—Elia.

Elia, who had lived in that little house in Velaris, who had been one of the few friends she had outside of Taryn, who had never treated her as anything other than a person, not a monster, not a failure, not a thing to be used and discarded.

Elia, who had risked everything to get this letter to Thesan.

Nesta’s stomach turned, her fingers tightening around the letter as she realized what that meant.

Would the Night Court punish her for it?

Would Rhysand send someone to interrogate her, to demand answers, to figure out why she had helped Nesta escape?

Would they hurt her?

Nesta’s thoughts spiraled, but before she could let them consume her, before the panic could truly take hold, Thesan’s eyes flicked to her, watching, assessing, and then he sighed, as if he had already anticipated her next question.

“She will not be harmed,” he said, his voice soft but firm, as if he were speaking absolute truth. “At the first sign of trouble, if Night so much as breathes the wrong way in her direction, she will be brought here. And I assure you, Nesta—”* His gaze darkened slightly, not in threat, but in calculation, in something far more dangerous, something clever and knowing. “Night is not the only court with spies.”

Nesta exhaled sharply, her fingers still tight around the letter, her heart still pounding, but she forced herself to breathe, to let those words sink in, to recognize that—

She was not alone anymore.

Nesta inhaled deeply, trying to force her emotions into something manageable, something she could at least contain, but her mind was still spinning, her chest still tight with everything she had learned. The letter still felt too heavy in her hands, like it might burn through her skin if she held onto it for too long. She exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself, before looking back at Thesan, her voice quieter, but no less firm.

“Now what, then?” she asked.

Thesan smiled, a calm, knowing thing, and said, “For now, you will rest. And when you are ready, we will speak further. I have questions, Lady Nesta—many of them. About you. About Taryn. About the situation I have now entangled myself in.” His gaze flicked pointedly to the letter in her hand, before settling back on her with something patient, but undeniably sharp. “I would like to know exactly what I am getting myself into.”

Nesta nodded, unable to muster the energy to argue.

It was a fair request.

She had thrown herself into his court, into his protection, into his power—and he deserved to know why.

Thesan’s attention turned toward the door, his expression thoughtful, and after a brief moment of silence, he said, “I will have a guide take you to your quarters.”

The doors opened, and a priestess stepped through, her robes flowing around her like water, her smile warm and easy as she took in Nesta’s presence. She beckoned gently, inclining her head in a way that suggested she had been expecting this, waiting for this moment, and Nesta—Nesta was too weak to fight it, too tired to resist. So she followed, her steps slow, her limbs heavier than they should have been, the exhaustion crawling into her bones.

As they moved through the halls, the priestess began to chatter, her voice light, almost as if she were making conversation for the sake of it, as if the weight of everything that had happened did not settle around them like a storm cloud waiting to break. “So you are Nesta Archeron,” she mused, glancing at her with curiosity, her steps measured, but unrushed. “We have all heard of you, of course. The Slayer of Hybern.” She gave a little smile, as if the title amused her. “But we wondered what kind of woman you were.”

Nesta tensed, her hands curling into fists at her sides, because the words felt like a test, like a reminder of who she was supposed to be, of the legend they had built around her, of the person she had never truly felt like.

But before she could snap, before she could bite out something sharp and unforgiving, the priestess laughed, a soft, knowing thing, and said, “You must be extraordinary, though. Especially if you were able to handle Taryn.”

Nesta stilled, her breath hitching slightly.

Because of all the things she had expected to hear—that was not one of them.

Nesta’s brow furrowed, the weight of exhaustion pressing against her shoulders, but the priestess’s words lodged into her mind like a hook, refusing to let go. She had heard so many things today, had learned so many things she hadn’t been prepared for, but this—this was different.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended, her steps slowing as she turned to face the priestess fully.

The priestess only smiled, as if she had expected the question, as if she had known exactly what she was doing when she said it. “Taryn is hardheaded,” she said, her tone fond, exasperated, but laced with something else, something Nesta couldn’t quite name. “I have known her for many years, long before all of this. And even I had long since given up trying to dissuade her from doing something once she had made up her mind.”

Nesta hesitated. She had been angry before—furious at Taryn for lying, for keeping this from her, but now… now there was something else, a creeping unease curling in the pit of her stomach, whispering that there was more to this than she had even begun to realize.

Before she could stop herself, before she could think, the question left her mouth.

“Why did she run?”

The priestess paused.

Nesta saw it in the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the hesitation that flickered across her face, the way she seemed to debate something silently, as if she were walking a fine line between duty and truth.

“I shouldn’t say,” the priestess finally murmured, her voice carefully measured, and Nesta’s heart tightened, demanding more, demanding answers, demanding to understand.

But then—

“Not because of the attack on the temple,” the priestess admitted, her tone lower, quieter, like a whisper of something long buried. “But because of what happened before it.”

Nesta stilled.

Her breath hitched, her pulse spiking, because—

“What happened before?” she asked, her voice steady, though something cold crept down her spine, something that told her—

She might not be ready for the answer.

Tag list: @litnerdwrites @viajandopelomar @wolfinsocks

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

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