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Chapter Text

Lucien followed the sounds of stringed instruments through the onyx streets that twisted into the Hewn City’s marble mountain-side castle. He kept his head down, focused on one thing and one thing alone:

Getting to Elain.

Armed with nothing more than a stone, a few pieces of paper, and his own anger, Lucien crept closer and closer to the intimidating fortress where Feyre’s birthday celebration raged on. He’d forgotten the impressive size of the stronghold; walking inside felt akin to entering the Hels themselves. Steeling himself for the worst, he slipped inside with the crowd.

Once safely past the gates, Lucien winnowed into the castle’s interior theater. All manor of Fae congregated inside to celebrate their High Lady. Ducking behind a group gossiping in the door’s threshold, he scanned the ballroom for a familiar face. On the raised thrones sat Rhysand and Feyre, looking as vicious and unflinching as ever. Standing across from them, perusing the room with a relaxed expression, stood Cassian. He guessed that in some shadowy corner lurked Azriel as well.

“C’mon,” he murmured through clenched teeth. Elain had to be here. Lucien closed his eyes and focused on that tether between them. He could see it in his mind, glowing white-hot and vibrant. He inhaled slowly. Focus. Instinctively, his head jutted to the side. Opening his eyes, he saw a long dark hallway extending past the ballroom. There. Lucien slipped out from his hiding spot to head in that direction.

Fewer and fewer people lingered in the hallway as he ventured deeper into the castle’s tunnels. Soon, he found himself completely alone. The sharp clicking of his shoes against the marble floor replaced the orchestra’s jaunty tunes. Despite the goosebumps flowing up his arms, Lucien didn’t stop; he knew she must be this way.

Suddenly, he heard a female’s voice. “...calm down,” the speaker urged.

Lucien slowed his pace, inching forwards carefully.

“Calm down?” he heard a male’s voice hiss, “I know what I felt.”

Lucien edged closer with a furrowed brow. Ahead of him, the hallway twisted to the left—the voices came from just beyond the curve.

“You’re making a scene.”

Lucien’s heart jumped. That was Elain’s voice. But the male’s voice? He couldn’t place it.

“I have a bad feeling.”

He heard Elain sigh. “Eris, take a breath.”

He fought the urge to snarl. Eris. Did the stone summon him? His hand ghosted over the orange egg-like crystal sitting in his pocket.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” continued Elain. “I don’t need you screwing this up for me.”

“Screwing this up for you? What do you think is going to happen to me when they find out?”

“Yes, Eris,” Lucien interjected, taking a step into the corridor. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

He relished the looks on their faces as he appeared around the bend. Both look shocked—although Eris schooled his own expression into one of apathy quickly. Elain, however, looked horrified. Her black velvet dress blended into the onyx floor beneath her and contrasted the blood-red hue of Eris’ suit. They looked odd standing next to each other in the lonely hallway. Why weren’t they with the rest of Feyre’s circle?

Lucien caught the way that Elain flinched forwards as if she’d take a step towards him. Eris, meanwhile, stood tall with his head tilted to the side, staring at him with a predatory stillness.

“Brother,” the future High Lord of Autumn drawled sarcastically. “Nice of you to join us.”

Lucien pulled the stone out of his pocket and held it between his fingers. “I think you lost this.” Eris’ upper lip curled slightly as Lucien made a show of tossing the stone upwards and catching it loosely. He looked back at Elain as he tucked it in his pocket. “You left it at Elain’s apartment.”

Elain’s face paled and Eris sneered. “I knew I wasn’t crazy. I can always tell when someone is playing with my toys.” He opened up his palm. “Hand it over.” Lucien scoffed and shook his head.

Elain looked at him with fear etched into those wide eyes. “You were in my room?” Her voice trembled as she spoke.

“Gwyn requested my help moving her things out of Azriel’s apartment. Imagine my surprise when she led me back to your apartment—the one I was in earlier today.”

Eris pinched the bridge of his nose. “Whatever you think you’ve figured out is wrong.”

Lucien’s nostrils flared at Eris’ clear disdain. “Then explain it to me,” he snarled. His eyes flickered from his brother’s face to Elain’s. “Explain it to me. Now.”

Eris crossed his arms. “Or what?”

Elain groaned. “Stop it, Eris.”

Lucien touched his pocket. “Or I will give this to Rhysand.” At that, Eris’ eyes widened.

Elain took a step towards him. “Lucien, you can’t.” Giving this to Rhysand would be tantamount to accusing Elain of high treason. The threat worked as intended and the pair in front of him suddenly looked very worried.

“I wonder what Rhysand would think,” he continued, “if he knew that Beron’s stone sat in the very heart of his city.” Eris’ eyes narrowed as Lucien spoke and he reveled in the feeling of having the upper hand on them both.

A hard impact sucked all the delight out of the moment. After hundreds of years away from home, Lucien forgot just how fast his brother could move in a fight. In an instant, Eris locked Lucien against the marble wall. He smacked into it with a crack, the sound echoing down the hallways. Eris dug his hands into Lucien’s shoulder and wrist. “Like I said,” he snarled, reaching for the stone, “you’ve come to the wrong conclusion, you fool.”

Lucien shoved Eris backwards equally as hard. “Don’t touch me,” he yelled back, baring his teeth.

“Stop it!” shrieked Elain just as Lucien sent Eris tumbling to the ground. In a flash, she moved in between his brother and himself. “It’s not Beron’s!”

“He’s lying to you,” he spat. “Of course it goes straight to the High Lord.” Then, as if it just occurred to him who he really came here to chew out, he refocused his anger onto her. “And why was it in your house?”

Elain stared up at him silently, doubt flickering in her eyes. Her face looked pallid, as if she’d vomit at any second. Finally, with a trembling voice, she spoke.

“The stone is mine, okay? Eris gave it to me three years ago when I made a deal with him to get out of the Night Court.”

Eris swore under his breath and put his hands on his hips, turning to face the wall.

“A deal??

She nodded slowly. “That stone is how I communicate with him.”

Lucien’s eyes flickered to his brother. “What did you give him in return?”

“In return for taking me out of Velaris one night each month—”

“—Pardon?”

“—I will advocate for his interests to Rhysand,” Elain continued, ignoring his outburst. “And I will be his emissary.”

Lucien looked at Elain, dumbfounded and appalled. “You’re his emissary?”

“In Night, deals are sealed with tattoos,” she explained. “This is mine.” Elain gently lifted her dress to expose her right leg. Stretching from her calf to her knee, Lucien saw a swirling, delicate vine full of orange-and-gold leaves. She dropped her dress quickly and whipped her head around as if a passerby would see the treacherous mark.

“For the past three years, you’ve left Velaris once every month?”

Elain’s jaw popped. “Yes. At night.”

Suddenly, her words from earlier echoed through his mind. “Azure waterfalls in Summer, Winter’s rainbow nights, and Spring’s Endless Meadows,” he murmured.

Elain nodded vigorously. “I haven’t seen most of them,” she replied. “I wanted you to take me to them. We can go together—”

Lucien held up a hand. “How many Courts have you been to with Eris?”

Eris, who had remained pointedly silent up until now, straightened his now-crumpled jacket. “If she asked me to take her to a Court, then I winnowed her there.”

He looked at his brother with daggers in his eyes. “Did you take her to Spring? There were flowers pinned up on your wall.” When Eris didn’t respond, Lucien repeated himself louder. “Did you take her to Spring?”

“Yes,” Elain snapped. “Multiple times. And guess what? I’m safe. I’m here.”

“You know damn well what Tamlin could have done—”

“—I can take care of myself” Elain shouted back.

“Obviously not, if you thought that going to that Court was smart,” Lucien barked.

“Spring is beautiful. I got to see where you lived. I got to see flowers and plants I never dreamed existed. I saw the Court that you once loved.”

Eris clasped his hands behind his back. “We went only at night and left within a few hours. No one—not even Tamlin—knew about it.”

“I never intended to move to Spring,” Elain added. “I just wanted to see it.” A scowl darkened her otherwise pale face. “Feyre would never let me go. She forbade it.”

Lucien threw his hands in the air. “Yes, with great reason!” Suddenly, he froze. His stomach dropped out from under him. He cut his eyes to Eris. “You took her wherever she wanted to go?”

Eris grimaced. His brother already knew Lucien’s next question, obviously. A sudden panic rose in his gut. Eris wouldn’t, he thought to himself. Would he?

“Did…did Eris take you to Autumn?”

His brother made a pained noise in his throat as if to stop Elain from answering Lucien’s question. “Yes, I did,” Elain retorted with fire in her eyes, ignoring the pleading gaze.

For a moment, Lucien stood as still as a statue. Eris put a hand out and shook his head. In an instant, Lucien had him pressed against the wall with an elbow to his throat. “Are you trying to get her killed?” he roared.

Eris, stronger than Lucien since birth, shoved his brother off of him. “Do you think I’d ever let Beron hurt her?”

“Is that why she has my blanket?”

Eris' expression twisted for a moment as if he knew that he crossed a line. He felt Elain’s hands pulling on his shirt and tugging him backwards.

“Will you stop and let me explain?” she practically shrieked.

Lucien stepped backwards to face them both. “Are you out of your minds?” he roared. “Are you really that fed up with Night that you would go to Autumn?”

“I only went there twice,” she yelled back, “because I wanted to see where you grew up. I did it for you.”

Lucien put his trembling hands to his head. His shirt stuck to his body as sweat began building up on his torso. At any moment, he might explode. He couldn’t think straight; how could he? She went to Autumn. Eris took her to Autumn. “Don’t blame this on me,” he breathed. “Don’t you dare.”

Elain shook her head. “I’m not blaming anyone. I just want you to understand—”

“Then why didn’t you tell me sooner.”

She threw her hands in the air. “Because I knew you’d act like this! I never felt unsafe. Eris never put me in danger. And I had a wonderful time.” She took a step closer with each sentence, one manicured finger pointing at his chest. “I loved Autumn. And I won’t apologize for it.”

Lucien opened his mouth to explain to her all the loathsome evil that Autumn’s beauty covers up. As he did, Elain’s words from earlier struck him once more. Every muscle in his body clenched at once as if lightning struck him.

“Tapestries on trees,” he breathed out.

She blinked. “What?”

Lucien’s chest heaved. He looked to Eris. “You didn’t just take her to Autumn. You took her straight into the Forest House, didn’t you?”

Before, in Elain’s house, he focused too hard on Elain’s actions and not enough on her words. At that moment, the phrase meant nothing to him. Why would they? Hundreds of years into his exile from his homeland, Lucien barely remembered the paintings hanging on the Forest House’s mahogany walls—paintings of Autumn’s previous High Lords, military victories from skirmishes long ago, and idealized images of the Court’s rolling hills and massive forests.

And, standing across from his childhood room, an oil painting depicting massive Autumnal tapestries hanging from the grand oak tree that sat in the House’s courtyard. “It’s how Autumn celebrates coronations,” his mother explained once. “The tapestries represent the old High Lords, and it’ll be our job to craft a new one for your brother when he replaces your father.”

No other Court flew such flags for their coronation. Elain, however, wouldn’t know that; he doubted that Eris enlightened her about Prythian’s various coronation celebrations. Staring at Eris, steam rising off of his skin, Lucien realized that the only way Elain could know about “tapestries hanging from trees” is from the very portrait outside of his childhood bedroom.

Elain blanked. “I don’t—I mean, he didn’t—”

Lucien ignored her and remained wholly focused on his older brother. “Answer me, Eris,” he commanded through gritted teeth.

Eris sighed and cracked his neck. “It was one time.”

Lucien pushed past Elain and grabbed Eris by the collar, throwing his brother to the ground. “You are an evil, loathsome prick,” he yelled, reeling back an arm.

Eris grabbed his fist and pushed it away. “Beron never knew—”

Lucien punched Eri’s jaw with his free hand. “And our brothers?” he bellowed. “What about them?”

The brothers struggled for a few moments, caught in a tangle of limbs and fists and fury. Lucien didn’t let up until he felt his fist connect with Eris’ chin. It scratched a delicious itch and he wanted to do it again. He wanted to beat the idiocy out of his eldest brother. In retaliation, Eris’ nails dug into Lucien’s cheek until a drop of bright red blood dotted his shirt.

A hand abruptly yanked Lucien off of Eris by his neck and tossed him backwards. He floated through the air, briefly unstable. A moment later, he smacked into the opposite wall with a sickening thud.

“What the hell is going on?” bellowed yet another familiar voice. Lucien fought off the screaming pain flashing behind his eyes to look at the opposite side of the hallway. Vile, loathsome ire swept across him as he stared up at the Shadowsinger.

“Don’t worry,” spat Eris, advancing on Lucien. “Her dog stayed with us the entire time.”

“Quiet down,” shouted Azriel. Then, he turned to Eris with a snarl. “And don’t call me that.”

Lucien scrambled to his feet, pushing past Azriel to collide with his brother once more. “Beron could’ve killed her,” he yelled. Azriel wrapped a hand around his bicep and Lucien whipped around, palm holding a burgeoning fireball. “Please,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Give me a reason. I’m begging you.”

Azriel glared at him and refused to move. Lucien distantly felt a piece of fabric from his shirt drift to the ground, slowly burned away by his quickly rising body temperature. He leaned closer to Azriel and bared his teeth. “Is he telling the truth? Did you know, asshole?”

“Know what?”

Lucien wrenched himself free. “Did you know that he took her to Autumn?”

Azriel’s gaze flitted to Lucien’s older brother. Eris, spitting blood onto the floor, retreated until he stood behind Elain. He looked at Azriel with a hard stare. “Lucien knows.”

Lucien saw the way a flicker of fear darted across Azriel’s face. “Yes. I know,” he growled. He wrenched himself away from the Spymaster with a grunt. “I know,” he continued with a heaving chest, “that I have been lied to from the day I stepped foot in Velaris.” A sick laugh bubbled out of him. “Actually, I’ve been lied to for years.”

He then turned to Elain. “You’ve been leaving Night this entire time?”

Azriel swore under his breath. Elain nodded. “I told you: I needed to leave. I’m tired of being here.”

He shook his head. “Stop lying to me.”

Elain took a step towards him. “Lucien, I’m not lying.”

“Really? Because the mountains of paper on your walls say otherwise.”

Azriel’s wings flared out. “You went into her house?”

“Don’t you mean your house?”

“You had no right—”

Flames darted up Lucien’s arms. “Don’t you dare tell me what I have a right to do.” He turned his attention back to Elain. “There were notes about extraditions and treaties in there. There were books about wards and humans on the shelves. So do not tell me that you want to leave just because of boredom.”

Elain opened her mouth, then shut it again. Azriel, standing across from him, bristled visibly. “I knew it,” Lucien murmured. Then, he repeated himself louder. “Tell me the truth. Please.”

Suddenly, footsteps erupted from the corridor seemingly out of nowhere.

“She’s turning herself human again!”

The entire group jumped as they heard the voice bouncing off of the walls. Emerging from the same twisting hallway where Lucien came, Gwyn Berdara sprinted into the corridor with a book clutched tightly in her hand. As she saw the group glaring at each other in a circle, she screeched to a stop. “They’re turning Elain human again.”

Gwyn might as well have hit Lucien over the head with the book in her hands. He staggered backwards. “What?”

Gwyn glared at him with a furious expression. “I told you not to leave yet.”

Lucien could feel Azriel’s eyes burning a hole in his head. Following quickly on her heels, Mor darted into the bend as well, breathing heavily.

Elain strode forwards until she stood directly in front of Gwyn. “Don’t do this. Please don’t do this.”

Lucien watched Azriel carefully. The Shadowsinger's eyes darted from Gwyn to Mor. “What’s going on?”

Mor grabbed Gwyn by the shoulder from behind. “I told you that you have one second. I need to get back to Nyx.”

Gwyn, ignoring them both, stepped around Elain to hand Lucien a book. “See for yourself. I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but that’s why she’s going to Day.” Without saying a word to Azriel, Gwyn turned back to Mor. “I’m finished.”

The group watched Mor shoot a confused look at the Shadowsinger before winnowing away, taking Gwyn with her. Elain, meanwhile, positively vibrated with anger. “Don’t read that,” she yelled. “Gwyn doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Eris groaned. “Give it up, Elain.” He crossed his arms over chest. “It’s time,” he added in a hushed voice.

The book in his hand had no title and no markings. Lucien flipped to the first few pages. “It’s a journal,” he murmured. He quickly skimmed as much as he could. With each page, the breath left his lungs. There were sketches of the Cauldron with hand drawn maps next to them. There were lists of books and dates, titles such as “The Wall” and “Human History” dotting the margins.

Lucien struggled to find the conclusion Gwyn already reached. His fingers shook as he turned each page.
He no longer felt angry—he felt utterly gobsmacked. “Elain,” he stammered, “what is this?”

“Let me explain.”

His voice rose an octave. “You want to become human again?”

“Give me a second to explain,” she shouted again. Mouth set in a tight line, Lucien stared at the female in front of him. Her face and neck shined with sweat. Her loose curls hung limply down her back. She looked exhausted—mentally and physically. Her eyes darted between him and the book in his hands.

“I told you I went to Day with Azriel. Helion took me to his library, where I found a book documenting the history of Prythian’s relationship with the humans. It talked about human attempts to become Fae.”

Lucien tried his best to remain calm as his chest constricted with horror. “I showed it to Helion. He told me that Fae nature is comparable to a ward,” she explained quickly.

“You’re not making any sense.”

“Don’t you understand? If I can break that ward, I can be human again!"

He blinked, utterly dumbfounded. “That’s…that’s impossible. It’s just a theory.”

“Day has thousands of books, Lucien. Do you know how many eons of information sit in those shelves?” Elain paced towards him, visibly excited by the idea. “If I go to Day, I know I can find an answer.”

Lucien touched two fingers to his temple. “You…you want to go back in the Cauldron?”

Elain balked. “Of course not. There are other ways—”

Lucien dropped the book to the ground. The slap echoed through the corridor like a thunderclap. “There are no other ways, Elain!,” he yelled. “There is no way to go from Fae to human again, not without going back to that thing.”

Elain shook her head wildly, shining hair bouncing back and forth furiously. “You don’t know that. Helion said—”

“I don’t give a shit what that idiot told you,” he interjected. “Anything else you try will kill you.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Eris and Azriel. “And you two knew about this? And helped?”

“We weren’t going to let her go through with it,” Azriel clarified softly. “We were just going to get her to Day.”

Elain surged forwards and grabbed his sleeve. “You told me you would love me as a human, right?”

He sputtered. “That was a hypothetical, Elain!” He stepped out of her reach. “Wait—is that why you have to break the bond? To be human?”

“It’s the one thing about me that is inherently Fae.”

“I’m going to be sick,” he muttered. His back touched the wall and he desperately wished to sink into it, to leave this place and this conversation behind.

“After I break it, we can still be together! Don’t you see? I’ll still be me, but I’ll be the me I was meant to be!”

“No, we can’t.”

Betrayal flashed across Elain’s face, but Lucien didn’t care. He continued anyway. “This isn’t…this just isn’t possible, Elain. You would rather die than be Fae?” His voice cracked on the last word, pitiful and desperate.

“I would rather die than spend eternity in a body I didn’t ask for and I don’t want.”

“How could you say that?”

Elain, face red and tear-stained, threw her hands in the air. “I didn’t ask to be like this!” she screamed gutterally.

Her words hung in the air like smoke and choked the air from his lungs. Eris visibly winced at her words, and the shadows around Azriel darted away. Even Elain looked shocked at her own candor. Right then, Lucien knew the truth. His hands dropped to his sides limply. “And it’s my fault.”

Elain cursed. “No, that’s…that’s not what I meant.”

“That’s what it will always come back to: Hybern’s king putting you in the Cauldron while I watched.”

“Lucien, no.”

He scoffed and jutted his chin at Azriel. “That’s why you chose him over me.”

Elain groaned. “I didn’t choose him over you.”

“His things are all over your room. His scent is in your bed.”

Azriel snarled and shadows returned to churn against his body. “I never slept with Elain.”

“Azriel sleeps in my apartment, but never in my room,” she explained quickly. “His scent is there because he is my friend, and he spends time with me.”

Lucien looked at her incredulously. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“It’s the truth,” she implored wildly. Lucien saw her lower lip trembling as she spoke.

“You never thought to mention any of this to me? Not once?”

“I wanted to tell you so many times. You have to believe me.”

“No,” he countered, “I don’t. Why didn’t you tell me three years ago that you wanted to go to Day?” He pointed at himself. “I would have taken you in a heartbeat. Instead, you chose to trust Eris of all people.”

Elain’s face flushed. “I didn’t know you three years ago,” she exclaimed. “Not like I do now.”

“Do you really know me? I wrote to you every day for years and you never responded once. I gave you as much space as you needed; I never once asked anything of you. I would have taken you anywhere. I would have dropped everything for you.”

Angry tears spilled down Elain’s cheeks, and he could feel some of his own escaping his eyes.“I’ve read every letter you sent me,” she choked out. “And along the way, I fell in love with you.” Lucien cursed and took a step backwards as she spoke. “It’s true,” she pleaded.

He groaned and backed up. “No you don’t. You don’t love me. I don’t believe a word you say.”

“Nothing will change when I’m human,” she begged. “We can still be together.”

Lucien felt like pulling his own hair out. “You will never become human again, Elain. Anything you try will end up killing you.”

“It won’t. If you just read my research, you’ll see that.” She reached for his wrist as if to pull him back down the hallway and lead him back to her apartment, but he yanked it away.

Lucien had expected to hear a tearful confession about her relationship with Azriel, but he never expected this.

He looked up at Eris and Azriel and found them looking at the ground. “You two fed into this delusion the whole time?”

“We would have stopped her,” Azriel repeated once more. Eris simply popped his jaw and averted his gaze. Elain closed her eyes as Azriel spoke and grimaced.

Lucien looked back at Elain. “Anything else you want to confess?”

Her chin trembled for a moment. “I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry.” It came out with a sob, and she covered her mouth with one hand, the other resting on her stomach.

Lucien felt his own throat grow thick with emotion. “Sorry doesn’t fix this,” he whispered back. He flexed his fingers and took a step backwards. “I won’t watch you kill yourself. I won’t have a part in this glorified suicide pact.” Then, with all the strength he had left in his body, he turned his back on Elain and began walking the way he came.

He heard only silence for a few seconds, Then, her voice called to him down the hallway. “So that’s it?” He picked up the pace—he had nothing else to say to any of them.

He heard footsteps advancing quickly behind him. A voice thick with enough anger to start a wildfire rang out once more. “You are a liar, Lucien Vanserra. You told me today you would love me as a human.”

He whirled back around. “I never meant it like this.”

“You, who lives with Vassa, have the nerve to act like I’m in the wrong?”

He snarled. “Don’t talk about Vassa.”

“Has she not been in your room before? Is your scent not dripping with hers?”

“Vassa would never treat me like this,” he shouted.

“That’s why you love her, right?”

His upper lip curled with disgust at her implication, but Elain kept going. She stood barely a hair’s breadth from Lucien. “And then you parade Gwyn around, taking her to do things that you never offered to do for me!”

“I did that for you!” he howled. Orange sparks twisted off of his hair, the glow reflected in Elain’s brown eyes. By now, Azriel and Eris caught up to the pair and stood behind Elain, watching the scene with dismay.

“Gwyn and I made a deal of our own,” he spat, “with Rhysand and Feyre. We would make you two jealous because I had the idiotic idea that there was still a way for you to want me back. To love me back.” As he spoke, matching expressions of horror inched across Elain and Azriel’s faces. “And if we failed, then I told Feyre to convince you to break our bond.”

Elain flinched like he’d slapped her. Lucien didn’t stop for a moment, instead laughing darkly at his own hubris. He fumbled through his pockets for the pages he ripped out of the book he found in Elain’s desk. “Don’t worry—I won’t do what you think I will.”

Elain let the pages drop to her feet in a heap, staring at them blankly.

“Break the bond, Elain. I’m finished—with all of this.”

His world cracked in half as the words left his mouth. He was halfway sure that if he looked down, he’d see a chasm in the floor yawning open to swallow him whole. Elain reared back as if he’d burned her. Still, he continued.

“It is plainly clear that you’ve never wanted me. I have fought for you every day since the day you came to Velaris. I fought for your attention for years. You have never granted me the same courtesy.”

“And as for you,” he hissed, pointing at Azriel. “Stay away from Gwyn. Nothing I’ve heard tonight justifies what you’ve put her through.” He dropped the orange stone from his pocket and onto the floor. Quickly, Eris scooped it up.

At that moment, he heard the sound of footsteps coming from behind him. “What’s going on?” Cassian asked. “We can hear you all yelling from the ballroom.”

Nesta’s voice chimed in as well. “Elain? Are you okay?”

“That’s my cue,” murmured Eris before winnowing away in an instant.

Elain didn’t respond to her sister, still shell-shocked and staring at the pages on the floor. So, Lucien responded for them both. “I was just issuing a formal resignation to Azriel,” he stated blandly. “You can tell Rhysand and Feyre that I’m done.”

Cassian paused his pursuit. “Done?”

“With the Night Court. I’m officially resigning as Rhysand’s emissary.”

Lucien took a moment to study his mate’s face. This is the last time that I’ll see it, he realized. “I’m done,” he repeated for only her to hear. “I’m done with all of it.”

And, with that, the last stitch holding together a broken heart came undone.

He winnowed away before Cassian could ask more questions—and before anyone could see him cry. Landing on the front lawn of his manor, he collapsed to the ground. Distantly, he heard the sound of a door opening and someone calling his name. He didn’t respond. Instead, he simply sat in a heap, clawing at the ground until dirt caked his fingernails. There, with Jurian and Vassa wrapping their arms around him, Lucien mourned the life that just disappeared in the Hewn City’s tunnels.

The life that he’d hoped for; and the life that he would never dream of again.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

After depositing the book with Lucien, Gwyn winnowed with Mor back to the High Lord’s estate. “You can stay if you need. I don’t mind,” the blonde tentatively offered. Gwyn simply waved her off and trekked back to the library on foot. Her robes billowed around her with each step like a stormcloud. Despite the icy wind cascading across the city, she felt no pain.

So Elain found some way to become human again—what did that have to do with her?

Nothing, she thought angrily. Nothing at all.

When Gwyn finally realized the outline of Elain’s plan, Lucien already had two feet out the apartment’s door. Once all the evidence lay before her, it took only a few minutes of concentration to put the pieces into place. She found a series of notebooks littered with notes about human lifespans compared to fae lifespans, for one. The clear obsessions with wards narrowed down the possibilities. Finally, she found the journal she handed Lucien: one of Elain’s, most likely.

A breach of privacy, no doubt. Still, Gwyn felt no shame. She certainly felt no regret, either.

At this late hour, barely anyone remained awake and at work. No one watched her slip through the doors, hands balled into tight fists at her sides. As she passed Clotho’s desk, she scribbled a note informing the woman that she’d like to refuse any visitors for a while. She didn’t want to see anyone—not until she calmed down.

It wasn’t until she laid her head on her pillow that she realized Azriel still had most of her things in his bedroom.

The next day, Gwyn woke with a pounding headache. She pulled the covers over her head and closed her eyes. If she didn’t move, she could still pretend that the last few days were an elaborate nightmare. When she heard a group of females outside her door, chattering on the way to breakfast, Gwyn threw the covers back and stared at her ceiling.

One of Cassian’s familiar adages came to mind. The Illyrian general often repeated what he deemed “inspirational” phrases during morning workouts, much to everyone’s chagrin. “No turning back; focus on the task in front of you,” he ordered often. Gwyn actually agreed with the proverb (for the most part): to be the most productive, one must look ahead to the future and not dwell on past problems.

“No turning back,” she murmured. She sat up in bed. What was she doing? She was Carynthian. No dedicated warrior such as herself would wallow in self-pity. “Focus on the tasks ahead,” she said louder.

Gwyn closed her eyes and pictured the previous night’s events wrapped into a box and dropped down into the depths of the library. In her mind’s eye, the box fell into a pit so cavernous that the bottom may not exist at all. She imagined layers upon layers of granite poured on top of the cavern, locking her box of troubles away from view.

If I don’t think about it, then it can’t hurt me.

So, with the box locked safely away in the deepest depths of her consciousness, Gwyn went to work.

In the days after, she filled her schedule with activities. Gwyn completed as many tasks as Merrill dictated without a single complaint. The monotony of shelving and researching refreshed her soul after the past week’s events. No one came looking for her; in turn, she didn’t seek out anyone. When a priestess asked her a question, she answered it with a placid smile. She ate meals with the others; she wrote hundreds of pages of notes; and she never once thought about anything in her immaterial, granite-covered box.

Gwyn found comfort in exercise. She performed her morning exercises in the Library instead of the training ring, running laps around the floors before the rest woke up. She did push-ups until her arms ached and lunged until her legs screamed for mercy. Instead of hiking through the mountains, she ran up and down the Library’s stairs until sweat poured down her face. She boxed with imaginary foes and swung a nonexistent sword, perfecting her form.

She also slept with a candle lit for the first time in years—for no particular reason, of course.

Each morning, Clotho handed her a note reporting Nesta and Emerie’s polite demands for entry. Gwyn simply shook her head. Until she felt stable enough to open that box again, she couldn’t see them. She couldn’t bear to see them. “They’ll understand,” she told Clotho despite receiving a disparaging stare. “I’ll see them eventually.”

On the Winter Solstice, Gwyn woke up before the sun. She worked from dawn until dusk. When her mind drifted away from literature, she did push-ups until she could think of nothing but her sore muscles. Some priestesses tittered with excitement over fancier-than-normal meals to honor the holiday and small solstice celebrations. To prevent them from inquiring about her plans, she volunteered to lug a few wobbly tables from the bottom floors to the lobby.

At some point, Merrill intercepted her. “You can rest today, you know. It’s the Solstice.”

Gwyn nodded, a folding table tucked under her arm. “I know. I want to do this.”

Merrill, unwilling to argue her point, simply shrugged and stepped out of Gwyn’s way.

Around dinner time, Gwyn allowed herself to think about what might be happening at the House of Wind. “Feyre’s birthday,” she murmured to herself while staring out one of the Library’s impressive windows. Would there be a party this year? Who would attend? What happened after she left the Hewn City?

Gwyn ate dinner in the dorms with her friends before joining a group huddled together outside. Overhead, the sky twinkled with a million stars. “It’s done,” she breathed, staring up at the lights.

The deadline had passed; the game she and Lucien began two weeks earlier had officially ended. And, with great mental effort, Gwyn dug through her mind and unearthed the memories she desperately wanted to forget. She imagined herself exhuming the package and untying the strings. She wouldn’t open the thing, but she’d keep it near.

It felt like something dying; but it also felt like something important beginning. That night, she wrote a note to Clotho: if Nesta or Emerie arrived the next morning, she’d see them.

As expected, a knock on the door woke her up the next morning. When she opened it, she saw her best friends staring at her with kind expressions and an armful of pastries.

Emerie, basket tucked under one arm, threw the other hand in the air dramatically. “You’re alive!”

Gwyn opened her bedroom door wider and smiled. “Come on in. I’ve missed you guys.”

The trio settled down on Gwyn’s bed, the basket of baked goods in the middle. “So,” Emerie began tentatively, “how are you?”

“I’m okay,” she replied. “I’m sorry that I disappeared the last few days. I needed to be alone.”

Nesta nodded her head. “We understand. The past week’s insanity wore on all of us.” Emerie and Nesta shared a look and Gwyn frowned.

“What?”

Nesta sighed. “Things are bad, Gwyn. I’ve never seen Rhysand or Feyre so angry.”

“At me?”

“Absolutely not. They’re mad at Azriel and Elain.”

“Not just mad,” interjected Emerie. “They’re furious.”

Gwyn picked at the croissant in front of her. “I would expect so.”

“I’m assuming that you know about what happened in the Court of Nightmares?”

“Actually, I don’t. Lucien went without me.”

Emerie eyed her carefully. “What do you know?”

With a sigh, Gwyn launched into the tale of Azriel kissing her, Elain admitting to Lucien that she’d break their bond, and the discovery of the office in the shared apartment. She fought the emotions welling up in her chest. You don’t care, she chanted in her head. It’s over now.

Still, she couldn’t deny the pain. She felt bruised from that night’s realizations; a dormant fury rumbled through her mind when she thought about the shame Azriel put her through. Crumbs flaked off of her pastry as her nails dug into the buttery crust.

Nesta clicked her tongue as Gwyn finished the explanation. “I can’t understand why they’d do it. Rhysand and Cassian put Azriel in the Hewn City’s prison for—”

Gwyn’s mouth dropped open. “Wait, what?”

Nesta stared at Gwyn with a dire expression. “It’s treason,” she whispered. “Azriel ignored direct orders from Rhysand to keep Elain in Velaris. To top it all off, he allowed Elain to become a glorified spy for Autumn. It’s not good.”

“A spy?”

Nesta ran through Elain’s confession about working side-by-side with Eris. Gwyn’s head spun at the news. “At Vassa’s, I noticed that they were close,” she admitted softly. “But I never imagined something like this.”

“I want to believe he forced her into it,” growled Nesta. Gwyn watched her friend deflate and shake her head. “But Elain says that he didn’t—that she asked him for help. He helped her leave the city, and she would report her visions to him.”

“Does that mean…Eris actually stepped foot in Velaris?”

Emerie whistled through her teeth. “Mor is pissed about it.”

“So is Rhysand,” agreed Nesta.

“Did Rhysand put Elain in prison, too?” asked Gwyn quickly. She couldn’t imagine the High Lady allowing such a thing.

“Absolutely not. I would kill him if he tried.” With sadness clear on her face, Nesta looked down at her lap. “Feyre and I talked to her about everything.” She looked back up with mournful eyes. “How could I have missed it? I’m her older sister.”

Emerie placed a hand on Nesta’s knee and squeezed. “It’s not your fault, Ness. No one did.”

Gwyn rubbed Nesta’s arm sympathetically. “So, it’s true? She found a way to become human again?”

“Becoming human again is impossible. Even if she crawled back into the Cauldron itself, there’s no guarantee what would happen.”

“Then how did she get the idea in the first place?”

Nesta’s eyes darkened. “Helion.” Nesta muttered the name like a curse.

“Helion? Helion convinced her to do this?”

“When she visited Day the first time, she found some book about human existence versus the Fae—or something like that. It’s still so confusing. That, combined with a stupid comment from that idiot of a High Lord about supernatural powers being nothing more than wards, gave Elain the idea that she could become human again.”

Nesta tore into a croissant and shoved a piece angrily in her mouth. “It’s not like I didn’t think about it, too. I hated this body. I just never imagined that Elain hated it this much as well.” She brushed her hands off and gripped Gwyn’s comforter, her manicured nails threatening to slice the thin fabric. “Azriel knew the whole time. He knew the whole time and didn’t say a word of it to any of us.” Nesta paused to scoff, dropping her pastry back into the basket. “A Winter Solstice to remember, I guess.”

“You’re telling me,” Gwyn muttered.

“Speaking of,” Emerie said, nudging Gwyn’s shoulder with her own, “what’s this about a deal you made with Lucien?”

Gwyn froze. “Who told you?”

“Feyre told Elain and I,” Nesta answered softly. “Gwyn, why didn’t you tell us?”

Gwyn looked up at the ceiling, then down at her lap sheepishly. “I didn’t want to jinx it. And it was such a stupid idea in the first place.”

Nesta hummed and shook her head. “No, it isn’t.”

“It didn’t work, so there’s no point in thinking about it anymore.” She looked at her friends with a resolute expression. “Besides, my feelings for Azriel are gone.”

Nesta and Emerie shared another unconvinced look. “Are you sure?” asked Emerie carefully with a raised eyebrow.

Gwyn fought to remain adamant, but they all knew the truth. Underneath the hurt that she buried deep within herself, she nursed a broken heart. She could lie to her friends and declare that she felt nothing for the Shadowsinger after the disrespect she suffered, but she couldn’t lie to herself. Her feelings didn’t just disappear into thin air in only a few days. That knowledge, however, didn’t change her decision to wipe her hands clean of the male.

“I can’t go there with him,” she retorted. “Not after all the lies. I don’t even want to think about him.”

Emerie chuckled sarcastically. “Then it’s your lucky day. We have news.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What news?”

“Two days ago, Thesan called for a meeting of the High Lord’s in Dawn to discuss Koschei.” As Nesta spoke, Gwyn leaned forwards with wide eyes. “We’re leaving tomorrow.”

Gwyn blinked. “Oh wow.” Would Rhysand punish her for causing all this? After all, it was her and Lucien that discussed Koschei with Thesan.

Lucien.

Her heart jumped into her throat. She hadn’t spoken to him since that night; in fact, she had no idea what happened to him. She assumed that he returned to Vassa and Jurian—but what if he didn’t? She winnowed away with Mor without saying more than a sentence to the male. She resolved to write to him later. If anyone could understand her struggle between her head and her heart, it was him.

“I hate going to these things. Everyone prancing around pretending to out-do each other—ugh. I just need one day where I do nothing but lay in bed,” complained Nesta. “Is that too much to ask?”

Emerie smiled and shrugged. “Let’s do it when you get back from Dawn. All-day spa session at your place.”

“Yes please.”

At that, the conversation quickly moved onto lighter topics, like training and gossip from Illyria. Gwyn welcomed the normalcy of it all. As the trio laughed together, the thought that she only needed the love of her two best friends in her life struck her.

Once they polished off the pastries, Emerie stretched her arms over her head with a sigh. “I need to get back to the shop,” she yawned regretfully. “I better head out.”

“I should go, too,” Nesta agreed. “I need to stop by Feyre’s house.” She looked at Gwyn with hopeful eyes. “Do you want to come?” Gwyn knew Nesta’s real question woven in between her words. She squeezed Nesta’s hand, but shook her head.

“Merrill gave me a lot of work to do, so I’ll pass. I’ll see you when you get back from Dawn.” For the time being, she wanted to stay in her hiding place. The Library’s calm sanctity made her feel safe. She’d re-enter the outside world eventually; unlike the years before she met Nesta, she no longer dreaded the society outside the Library’s doors. For now, however, she wanted to remain amidst the books.

Gwyn followed her friends to the front doors. “Hopefully, I won’t be in Dawn for more than a few days,” Nesta explained. “I can’t imagine it taking any longer than that.” Gwyn hugged both of her friends goodbye and watched the two split off, one heading back to the city and the other in the direction of Illyria. And, deep down, she felt her heart begin to mend.

She’d barely started work for the day when a priestess interrupted her studies. Merrill, taking advantage of Gwyn’s sudden willingness to do any and every task, had deposited her with a mountain of essays to proofread. When Aimee, a young priestess, tapped her on the shoulder, Gwyn didn’t bother looking up.

“Can this wait?”

“Clotho says that your friend is here.”

At that, Gwyn looked up with a raised eyebrow. The half-finished textbooks begged her to stay. The cramps in her hand, however, urged her to see what Nesta or Emerie left behind. She decided that she could stand to give herself a break. If she didn’t stop soon, she feared that Merrill's jet-black ink of choice would stain her palms permanently.

Massaging her fingers, Gwyn climbed up the winding stairs to the entrance. When she came around the corner, however, she didn’t see either of them.

There, standing in the doorway with a box under his arm, stood Azriel.

A high-pitched wine filled Gwyn’s brain. She abruptly turned on her heel and raced back to the stairs. As she took the first step, however, she paused and looked over her shoulder. He hadn’t spotted her yet, instead standing in front of Clotho’s desk staring aimlessly at the ceiling.

She didn’t want to talk to him; he deserved to be left waiting. For some reason, though, her legs refused to take the next step down. Something inside her told her to stand her ground—to prove something not to Azriel, but to herself. Moreover, leftover butterflies fluttered in her stomach at the sight of him and screamed at her to talk to the male that she once considered her friend.

So, schooling her expression into cold neutrality, Gwyn turned back around. Upon hearing her footsteps, Azriel’s panic-stricken eyes focused on her.

Gwyn shot Clotho a look as she passed the desk. Traitor, she tried to communicate. Clotho simply stared back with unapologetic eyes. Her racing heart betrayed her calm exterior as she stopped in front of the Shadowsinger. She clasped her hands in front of her. “What can I help you with?”

“Can we talk?”

She cursed the adrenaline that ran down her spine. “I’m really busy.”

“Ten minutes. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Gwyn stared at him apathetically. “Five minutes,” she countered. “That’s all.”

He shifted on his feet awkwardly. “Should we go somewhere private?”

She didn’t dare take him back to her dormitory. She jutted a chin at the bench outside. “We can sit there.”

Azriel nodded quickly. “Sure.”

Gwyn kept her eyes forward as she passed him and led the pair outside. Frozen, slushy puddles left behind by the snowfall lingered on the ground. She fought the urge to shiver as she sat down on the bench's edge, leaving a considerable amount of space between Azriel and herself.

Carefully, he placed the box in-between them. “I put the clothes that you left in here,” he explained.

“Thank you.”

An awkward silence filled the air. Gwyn watched her breath come out in clouds and said nothing. Carefully, she studied his face. Red and purple rings rimmed his eyes—sure signs of a lack of sleep. His face seemed more gaunt than usual; in fact, his whole body looked skinnier than Gwyn remembered. She let the silence stretch out as long as she could bear before speaking again. “Well, if that’s everything—”

“It’s not. I have two more things.”

She raised an eyebrow expectantly. Azriel pulled his heavy canvas coat tighter around him and squared his jaw. That’s when Gwyn realized why he looked so small: for perhaps the first time since she’d met Azriel, he wasn’t wearing armor. He wore no chestplate, no leathers, no sword strapped to his back.

He looked strange. It unsettled her.

Finally, he spoke. “Three years ago, I took Elain to Day on Rhys’ request.”

Oh. So they were doing this.

“While there, she found a book in Helion’s library about the Fae's existence and whether or not someone can eliminate immortality. When she showed it to Helion, he told her that the author only theorized that it could happen. But that didn’t matter to Elain—once she had her mind set on it, she didn’t let it go. She decided that she’d move to Day and find a way to become human again.”

That fit with Nesta’s explanation earlier. Gwyn crossed her arms. “But why? Why would she want that?”

Azriel exhaled. “To us, being human seems…unnatural. But not to Elain; she hated her pointed ears and her teeth and anything ‘Fae’ about herself. She was miserable here. Rhysand knew it, too; it’s why he sent her to Day with me in the first place. Back then, she barely ate or slept. She stared out the windows, mumbling about visions or Graysen. Elain wanted out.”

Gwyn shifted uncomfortably. “She wanted to die?”

“No, but she didn’t want to live like this.” He repositioned himself, his wings tucking in close to his body. “Rhysand, of course, refused to let Elain leave Night permanently. She didn’t mention her idea to turn back into a mortal, but she didn’t need to; with Koschei on his lake, the human queens fumbling for power, and everything happening with Nesta, we had our hands full.

“Everything came to a head one night at the Court of Nightmares. Elain exploded at Feyre, accusing her of locking her up here. Then, she stormed out. After she didn’t return, I went to find her.” Azriel grimaced as if he thought pained him. “Unfortunately, Eris found her first.”

“Eris was there?”

“Yes, and Elain somehow convinced him to make a deal with her. In exchange for her services as a Seer and her support of Eris’ endeavors, he’d take her out of Night once a month.”

“That seems like a weak deal.”

He nodded. “Elain wanted more, but Eris refused. She originally wanted him to take her away immediately, but Eris wouldn’t risk it. Doing that would be tantamount to declaring war against all of Night.”

“Why didn’t you tell Rhysand?”

“I wanted to tell him. I intended to tell him. But she begged me not to say anything. She told me that this would finally make her happy.”

“So you didn’t.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“Because you have feelings for her,” added Gwyn. Azriel jolted at her statement and Gwyn felt a miniscule joy at the expression on his face. “You don’t have to lie anymore. You can admit it.”

Azriel pursed his lips tightly. “I don’t feel anything romantic for Elain, and that’s not why I didn’t tell Rhysand. I didn’t because she made a deal with me in return for my silence—one that I couldn’t refuse. If I kept her secret, she’d keep mine.”

Gwyn stared at him skeptically. “Your secret about your living arrangements?”

He shook his head. “No, it wasn’t about that. I didn’t live with her back then. I can explain that, by the way.”

Azriel chewed on his cheek before speaking again. “A few months before I took Elain to Day, Rhysand sent me out to the lake to gather intel on Koschei. I spent half a day there watching the lake and taking notes. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I went, I reported back to Rhys, and I returned to Illyria.”

He cracked his neck and popped his jaw. “And then I started having nightmares.”

“...Nightmares?”

“Actually, they’re more like night terrors.” As he continued, his leg began bouncing up and down. “I’ve dealt with nightmares for as long as I can remember,” Azriel continued. “Nightmares about my family, about war, about the things I’ve done as Spymaster. But these? I’d never experienced anything like it.”

“What are they like?”

Azriel huffed. “It’s hard to talk about.”

Gwyn offered him no reprieve. “Try.”

He ground his teeth together and looked at the ground. “It’s…,”

She pressed her hands into her lap. Gwyn’s patience ran out the moment she winnowed out of the Hewn City. Still, he had her attention. She swore she could see his heartbeat pulsing rapidly in the vein on his neck.

Azriel let out a breath and met her gaze. “When I went to bed that night, I dreamed that I drowned Cassian in the Sidra. And then I woke up in the Sidra.”

“You woke up in the water?”

“I’m lucky I didn’t freeze to death. I flew up and down the river, sure that I’d see Cassian’s body floating in it. Flying to his room to see him sleeping finally calmed me down. I brushed it off as a fluke. And then it happened again. And again.”

Something clicked in Gwyn’s brain. His dreams started after visiting the lake. Her pulse jumped as a fledgling idea formed.

He stood up abruptly and paced away from the bench. “I dreamed about horrible things. Terrible things, Gwyn.”

“Did you always wake up somewhere else?”

Azriel shook his head. “Not always. I dealt with it initially by not sleeping. If I didn’t sleep, I couldn’t dream. But I had to sleep eventually—and then it would happen again.”

“How bad were they?”

Across from the bench stood a low brick wall. Azriel pressed his hands into it and hung his head. “I drowned faceless people in pitch black water and woke up covered in vomit. I watched my family burn alive and woke up smelling smoke.”

“You always experienced visceral, physical reactions to your nightmares,” Gwyn murmured. Her eyes darted back and forth. In history, authors usually attributed such visions to Seers. Stories detailed accounts of the oracles plucking their eyes out in a futile attempt to stop the mirages or leaping into the sea out of desperation. In those cases, the Seers’ prophecies nearly always came true one way or another.

Given the fact that Cassian hadn’t drowned, Gwyn doubted that Azriel’s nightmares were prophetic.

“I had the worst one after Feyre gave birth to Nyx.”

The look in his eyes when he turned around startled her: sunken-in and filled with unadulterated anguish. All color drained from his face, leaving him as white as the fresh snow on the mountains. “Gods, forgive me,” he mumbled.

Gwyn wished for a notebook. This wasn’t just about her friend’s nightmares anymore; she needed to document his account. Her fingers itched to begin writing this all down. “What was it?”

“I’m ashamed.”

“You can tell me.”

He scoffed. “I really can’t. I couldn’t tell anyone.”

“I’m not interested in hearing you talk about what you can’t tell me. Not anymore.”

Azriel recoiled at her words before dropping his arms at his sides. “I…I dreamed that I killed Nyx.”

Gwyn froze. All her desire to record Azriel’s speech disappeared—as did her disdain for the Shadowsinger. Alarm replaced antipathy as she stared at the male in front of her. The very air around them seemed to thin out, leaving Gwyn struggling to breathe. Horror fell over her like a wet blanket.

“And when I woke up, I was standing over his crib.”

“Oh gods,” she whispered. “I can’t imagine. I mean—that’s awful.” Azriel loved Nyx as much as anyone; Gwyn imagined that a nightmare like that could very well be life-altering.

Azriel walked back and forth in front of her, hands knotted in his hair. “I don’t know how I even got into the room. I went to bed in Illyria, and I woke up in Nyx’s room.” He turned suddenly to face her. “You have to understand. I’m not doing it on purpose. I would never hurt him.”

Gwyn put a hand up. “I don’t think that,” she replied honestly. “Did you tell anyone?”

He collapsed back on the bench next to her. “How could I? How can I tell Rhys that I’m having dreams about killing his son?” He sighed and slumped forwards, putting his elbows on his knees. “He would have forced me to stop working. If I were him, I would put myself in the Prison for even thinking about it. Cauldron, I could barely look Feyre in the face for weeks.”

Thoughts began rapidly connecting inside Gwyn’s head. “You didn’t tell Rhysand,” she asked carefully, “but you told Elain?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t have to tell her. She figured it out on her own.”

“How?”

“She’s perceptive. And, more importantly, she didn’t sleep either—at least not back then.” He sat straight again and stared into the distance. “She saw me walking one night and offered me some tea. I was exhausted; I hadn’t slept for about a week at that point and spent each night running laps to stop myself from falling asleep.”

“A week?”

He shrugged. “I’ve stayed awake longer than that. That night, I was in a bad state. When I sat down at Elain’s, it all sort of….spilled out. She gave me something to help me sleep.” Azriel paused and swallowed hard. “And, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t have a nightmare—I didn’t even dream.”

Gwyn tried not to flinch at his admission. “Is that when you moved in?”

“Not immediately. I thought it must be a fluke of some sort. A week later, the same thing happened: I showed up exhausted and I slept through the night without any nightmares.”

Azriel turned to face her. Wide, unblinking eyes met her own. “After I realized that the nightmares only stopped when I slept in her apartment, she offered me her spare room. I don’t stay there constantly—I swear on my life.”

She eyed him carefully. “And every time you slept through the night?”

He nodded. “Every time.”

Gwyn ran through a list of sleep medicine in her head. Poppy, a well-known anesthetic, could put a person to sleep. Horticulturists throughout history utilized milkweed, lavender extract, and Magnolia blossoms for similar purposes. None of those grow in Night, she thought to herself. Whatever Elain gave to Azriel, it didn’t come from this Court.

She told Azriel the same thing. “Did she make the medicine herself?”

“That’s the thing—it isn't medicine. Regardless of taking it or not, I never dreamed as long as Elain was nearby.”

Gwyn fought off the sudden burst of jealousy and cut her eyes away from Azriel.

“I think it has to do with her abilities,” he explained. “Mor can’t read her, and Rhys says her mind is ‘foggy’. Whatever is fucking with me can’t do it when she’s around.”

“If I recall,” Gwyn replied slowly, “you spent a lot more time with her than just one night a week. I saw you go to her after each time you left Velaris. You would disappear for weeks at a time before I saw you again.”

“When I found out she made the deal with Eris,I started sleeping at her place more because I worried that he’d abscond with her in the middle of the night. Each time I left, I assumed that I’d come back to Nesta burning the Court to the ground to find her sister.”

Gwyn blinked and tilted her head back to look at the sky. “Azriel, why didn’t you just tell me any of this?”

“Tell you what? That I’m constantly scared that something will compel me to kill the people I love, or that I effectively committed treason by knowingly working with Elain and Eris? I couldn’t.” He gestured weakly at the space in between them. “And look at what happened now.”

“What happened now?”

Azriel sighed. “Rhys temporarily stripped me of my title as Spymaster. I spent a few nights in the prison under the Hewn City. He had no choice; he couldn’t trust me. He can’t trust me.”

“Can’t he read minds? How did he not know until now?”

“He would never read my mind. I’m his brother. I’m supposed to tell him everything.” He suddenly fell silent and stared at his hands in his lap. “I really, really fucked up.” His voice trembled with every word and Gwyn suddenly had the horrified idea that Azriel might burst into tears. He inhaled deeply. “Even worse, I really fucked up with you.”

“Yeah,” she replied honestly. “You did.”

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

Gwyn spoke with genuine sorrow as she stared at the Illyrian in front of her. “I don’t know if that makes it better.”

“I couldn’t risk involving you.”

She felt a familiar anger awaken in her chest. “But why? I could’ve helped.” She pointed behind her to the Library. “Do you know how many books in here talk about dreams and nightmares?”

“Because you’re different. You’re different to me.”

Gwyn jumped to her feet and stalked away from the bench. “What a stupid thing to say.” He opened his mouth to interject but she cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Do you know what I’ve been through? What I lost before I came to Velaris?

Azriel’s hands tightened against the bench. “Of course I do. I’ll never forget Sangravah.”

“After Sangravah, I didn’t sleep. When I closed my eyes, I only saw death. I saw Catrin dying in front of me.” Gwyn paused to take a steadying breath. “I know about nightmares. And you know that I wouldn’t have told anyone about Elain and Eris.”

“It wasn’t about trust.”

She threw her hands in the air. “Of course it is, Azriel! You trusted them more than you trusted me.”

Azriel jumped to his feet. “That’s not it.”

“Or did you think that I was weak? I’m stronger than anyone else. I am Carythian, Azriel.”

“No, it wasn’t that either—,”

“Then what?”

Azriel smacked the brick wall. A few stones cracked under his palm. He whipped around, red in the face. “Because I care about you more than I care about them,” he hissed.

Emotions washed over her in waves: brief excitement at his confession; anger at his previous actions; frustration at the situation; and sadness for his timing. Competing thoughts slammed into her from all sides. What did he expect her to say? Surely he didn’t expect her to fall into his arms—not after everything she’d been through.

For a moment, Gwyn thought he might move towards her. She pointed a finger in his direction. “Don’t.”

“Gwyn—”

“Do not start.”

His chest rose and fell rapidly as he stared at her. “I dreaded the day that I went to sleep and saw you in my dreams. I thought that if I stayed away from you and kept you at arm’s length, then it would be okay. But I didn’t want to keep you at arm’s length because from the day you first arrived with Nesta to train with us, I knew you were different. Since that day, it has always been you.”

Anger immediately overcame any other emotion inside of her. She gnashed her teeth together. “How dare you,” she yelled. “How dare you say that to me?”

“It’s true,” he retorted. “If you believe anything I say today, believe that.”

Her jaw dropped. “Believe you? I trusted you. I gave you the benefit of the doubt.” Her voice rose with each sentence as the anger she pushed down began to bubble up. “When you stood me up, I gave you a second chance—even after I found you with Elain. And when you practically rejected me to my face, I gave you a third chance.”

Azriel’s distress grew more apparent. Even so, she kept going. “I didn’t tell the High Lord when you told me that you and Elain had some ‘secret’ plan. And you repaid me by putting me up in the house that you sleep in with her.” Her voice pitched into a yell. Steam from her breath clouded his face from her vision momentarily.

Anger flashed across his face. “I have never slept with Elain.”

“Oh, please. Your things were in her room: your clothes, your shoes, your blanket.”

“Yes, I’ve spent time in her room—”

Gwyn threw her hands in the air and turned around. “Of course you have.”

“—but Cassian spends time in Feyre’s room. Nesta spends time in my room. And your friend Lucien most certainly stays in Vassa’s room.

She whirled back around. “All of them are friends. Lucien and Vassa are not romantically involved and you know that.”

“Neither are Elain and I,” he shouted loudly. Both of them stared at each other from opposite sides of the bench. Gwyn positively shook with adrenaline as she gazed upon the Shadowsinger. He ground his teeth together and shook his head. “Elain is my friend, and I will not apologize for that. I swear to you that I have never had sex with her.” He spat out the word sex as if it was poison on his tongue.

Something like vindication rattled her heart. Still, that didn’t absolve him of his other crimes. “Then why did you abandon me when you asked me to dinner?”

Azriel sighed deeply and leaned against the wall behind him. “I didn’t mean to stand you up. I hadn’t slept that night because Eris and I took Elain to Winter.” She opened her mouth to explain to him his stupidity, but he cut her off with a shake of his head. “I know, I know. It’s an awful excuse.”

“Why were you buying her a whip?”

“Eris demanded that Elain learn how to fight, but she isn’t as strong as you. She can’t swing a sword.”

Gwyn pulled her hair off of her neck and sat back down on the bench with a sigh. Her heart pounded in her chest as the weight of their conversation bore down upon the bench. Gwyn chewed on unsaid words lingering on her tongue. She had a million more questions to ask, but only one stood out. Before she could push the words back down, they cascaded out of her mouth:

“If it’s always been me, then why didn’t you kiss me?”

Azriel’s breath hitched. “Because I thought that the best thing for you was to stay away from me.”

“But you don’t get to make that choice for me, Azriel,” she replied softly. She turned to look at him. Slowly, he looked back at her. His face looked pale again, all signs of frustration erased. Similarly, she felt the anger subsiding. It was still there, caustic and poisonous in her gut. For the moment, however, she simply felt…sad.

She felt sad for herself, but sad for Azriel as well.

He took a steadying breath. “I wanted to protect myself, too, I think.”

“Protect yourself? From me? Why?”

“...because you aren’t my mate.”

Aghast, she stared at him with wide eyes. “W-what?”

His chest heaved as he inhaled deeply. “You’re someone’s mate, but you aren’t mine.”

Gwyn couldn’t find the words to express her disbelief. She was no one’s mate, and he knew that. No invisible chain bound her to another; no divine connection existed between herself and someone else. Does he think that he’s a Seer? she thought to herself. Surely he doesn’t. She opened her mouth to push back at his statements, but closed it just as quickly. She was at an utter loss for words.

“Do you know what my job is?” Azriel asked gently, breaking the silence.

“Of course,” she stammered. She still felt off-balance; she needed to regain her footing in this conversation.

“I get the intelligence I need to protect my family at all costs—even at the expense of other lives. I’ve slaughtered people on the battlefield. There is blood on my hands that I will never wipe away. And the Mother punishes me for it every day. Every time that I even think I found someone who could love me, they are taken from me.”

“Azriel, that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? I waited for ages for Mor to fall in love with me. And then, when Feyre and Nesta became mated to Rhysand and Cassian—”

“—you assumed that Elain was your mate, too,” she finished for him.

He nodded. “But she isn’t, and Mor wasn’t either. And at first I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand it because I thought that the Mother bestowed upon me another punishment. Lucien, the pinnacle of everything I’m not, found a mate.”

He looked down at the ground. “I wallowed in my pain for a while—actually, I wallowed in it for hundreds of years.” Azriel paused to take a trembling breath. “Then, you appeared. And every time you smiled, something inside me unlocked. Every time you laughed, I laughed. Stupidly, I let myself hope.” When Azriel looked at her, his eyes shone. “I thought that you could be it.”

As if on cue, the shadows that remained markedly absent at the beginning of their conversation suddenly emerged from his shoulders. They were scrawnier than normal, but they still twisted and coiled in the air as usual. He lifted a hand and one curled around his finger and wrist. “You weren’t scared of these. They weren’t scared of you, either.”

Gwyn’s heart thumped in her chest rapidly. She pushed down the feeling bubbling up inside of her. Were these not the words she wanted to hear for years? Was this not the male that she had hoped for? Here he was, sitting across from her telling her everything she ever wanted him to say. Shouldn’t she feel…excited?

She did; inside, a part of her positive sang with joy. Yet, clashing with that delight, she felt an acute dejection—and it crushed her.

Azriel, meanwhile, continued his speech with increased zeal. “Every morning, I woke up itching to spend time with you. And when I’m not around you, I think about the next time I can get back to you. Cauldron, I feel my heart stop when I found out that they took you into the Blood Rite. I thought you were dead.”

She watched the color drain from his face. “I hoped that maybe a bond would snap after that. Instead, I had my first nightmare about you.”

Azriel looked at her with such sorrow that it shocked her. “I had my hands around your neck in the snow. You were so cold that you felt like a corpse. Each night, I wondered if it would be your room I’d wake up in—and your blood on my hands.”

The night he kissed her in the snow flashed across her mind. The snow, she realized. That’s when he pushed me away: when the snow started falling.

“I’ve been there before,” she mumbled, repeating his own words back to Azriel. She looked back at him with clarity. “That’s what you said to me.”

“I had the nightmare about you two more times: once right before Lucien arrived, and another time after you went to the lake.”

The Lake. Alarms went off in Gwyn’s mind.

Azriel, unaware, laughed darkly. “I’m cursed, Gwyn. You’ll see it one way or another. And I don’t think I’d survive it. I know that I wouldn’t.”

Gwyn shook off the sudden haze that fell over her. “Survive what?”

He stared at her with a wistful look. “You told me at my mother’s house that it’s better to pick the flowers and see their beauty for a moment than to watch them grow from afar.”

She nodded. “Yes, I did.”

“I thought that it would be better for me to keep you at arm’s distance, safe from the inevitable harm that will come for you because of me, than to get you for a short time—but I ended up hurting you anyway in the process.” He looked at her with eyes so sad that she felt compelled to look away; yet, she held his gaze. “I will regret that for the rest of my days. I am so, so sorry.”

Gwyn said nothing. What could she say? He finally bared his heart to her. He told her the things that she barely let herself dream of hearing from him. She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it just as quickly. His words rang through her head. It’s always been you.

An uncrossable chasm between them broke open the minute she found his room in Elain’s apartment. She couldn’t get the image of him leaving her behind in the training field; she couldn’t forget the rejection she felt at that moment. She finally understood his secrets—but that pain still raked across her mind. Invisible scars lingered on her heart, festering and ugly.

Yet, when she looked at him now, she no longer felt anger.

She felt…pity.

She felt pity for the male who so often sat hidden behind a frozen, uncaring mask. The male who preferred staying in the shadows to stepping into the sun. And, the man who apparently loved her from afar for years without having the guts to do anything about it.

There he sat, waiting on her to say anything. She didn’t know exactly what he wanted; perhaps absolution; or, at the very least, a modicum of understanding. She could offer him one, but not the other.

“Your nightmares are associated with Koschei,” she said slowly. “You know that, right?”

If her pivot in conversation perturbed him, Azriel didn’t show it. “I assumed so. They only started after I went to his lake.”

Once again, a flicker of frustration hit her like a lightning strike. “If you had just told me—,”

Azriel rubbed a hand down his face. “I know, I know. I’m an idiot.”

She looked at him, taking in his disheveled appearance, and swallowed hard. “Thank you for telling me everything. If I heard this a few weeks ago…,” She trailed off and let the unspoken words weigh heavy in the cold air. Then things would be different.

“...but I didn’t,” she continued after a pause. She stared down at her hands. “I need time, and I need space.”

Azriel nodded. “I understand.”

“I don’t know if I can be friends with you yet.” Her voice wobbled with each word. Their conversation exhausted the last of her defenses; she had nothing left to distract herself from the hurt.

Azriel let out a breath and hung his head. “Then don’t be friends with me. But don’t hide yourself here. I’ll stay away if that’s what you want.”

“No, that’s not what I want. I don’t want to pretend that you don’t exist. We were friends before all of this.”

The corner of his mouth quivered into a sardonic half-smile. “Then can we start over as coworkers?”

The fragment of humor in his voice relaxed her, and she nodded with a smile. “I think I can do that.”

Neither said a word after that. They sat silently together on the bench, staring down the cobblestone path that led to the city. Up above them, a hawk screeched. Down below them, the city bustled with people going about their day as usual. And, at an unassuming bench, Gwyn felt that same feeling she felt on the solstice: the feeling of a chapter closing just as another one began anew.

Azriel’s actions irreparably changed their relationship—but it hadn’t erased it. It had simply…morphed into something different, something shifting and evolving even now. She wondered if Azriel could feel it too.

As the cold finally crept under her robes and settled in her bones, Gwyn shivered and stood up. “I need to go back to work.”

Azriel stood up as well. “I need to tell you the second reason I came here.”

“All of that was one reason?”

Azriel rolled his eyes at her sarcasm. He rifled through his pockets and handed her a small journal.

“Koschei the Deathless,” she read aloud. “I saw this in your office—or Elain’s office, I guess.”

“It’s from Eris. He found it in Autumn a few days ago.”

She turned it over in her hands. “Why give it to me now?”

Azriel smirked. “We’re coworkers, remember?”

“Too soon, Shadowsinger.”

He nodded quickly and wiped away his smile, clearing his throat. “The High Lords will meet in Dawn to discuss Koschei in a couple of days. Thesan requests that you join.”

Gwyn jolted as her stomach dropped to her feet. “Me? Nesta told me that you all would be leaving, but she didn’t mention that he wanted me to go.”

“Nesta didn’t know. Thesan only just sent the letter to Rhysand. ”

She sputtered and stared down at the book in her hands. “I’m not trained to be an emissary.”

“No one knows more about this than you. All you need to do is present everything you’ve found to the High Lords and let Rhys do the rest.” He reached forwards and tapped the book’s cover. “We know from Eris that Beron is working with Koschei. What we don’t know is the specifics of their deal. He thinks that there might be information in here that could help us figure it out.”

Gwyn felt faint. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea for me to talk about this instead of someone more qualified.”

Azriel smiled. “Who’s more qualified than you, Berdara? You’ve run Cassian’s gauntlet before. If you can do that, you can speak in front of some hoity-toity High Fae.”

He’s not wrong, she realized. “Who’s going?”

“Rhys and Feyre, of course. Cassian, Mor, Amren, and Nesta will go as well, so you’ll have friends there to help.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Not you?”

He shook his head. “I’m on probation, remember? I’m staying here.”

Gwyn chewed on her lip. “That must be hard.”

He waved her off. “Don’t be; I deserve it. I’ll be there in the morning to see you all off. Cassian will tell me about it when he gets back.” Then, with a slight blush creeping up his cheeks, he shrugged. “You can tell me as well, if you like.”

There, in the back of Gwyn’s consciousness, something began brewing:

A second chance.

It felt terrifying and unwelcome and invigorating and beautiful all at the same time. She wanted to shy away from the feeling. But she didn’t—not this time. In her mind’s eye, she saw it in the far distance, hovering on the horizon like the sun’s light right before dawn breaks. She couldn’t reach out and grab the thing; not yet, at least. When it came, however, she knew she wouldn’t shy away from it.

“Like I said,” she clarified gently. “I don’t think I can be friends with you yet.”

Azriel’s back straightened. A staunch professionalism replaced his casual humor. “I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

Gwyn tilted her head to the side. “And if I’m never ready?”

Azriel looked as solid as the mountains that loomed over the city. This was the face of the male used to playing the waiting game. The faintest hint of a smile dashed across his face as he spoke. “Then I’ll be content to watch the flowers bloom.”

Gwyn’s mouth parted ever-so-slightly. She believed him.

With nothing else left to say, Gwyn turned to go back inside. She glanced back at Azriel as she put her hand on the door and found him still staring at her. An image of herself sitting in front of the Sidra with Lucien appeared in her mind. On that day, Lucien told her that the love between two bonded mates could be just as powerful—just as real—as love between anyone else.

Azriel needed to know that.

Gwyn paused and spoke to him in an even voice. “Just so you know, it never mattered to me that you aren’t my mate. I loved you as much as I would with a bond.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“Have a good evening,” she added quietly.

Then, without waiting for an answer, she disappeared back into the safety of the Library.

She practically ran to her dormitory, nearly knocking over a Deidre carrying a stack of books in the process. She rummaged through her drawers until she found a notebook and a pen. Then, Gwyn began the meticulous process of annotating Azriel’s book. If Thesan wanted her to lecture the High Lords of Prythian, she needed to learn as much as possible; she didn’t want to make a fool of her Court.

Gwyn woke up early the next morning to prepare for travel. She stuffed two changes of clothes into a bag, as well as the stack of notes she took the night before. She rambled off talking points as she packed.

“Koschei is trapped on the lake. Koschei made a deal with Mr. Archeron for Rhysand. Koschei’s lake water is poisoned.” On and on she went, continuing her rambling as she brushed her teeth and hair.

The book Azriel gave her didn’t offer her much new information, but it did fill a few gaps. According to whatever Autumn author penned the book, Koschei specifically chose women to hoard over men, turning them into swans or birds to keep as trophies. The unnamed author wrote that the few men who survived a visit to Koschei claimed that they received visions afterwards.

Just like Azriel’s nightmares.

Gwyn decided not to add that tidbit to her speech—she’d discuss the possible relationship between Koschei and dreams, but not Azriel. Other than that, the book contained no information on how to kill the death god, or where he came from in the first place. Still, Gwyn tossed the book into her sack for good measure.

She had just pulled on her winter coat when someone knocked on her door. “Come in, Ness,” she called from her washroom. “I’m almost ready.”

“Actually,” a familiar voice responded, “it’s not Nesta. It’s me.”

Gwyn peered around the corner and froze. There, standing in the middle of her dormitory, was Feyre Archeron with her son tucked against her hip.

Her mind blanked as she realized that the High Lady herself currently stood at her door. Feyre smiled and tilted her head. “I hope that we’re not interrupting?”

“No,” Gwyn sputtered. “Please, come in.” She hastily shoved her discarded clothes off of the bed and indicated for Feyre to take a seat. Being Nesta’s friend, she’d talked to Feyre more than a handful of times; still, this felt different. This wasn’t a party or a court visit. This was personal. She wished suddenly for wine or appetizers to offer the High Lady instead of a pile of laundry and books.

If the banality of the dorm disturbed Feyre, she didn’t show it. Dressed in a gown as sparkling and black as the night sky itself, she sat down on the bed’s edge. Nyx squirmed out of her grasp and ran to Gwyn’s dresser, marveling at her paperweights and picture frames.

The High Lady grimaced. “Sorry about him. He’s finally tall enough to start grabbing things.”

“No, it’s fine. He’s adorable.”

“Not when he starts winnowing to and fro, he isn’t.” Feyre sighed and looked back to Gwyn. “How are you doing?”

She plastered on a smile. “I’m doing good. I’m nervous about the High Lords’ meeting, but—”

Feyre held up a hand. “I mean about everything that happened with Azriel.” Gwyn’s smile faded. She didn’t expect Feyre to make a house call just to discuss her failed relationship. Seeing her expression, the High Lady quickly continued. “You don’t have to talk about it with me, of course. I just feel partly responsible for everything.”

“What?” asked Gwyn, recoiling at the notion.

“Rhysand and I had no idea what Elain and Azriel were up to all these years. If I had known, I would have stopped it a long time ago—and you and Lucien would not have ended up hurt.”

“I appreciate that, but I don’t blame you or the High Lord.”

“Still,” continued Feyre, “I want you to hear it from me. I’m sorry.”

Gwyn inclined her head. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

Nyx jumped up onto the bed next to his mother and proudly displayed Gwyn’s comb. Feyre made a show of marveling at the comb. “I’m excited to take him to Dawn.”

“Wait—he’s coming?”

“I think it’s safer for him to be with us than here by himself.” Carefully, Feyre plucked the comb from Nyx’s hand. “Besides, Vivianne writes to me constantly begging to meet him. He’ll stay in our room for the most important parts of the meeting.”

The future High Lord, now without anything in his grasp, hopped off the bed and ran over to Gwyn’s bookcase to study her textbooks. She tried to imagine the youngling grown-up and ruling over Velaris. He looked so similar to his father already. “He can keep me company,” suggested Gwyn. “I think I’m more nervous than anyone.”

“You shouldn’t be,” assured Feyre. “All you need to do is speak for a few minutes on everything we already know. After that, you’re free to keep Nyx occupied.” A sudden clang drew their attention. Nyx, it seemed, found the sound of falling books fascinating and proceeded to knock over another with a squeal.

Feyre sighed and scooped him up, pulling the boy back onto her lap. “He’s a handful,” she murmured, pulling a bracelet off of her wrist and dangling it in front of him. “But he’s worth it.”

They both watched Nyx fiddle with the jewelry silently for a few moments. “So,” Gwyn questioned carefully, “has Lucien written?”

“We received his official resignation,” the High Lady replied in a somber tone.

Gwyn couldn’t act surprised. She sat down gently next to Feyre and nodded. “I expected as much.”

“So did I.”

“Azriel came here to apologize, you know.”

Feyre cocked her head. “Did he really?”

“He explained a lot about what happened. Or, he tried to, at least.”

“Did you believe him?”

Gwyn chewed on her cheek and shrugged. “I think so.”

Feyre sighed. “Rhysand interrogated him with Cassian.”

Her eyebrows shot to the sky. “Do you mean—”

“Not tortured,” the High Lady clarified quickly. “But he did spend a night in a cell.”

Gwyn turned her eyes to her lap. “What about Elain?”

The High lady took a deep breath. “Nesta and I talked to Elain for a long time.” She perked up suddenly. “Actually, that’s the reason I’m here. I need to ask you a favor.”

“Of course.”

“I need you to find me a book on Autumn armor.”

Gwyn frowned. “As in military garb?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure there’s something in here,” she mused. “It might take me a few minutes, though.”

Feyre nodded. “I expected as much. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to grab a few books before we head to my home.”

“I can do that.” Gwyn gathered her things and opened the door for the High Lady. As she did, Nyx reached out his arms from his mother’s neck to Gwyn’s. She jumped, carefully resituating her bag as the youngling attached himself onto her hip.

Feyre clicked her tongue. “I’m sorry about that. He’s too friendly for his own good.”

Gwyn grinned and patted the boy’s back. “It’s fine, really. It helps that he’s cute.”

Gwyn led the trio towards the Library’s dedicated military history wing. Organized by Court, conflict, and author, she perused a few sections before she found the three shelves dedicated to extensive, microscopic descriptions of military adornment. She pulled out two books from the shelves and handed them to Feyre. “These should help.”

The High Lady smiled and tucked them under her arm. “I appreciate it.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why do you need them?”

Feyre thought for a moment before responding. “When Azriel apologized to you, did you accept it?”

“Oh.. Well—”

“It’s okay if you didn’t. There’s times when Rhysand apologized to me and I didn’t forgive him immediately. Cauldron, I refused to talk to him for days after I found out that we were mates. Mor hid me away in their cabin until I felt ready to talk.”

Gwyn resituated Nyx on her hip. “I understand why he lied to everyone, but I think it will take some time. I want to forgive him.”

“Is there anything he can do to make it better?”

Gwyn mulled over the question. A smile tugged at her lips. “By telling me the truth and giving me space, I think Azriel is doing the best he can do for me.”

Feyre’s eyes glittered. She patted the books tucked under her arm. “Elain wants to apologize to Lucien. These books, according to her, are integral to her apology.”

Gwyn frowned. “Books on military history?”

“Nesta and I were apprehensive at first, but Elain has a plan. Actually, Eris gave her the idea, but that’s another story.”

Books in hand, the females retraced their path to the lobby. “Have you talked to Eris?” inquired Gwyn. She wondered briefly if Rhysand tried to kill the Autumn prince.

The High Lady spoke in a clipped tone. “Not a word. Although I’m sure that he’ll be with the Autumn processional in Dawn.”

Gwyn looked at Feyre with wide eyes. “Beron will be there?”

“It’s okay—we have him right where we want him. He won’t try anything when the rest of the High Lords are all in the same room.”

Despite the High Lady’s reassurances, Gwyn still felt her stomach flip. She never worried about speaking in front of a group before. Holding a seminar for a dozen priestesses, however, couldn’t compare to explaining an immortal, world-threatening death god to the highest authorities in the land. Gwyn continued fretting as they left the Library. Once they crossed the Sidra, however, she stopped as Feyre’s words suddenly sank in.

Feyre, with Nyx toddling along in front of her, stopped as well. “Is something wrong?”

“Did you say that Elain is apologizing to Lucien?”

A smile broke across her face. “Yes, she is.”

“But…what about being human?”

Feyre’s face clouded over. “It’s not possible—not without a great risk. Elain knows that now.”

“So she doesn’t want to break the bond?”

“Apparently not.”

Gwyn clapped her hands. “That’s great!” Her excitement waned as she remembered Lucien’s face that night. She’d never seen a person look more betrayed. “But do you think he’ll want to talk to her?”

“Eris thinks so, and so does Elain.” She tapped on the books for emphasis. “She’ll arrive in Dawn with us today, then go to Lucien tomorrow.” Feyre deftly grabbed Nyx around the waist as the boy climbed up onto a bench to peer over the bridge at the river below. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t mention anything to Lucien until then.”

Nyx, frustrated that he couldn’t get any higher, squirmed in his mother’s grasp. Feyre finally released him and the Night Court’s future High Lord began running ahead, stumbling to and fro on the uneven cobblestones. The High Lady sighed. “When he learns to fly,” she griped. “we’re all doomed.”

Together, they followed the young prince back to the River Estate. Gwyn didn’t ask about Elain’s plan, and Feyre offered no explanations. Her mind raced through possible scenarios. She couldn’t figure out how the books fit into it. To her, the only thing Elain could do was grovel at Lucien’s feet and hope for the best. Over the past two weeks, she had learned a few things about Lucien: he liked to dress well, he loved his friends, and he adored Elain.

If Elain wanted any chance at regaining her mate’s trust, her plan better be legendary.

When Feyre led Gwyn inside, the rest of the High Lady’s cadre greeted them in the parlor. Everyone wore some variation of midnight-colored finery or fearsome Illyrian leathers. Nesta, spotting Gwyn entering with her sister, pushed through the group to meet her.

Nesta gave her an encouraging smile. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Gwyn paused as she saw Elain walk around the corner with Rhysand. Nyx, seeing his father, bolted through the crowd and slammed into the High Lord’s legs.

“There you are,” cooed Rhysand as he tossed the boy up over his head. He leaned down and gave Feyre a kiss on the cheek. “And there you are as well.”

Elain slid past the couple and walked to Nesta’s side. Unlike Nesta, who sported a form-fitting twilight blue gown, Elain wore a simple lavender sundress. Nesta’s eyes flitted between her friend and her younger sister. Gwyn extended a wave and a small smile. “Good morning…aren’t you cold?”

“That’s a good point,” agreed Nesta with a frown. “Let me get your coat.” Before either one could stop her, Nesta strode off deeper into Feyre’s house. Now, alone with just each other, the nervousness palpable in the air grew stronger.

“I–um,” stammered Elain. “I wanted to apologize. For keeping you in the dark.”

“Feyre has books for you,” Gwyn stated evenly in response. She wasn’t ready to accept an apology from Elain quite yet, and she wasn’t interested in small talk with the female either.

Elain’s cheeks turned red. “Ah…yes. Thank you.”

Where is Nesta with Elain’s coat, Gwyn whined internally. Out loud, she simply nodded along. “I like your dress.”

As if just remembering her choice in clothing, Elain looked down quickly and laughed breathily. “Thank you. I’m not planning on attending the meetings, so it doesn’t matter what I wear.”

Gwyn raised an eyebrow. “You’re not?”

Equally puzzled, Elain shook her head. “I thought Feyre told you? I’m—”

Two claps from Morrigan echoed across the room. “Can we leave?” the blonde complained loudly. “I’m starving and Thesan’s kitchens always make the best food.”

“We’re waiting on Rhysand,” Amren replied in an equally annoyed tone of voice.

“Your impatience surprises me, Amren,” drawled Rhysand. Just then, Nesta reappeared with a coat for Elain and a stuffed animal she gently placed in Nyx’s tiny fist.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of Gwyn’s neck rose. She knew who she’d see if she turned around; for some reason, she could feel him before she saw him. Sure enough, when she glanced behind her, a familiar dark-haired Shadowsinger stood in the doorway to Rhysand’s office, staring at her. Still not wearing leathers, Azriel looked the most casual out of any of them.

Hi, he mouthed to her.

Hi yourself, she replied silently. She gestured towards the group. With sad eyes, Azriel shook his head. Looks like Rhysand hadn’t changed his mind, after all.

He pointed at the backpack on her back and raised his eyebrows. She patted it gently and nodded. All packed, she communicated with her eyes.

He patted his hip and she furrowed her brow. Seeing her apprehension, Azriel made a swinging motion with his hands. He’s asking if I’m armed, she realized. She shook her head and Azriel made a face.

Gwyn nodded towards the group, currently tittering about preparing to leave. As if we aren’t a small army already.

Azriel reached behind him and a black coil wrapped around his arm. At the same time, Gwyn felt a soft thump against her heel. There, at her feet, lay Truth-Teller. A familiar shadowy tendril disappeared back beneath a crack in the floorboard as she picked up the blade. She palmed it in her hand and raised her eyes at Azriel. You sure?

He nodded. Coworkers, he mouthed silently.

Gwyn snorted and put the knife in her bag. Coworkers, she agreed.

Rhysand clapped his hands together. “Alright, everyone. Shall we leave?”

Slowly, they all formed a line. Rhysand, Feyre, and Mor would winnow them all one-by-one until the entire posse reached Dawn. Gwyn cast one last look to the Shadowsinger standing behind her as Feyre gently took her hand.

“I’ll see you when we get back,” she told him outloud this time.

Azriel nodded. “You will.”

Something gently pulled on her heart, too small to acknowledge and too real to ignore.

Then, Gwyn felt herself falling through space before landing gently in a familiar lavender palace.

She was back in Dawn.

Gwyn spent most of her short time in Dawn in Nuan’s lab or in one of the towering parapets. This time, the group winnowed straight into a ballroom so grand that the Court of Nightmares looked unassuming in comparison. A jewel-encrusted floor shone like diamonds under her feet and reflected the cool sunshine streaming in from floor-to-ceiling open windows. She craned her neck upwards to see the sparkling three-tiered chandelier hanging high above them.

All around, palace attendants darted to and fro. The staff wore soft, formless chiffon fabric from head-to-toe with the only visible body parts being their hands and eyes. One stood in front of the group, passing out small teacups. Gwyn politely declined hers and instead watched Nesta down the drink in one gulp. A full-body shudder raked down her back as she did so.

“Blegh,” coughed Nesta. “That is nauseating.”

“Come along, everyone,” nudged Feyre from the front as Nesta discarded her teacup back onto the tray. “Let's put away our things. We’ve got a big day tomorrow and a busy evening ahead.”

Gwyn barely blinked as they journeyed to their allotted rooms. She practically inhaled all the beauty around her, staring wide-eyed at the palace finery. Nesta laughed at Gwyn’s expression and slipped an arm around her waist. “You’ll have time to gawk later. We’re going to a formal dinner with the other Courts.”

Gwyn’s stomach dropped. “I didn’t bring anything to wear,” she hissed.

Cassian slowed down to match their speed. “Don’t worry—I’m sure Feyre will let you stay with Nyx if you’d like.”

Gwyn nodded quickly. “I think I’ll do that.”

Nesta glared at her mate. “Then who will keep me company? I hate these things.”

With a wink, Cassian shrugged. “Guess you’re stuck with me. And Elain, of course.”

From the front of the group, Elain looked back with a curious expression. “I’m not going either.”

Nesta threw her hands in the air and Cassian laughed, stepping around Gwyn to pull his mate into his hip and plant a kiss on the top of her head. Gwyn stared at the back of Elain’s head curiously. No one expected Gwyn to attend the gathering, but surely Elain would be required, right?

Rhysand, holding tightly to Nyx, looked towards Cassian. Immediately, the male straightened up and jogged to the front. “With Azriel in Velaris,” explained Nesta quietly, “Rhys wants Cassian to investigate the grounds for any threats. Usually, he relies on Azriel and his shadows for those things.”

Gwyn nodded. “Right.” Sure enough, a moment later Cassian opened up his wings and flew into the sky, darting through one of the windows.

“I still don’t think Nyx should be here,” complained Nesta. “I don’t like the idea of him being outside of Velaris.”

“Don’t worry, Ness,” assured Gwyn. She placed a hand on her friend’s elbow. “I’ll keep an eye on him tonight.”

The attendant designated to the Night Court led the group to a secluded hallway with five doors. One room for the High Lord and Lady, counted Gwyn in her head, one room for Nesta and Cassian, and three rooms for the rest of us. She furrowed her brow. That still left Amren, Mor, Elain, and herself. As if reading her mind, a hand gently tapped Gwyn on the arm.

“Share a room with me,” whispered Elain.

“I don’t—I mean, I didn’t—”

Feyre interrupted Gwyn’s stuttering with a well-timed smile. “That’s a great idea,” the High Lady replied. Her eyes, however, displayed a cunningness her words lacked.

Something’s going on, Gwyn realized.

With that same smile plastered across her face, Feyre indicated an arm towards the nearest door. “Right this way.”

Gwyn gritted her teeth and steeled her jaw. Upon opening the door, however, her mouth dropped open. Overlooking the rocky mountains surrounding the castle, the room contained two enormous beds, a raised dining area, and a bathing pool with water that cascaded out the room’s other side. “This is incredible,” Gwyn remarked with awe. She gently laid her bag on her bed and strolled to the window.

Outside, the mountain range glittered with white snow drifts. Soft, puffy clouds drifted through the purple sky and threatened to drop even more snow on the landscape. Her stomach turned when she looked down at the cavern below them. A waist-high marble railing prevented her from accidentally stumbling to her death. Still, the idea of Nyx toddling about made Gwyn’s heart thud with anxiety.

Elain, utterly uninterested in the grandiose room around her, placed her bag on one of the beds and began tearing through it.

“There’s a reason I wanted you to room with me,” the female explained. Gwyn watched as Elain began pulling out thick slabs of leather from the bag. “I know Feyre told you that I needed books.”

Nonchalantly, Gwyn ambled towards Elain’s chosen bed. “She did.”

“I have a plan, and I need your help.”

At that moment, the door creaked open. “Oh, good,” whispered Feyre with a smile, glancing behind her before shutting the door. “You’ve laid everything out.” In one arm, Feyre lugged a large chest. She dropped it unceremoniously in the center of the room.

Elain looked at her sister with alarm. “Where’s the other one?”

“Safe with Rhysand.”

Now completely confused, Gwyn took a longer look at the leather. She cocked her head. It wasn’t just leather laying on the bed—it was a full set of highly crafted, dark orange armor. She moved forward to brush her hand over the finery. The handiwork amazed her; while Illyrian leather used thick stitches and knots to keep the armor in place while flying, the set on the bed used delicate stitches worked under and over each other like a rope.

“Where did you get this?” she asked with astonishment.

Wordlessly, Elain laid a gilded dagger in front of Gwyn. While not as large as a longsword, Gwyn guessed that the golden blade’s height equaled that of her forearm. When she leaned closer to see the etching on the hilt, Gwyn’s mouth fell open. She whipped her head around to look at Feyre who, with a knowing smile, left the way she came.

She turned back around to see Elain staring at her with an eerie calmness. “I’m not asking you to forgive me—although I am so, so sorry for how you got dragged into this. I’m not asking you to understand, either.” She gestured to the two large velvet chairs sitting in front of the window. “All I’m asking,” pleaded Elain slowly, “is that you listen.”

Gwyn searched the female’s eyes. She could easily refuse. Elain deserved as much, after all. She glanced back towards the armor on the bed.

And yet, despite her apprehension, the High Lady trusted her.

Sitting down gently, Gwyn crossed her legs and raised an eyebrow. “Alright, I'll bite. What’s going on?”

Elain began speaking—and Gwyn listened. She remained wholly focused on the Archeron sister, even as Feyre let Nyx into their room and Nesta poked her head in to say hello before dinner. By the time Elain finished, the sun had begun its descent behind the mountain tops.

“So,” Elain finished with a deep breath. “What do you think?”

Gwyn sighed and stood up, clapping her hands together.

“I think that you should get that armor on. If you’re going to do this, we’ll have to spend the rest of the night working together.”

Elain’s face lit up. “Nesta said that she’ll help after dinner,” she explained, racing to the bed.

“Before you get too excited,” interrupted Gwyn, “I need you to understand something. I’m doing this for Lucien—not you.”

With shame in her eyes, Elain nodded.

Gwyn took a deep breath. She picked up Nyx and placed the toddler gently on her bed, handing him his stuffed animal to keep the boy occupied while she schooled his aunt. Then, tying her long hair back with a leather strap, she turned back to Elain.

“Let’s begin.”

—--------------------------------------------------------

After winnowing away from the Court of Nightmares, Lucien spent the night outside. His emotions had manifested through fire ever since childhood, and tonight was no different. His body smoldered and sparked whenever he thought about his fight with Elain. He gnashed his teeth and bit his tongue until he tasted blood.

Human, a voice repeated over and over inside his mind.

Until the sun rose the next morning, Lucien let himself burn. Angry red flames spilled down his body and burned a Lucien-shaped patch into the front lawn.

The new day finally snuffed his fire out. He stood up, wiped the soot from his hands, and stumbled inside the house. Jurian, already awake and sitting in the den, jumped to his feet at Lucien’s arrival. Before his friend said a word, Lucien clambered up the stairs and collapsed into bed.

The waiting game had officially begun.

The next day, he silently waited for the bond to break. He sat at the desk in front of the window, hair unbound and spilling down his shoulders, wondering whether or not it would kill him. Would it be worse than Jesminda? Would he even know when it happened? After all, the bond seemingly turned off the moment he arrived back home. Since that night, he hadn’t felt a single tug.

Vassa brought him food without a word; but Lucien ate nothing. When the sun fell beyond the horizon without Lucien’s soul suddenly disintegrating, he polished off a bowl of lukewarm soup and fell back into bed.

Jurian forced Lucien to get dressed the next morning. He burst into Lucien’s door with a steaming mug of coffee in hand. “Get up and bathe,” he commanded. “You smell like a chimney.”

When Jurian used that tone, Lucien knew that “no” wasn’t an option.

Upon emerging from the bath, he found an outfit folded for him on the bed already with Jurian nowhere to be found. Trying not to feel too pitiful, Lucien got dressed and met his friends downstairs. In the dining room, Vassa handed him a plate and inclined her head towards the chair to her right.

“Tell us what happened,” she requested calmly while piling eggs and bacon onto Lucien’s dish.

So, he did. He told them about his conversation with Mor and Elain—or as much as he could stomach without wanting to vomit. He recounted the moment he and Gwyn arrived at Elain’s apartment and the things they encountered inside the residence. Finally, he explained the last moment’s he had in Velaris and in the Court of Nightmares.

Neither interrupted him during his story. When he finished, Jurian sat back in his chair and whistled. “Has it broken?”

Lucien shook his head. “Not yet.”

“...do you plan on going back to Night?”

“I officially resigned my position.” He turned to Vassa, whose eyes burned with righteous anger. “Does that job offer still stand?”

For years, she’d urged Lucien to work as her emissary instead of the Night Court’s lackey. He never accepted; if he did, he risked never seeing Elain again. Vassa’s eyes softened at his words and she smiled. “I’m sure that I can fit you in somewhere. Although, my court is already so full that it will certainly be a challenge.”

“Sounds like a pitiful court to me,” Jurian mumbled while smiling into his mug.

Vassa reached out and put her hand atop Lucien’s on the table. “You don’t have to ask. It’s yours.”

Jurian raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

With the clinking of mugs, Lucien officially committed himself as emissary to the rightful Queen of Scythia. He’d never have to see Velaris again; he belonged here with his tribe.

Despite the joyful moment, Lucien couldn’t ignore the aching hollowness inside of him. Until Elain broke their bond, he would never truly be free of the Night Court. Even now, a piece of him resided in a modest white townhouse with a wrought-iron gate. As long as that soul-tie existed between himself and Elain, he would be inextricably linked to the female.

Lucien suddenly found it hard to swallow the rest of his eggs.

He spent the rest of the next day as busy as possible: he wrote Feyre an official resignation letter detailing his new commitment to Vassa and he sent a check to Rhysand for the remaining rent due on his apartment. He contemplated writing to Gwyn as well. What happened to her after she winnowed away with Mor? Was she okay?

“What a stupid question,” he mumbled to himself angrily. “Of course she isn’t okay.” He’d leave it alone for now; once the bond broke, he would write a letter to check on her.

After he completed all of the paperwork that he could think of, Lucien cleaned the entire house. He rolled up his sleeves and scrubbed the hardwood floors until his fingers couldn’t lift the sponge. He reorganized his own office and Jurian’s office, taking great care to not disrupt his friend’s careful filing system. Much to Vassa’s enjoyment, Lucien wiped down the entire kitchen until the surfaces gleamed and glittered.

“It looks brand new!” she squealed. “It makes me want to bake. Let’s make cookies.”

Lucien didn’t have the strength to tell Vassa that his stomach turned at the thought of baked goods. “I’m not hungry,” he replied instead. “I still have the entirety of the second floor to dust.”

By sunset, not a single speck of dirt or grime dotted the floor. Lucien, now damp with sweat, admired his handiwork with a smile. “Not bad, Vanserra,” Jurian remarked with a whistle. “You should get your heart broken more often.” Vassa elbowed him hard in the side, but Lucien smiled anyway. He felt proud of his work—not just because the house felt pristine, but because he managed to keep his mind focused on one task for most of the day.

Instead of thinking about things on the other side of Prythian.

The following day, Lucien woke up with a pit in his stomach. He sat up and ghosted a hand over his ribs. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel the bond’s presence. “Still there,” he murmured. He gently pushed away his covers and padded over to the window. Frost muddled the faint light filtering in through the window pane as dawn began cresting over the horizon.

If today was the day, he didn’t want to be around anyone when the bond broke.

Pulling on his boots and a thick winter coat, Lucien crept out the backdoor and headed towards the stables to retrieve his horse. Then, with a whistle and a gentle nudge, he began riding into the forest.

The landscape welcomed him with open arms. The barren oak branches creaked as his horse trotted between them over well-tread paths. The familiar pine scent emanating from the evergreen trees smelled like home. The ice-cold air, however, threatened to turn his cheeks red and he pulled his scarf tighter around his neck.

Lucien rode until the sun rose over the hill and began undoing last night’s snowfall. His horse snorted nervously as Lucien tied him up to a tree and trekked the rest of the path on foot. He stopped in a small clearing littered with old tree stumps and slick with ice. There, he picked the one that looked the most comfortable and began his wait.

The solstice would arrive soon. Elain could break their bond at any moment. Out here, far from any nearby village, Lucien didn’t have to worry about the consequences. Would he go mad? Would he burn down the grove? He certainly didn’t want to hurt his friends.

Morning turned into noon, and noon gave way to evening. All the while, Lucien waited. He waited and waited and waited. Periodically, he ghosted a hand over his ribs. Once the moon began its ascent into the sky, Lucien relented.

“Not today,” he sighed. “Guess it’ll be tomorrow.”

When he arrived at the house, he took his time securing his horse before trudging to the manor. Despite his abnormally high body temperature, even Lucien shivered against the night’s incoming freeze. Winter seemed abnormally harsh this year—he dreaded the coming months and the anticipated snow. As he reached for the back door, kicking off his muddy boots, Jurian met him at the threshold with a cup of steaming liquid.

“You left,” his friend said sharply, “and you didn’t leave a note.”

Lucien nodded and said nothing.

Jurian inclined the cup towards him. “Take it. You look cold.”

The scalding-hot liquid warmed his aching hands. “Thank you.”

“Did the bond break?”

Lucien shook his head. Jurian eyed him carefully and shoved his hands into his pockets. After a moment, he yielded and opened the door wider. “Come on in.”

Vassa sat at attention in the living room, legs tucked up under herself with a mug in hand. She looked at him with expectant eyes.

“I’m okay.”

When she raised an eyebrow, Lucien repeated himself. “Really, I am. I just needed to be alone in case the bond broke today.”

With a sigh, she gently placed her cup in her lap. She patted the chair next to her. When Lucien sat down, she carefully took his hand in her own.

“You can’t just leave like that.”

“I know.”

“What do you need us to do, Lucien?”

“Just be here.”

And so they did just that.

Jurian made breakfast the next morning and Vassa went back to her crochet. They discussed the villages nearest to them and how the winter affected the crops. Jurian griped about the stables on the property and the holes in its roof. Lucien went over preparations for initiating formal talks between Scythia and Prythian’s High Lords. If he was to be an emissary, he was going to do it right. At night, the trio enjoyed a bottle of wine split between the three of them in front of the hearth.

Lucien didn’t think about Elain—not until he went to bed. Once settled under the covers, he spent the night awake and staring at the ceiling. He went over her words over and over until he reached the beginning again. He cursed himself for not realizing it sooner, cursed Azriel and Eris for not stopping her, and he cursed Elain for doing this in the first place. He slept for a few hours, awoke with the sun, and started his routine again.

The day of the Winter Solstice, Lucien spent most of the night awake sitting by the window. Shimmering white stars dotted the sky like jewels. Fat gray clouds hovered in the air, threatening to dump yet another layer of snow on the ground. In Velaris, the celebration preparations for Feyre’s birthday would begin in a few hours. He contemplated writing a letter to her. When he picked up the pen, however, he couldn’t figure out what to say.

Once the sky changed from obsidian black to navy blue, Lucien squared his jaw and began packing his things. The bond never broke on the previous day he fled to the forest—he assumed that today would be the day.

This time, he didn’t bother taking his horse. He took only a heavy bag filled with a blanket, a canteen, and a bottle of whiskey, leaving a note on the kitchen table for his friends to find.

Despite the lack of fresh snow, the air felt as angry as ever on the exposed skin of his face. Lucien pulled his coat tighter around his body, but he didn’t turn around. He stopped only when he reached the familiar clearing. Then, setting up camp, the waiting began once again.

Every creak of his bones, every shooting pain through his limbs, and every ache of his joints sent his heart aflutter. Anything could be the bond breaking.

He thought back to two weeks ago. He told Feyre he wanted her to instruct Elain to break the bond once the timer ended. In Night, tattoos signified a deal between two parties. Neither himself nor Gwyn received anything of the sort despite the deal they made with Rhysand and Feyre—did that mean that he remained bound to the agreement?

Lucien thought back to the moment he danced with Elain in his apartment. That night, he felt like dancing on clouds. He could still feel the warmth of her body against his and the way her muscles tensed when he brushed his hand against her back. In his mind’s eye, he saw the curl in her upper lip and the glimmer in her eyes.

With a grimace, Lucien uncorked the liquor and took a swig.

I’m so stupid, he thought to himself.

For the thousandth time since he returned home, Lucien pondered Elain’s statements in the Court of Nightmares. He’d run over them in his head, but he hadn’t yet unpacked them. Mortality? Humanity? All of it was ludicrous. He wanted to scream at the sky; he wanted to wipe his hands of it all. Why should he care if Elain wanted to become human again? He shouldn’t care at all—not anymore, at least.

But he did care. Not just because of their connection, but also for the absurdity of it all. For years, Elain hid this from everyone: her sisters, her High Lord, and her friends. The inanity of her scheme astounded him. How could they let her believe that such a thing was possible?

Eris and Azriel, a voice told him. They’re to blame.

Lucien took another shot. It burned wonderfully on the way down.

He wanted to blame his idiot brother and the Shadowsinger, but he hesitated. Azriel and Eris told him that night that they wouldn’t let Elain go through with her plan.

“They’re lying,” he whispered into the air.

Yet, a small part of him resisted. Maybe they were telling the truth. Maybe Eris and Azriel would stop Elain before she went too far.

But what did it matter? Any minute now, scorching hot pain would ricochet down his body as the celestial connection between himself and Elain split into two. Lucien knew the lore about broken mating bonds: males tore themselves to pieces in the aftermath—and sometimes tore the female apart as well. In Autumn, males utilized the sacred Blood Duel as recompense for a broken bond. Lucien knew the words well, as did most High Fae in Beron’s circle:

By the sovereign power bestowed upon me by the High Lord, I hereby challenge you to a duel. I invoke my divine claim on my mate.

Lucien swore to never invoke the Duel. But for a brief second, he allowed himself to imagine it. Would the bond drive him to demand Azriel’s head? Lucien scoffed. “Maybe I’ll duel Eris,” he mused. After all, he blamed Eris as much as Azriel. Eris made Elain his emissary. Lucien shifted uncomfortably at the thought. Maybe the post-bond breaking insanity would give him strength to fight them both.

As soon as the idea came, Lucien banished it from his mind. He would never do something so barbaric; he wanted Elain to want him back, or nothing at all. If the mated male won the Blood Duel, Autumn law stated that the female belonged to him wholly. With the opponent dead, no one stood in the male’s way. Lucien, however, wouldn’t dare take away Elain’s choice.

Even if she didn’t choose him.

By lunchtime, Lucien polished off the whiskey. He tossed the bottle to the side and spent the rest of the afternoon riding the liquor’s buzz. As the sun sunk down the sky, Lucien’s anxiety increased. Across Prythian, Feyre’s family gathered in her home for a birthday celebration. Surely Elain would break the bond beforehand, right? With every passing minute, Lucien prepared for the worst.

He sat against the stump with clenched teeth. The last numbing heat leftover from the whiskey dissipated, leaving behind an emptiness in his chest and a pounding in his skull. The sky turned from gray to orange, and then to a dusky purple. He stood up and paced from tree to tree, teeth grinding together in his mouth. He gazed up at the sky and let out a yell.

“Do it,” he screamed at the stars emerging in the sky. “Just fucking do it already!”

Lucien raved like a mad-man until dusk morphed into night. Then, and only then, Lucien finally went home.

Just like before, Vassa and Jurian stayed up waiting for him. He saw them in the living room through the windows sitting in silence. When he put his hand on the door handle, both of them looked up.

Vassa stood up as he entered. Lucien noticed the cane resting at her feet.

She offered him a tight smile. “Everything okay?”

Lucien simply hung up his coat. “I’m okay.”

She glanced at Jurian, who cleared his throat awkwardly. “Did it—-

“—no, it didn’t,” interjected Lucien. He dropped the backpack on the couch and slumped down next to it. “And I don’t want to talk about it. Change the subject.”

He felt something drop into his lap. Cracking open an eye, he found an embossed purple envelope sitting on his thigh. “A letter came from Thesan,” Jurian explained. “He’s called a meeting of the High Lords and asks that we attend with Vassa.”

Lucien picked up the letter and tossed it to the female. “I work for you now,” he told her. “What do you want me to say?”

She stared at the envelope, then back to Lucien. “No,” she stated finally. “I want you to say no.”

Jurian threw the envelope into the fireplace. “Then we don’t go.” He sat down on the arm of Vassa’s chair and shrugged. “We are the ‘Band of Exiles’ after all. They should expect this from us—ouch, Vass.”

Vassa withdrew her hand from pinching Jurian’s arm, but a smile remained on her face.

Lucien smiled as well. “I should send a formal response to Thesan,” he groaned with a sigh. His head spun as he stood up and he stumbled slightly.

Vassa raised an eyebrow. “Need my cane?”

He waved her off. “No, I need sleep. I’m going to bed.”

Lucien thought Vassa might object, but a whisper from Jurian kept her silent. He resolved to thank his friend tomorrow. He knew that Vassa wanted to check-in on him, but Lucien needed solitude more than ever. He’d write to Thesan first thing tomorrow and decline his request. “I should write to Gwyn, too,” he mumbled into his pillow as he climbed into bed.

On the morning of the High Lord’s meeting, Lucien wrote a note to Thesan declining attendance to the event. He signed his name in golden ink with a brand new title next to it linking him to Vassa instead of Rhysand.

“That’ll cause some confusion,” he muttered as he put down the quill. The stationery disappeared just as quickly, transported magically to Thesan’s desk. He knew that Dawn’s High Lord would feel slighted at their rejection, but Lucien didn’t care enough to attend. With a sigh, he walked downstairs to find Vassa and report that the deed was done.

He found her sitting in a chair and staring out the dining room window. “Hey, Vass,” he called. “I wrote Thesan a letter, so I hope you didn’t change your mind.” When she didn’t respond—or even acknowledge his presence—he paused. “Vassa?”

Gently, he crept over to her side. She had her red hair braided down her back and away from her face. It made her look more gaunt than usual. Or maybe she’s really lost weight, Lucien thought anxiously. She gripped her cane tightly in her hands as she stared blankly ahead.

He gently touched her elbow. “Are you okay?”

She blinked suddenly and swallowed. “Something’s coming,” she murmured. “I can feel it.”

The hair on Lucien’s arms went taunt. “C’mon,” he replied. “Let’s go sit by the fireplace.” Stiffly, he guided his friend to the parlor. Jurian watched with his mouth pressed into a tight line.

“She’s been like this since this morning,” he whispered in the kitchen. “I don’t like it.”

Lucien poured himself a cup of coffee. “Do you think it’s Koschei?”

Jurian gripped the countertop. “Who else could it be?”

Throughout the day, Jurian and Lucien kept a close eye on their firebird. Whatever took hold of her, however, melted away by the evening. At dinner that night, she acted no different than she had on any other day.

Still, it left him unsettled.

When he went to bed that night, he stayed awake worrying as usual; this time, however, he worried about Vassa and not Elain. After a few hours of tossing and turning, he finally fell asleep.

The next sunrise, however, a shooting pain woke Lucien from his sleep. All the breath in his lungs disappeared in a second and sent him gasping for air. He’d been stabbed—or, that’s what it felt like whenever he moved. When he looked at his lap expecting to see a pool of blood, he only saw pristine white linen. He grappled with the covers until he freed his hands and ripped off his shirt. Frantically, he felt the wound. Smooth, unscarred skin met his fingertips.

“It’s a nightmare,” he breathed. “Only a nightmare.” Still, he remained upright in bed. Clutching his heart, Lucien waited for the feeling to come back. A few moments passed without another shock, he let out a relieved breath; he had imagined it after all.

Sighing, he flopped back onto his pillows and shut his eyes.

When it happened again, the feeling sent Lucien tumbling to the floor. White-hot energy surged up his body like a roaring river, overwhelming his senses. His bones creaked in protest, twitching around his body to escape the feeling. He could only scrounge up one explanation for the sensation as he struggled to pull himself off of the ground.

“The bond,” he gasped as he knelt on the floor, “it’s breaking.”

It didn’t feel like Lucien imagined; instead of a writhing, burning pain, it felt like a massive surge of energy ripping his chest apart. He searched for the bond in his mind, expecting a lonely nothingness to greet him. What he found, however, was the bond practically humming inside of him. It jumped and twisted and shuddered in his mind’s eye. Every flutter sent a wave of nausea streaking through his body.

It wasn’t broken; it was more alive than ever.

He froze with one hand covering his heart. The last time the bond felt so awake, his mate spilled out of a Cauldron and onto the floor in front of him. As he finally pulled himself up by the corner of his nightstand and steadied his breathing, he met his reflection’s eyes in his mirror.

“What the fuck?”

Elain was here—or, at least, nearby.

Lucien dressed briskly as questions raced through his head. She’s nearby. She’s nearby. She’s nearby. He couldn’t focus on anything else. Instincts told him to race to her. He cursed his trembling fingers as he fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. All the while, the bond positively sang with activity. His whole chest vibrated with the same melody over and over:

Mate. Mate. Mate.

From the hallway, he heard muffled voices downstairs. Good, he thought. Jurian and Vassa are awake. “I’ll get Jurian to saddle a horse with me,” he mumbled to himself as he headed down the hallway. In the back of his mind, reason screamed at him to stop and think before dashing into the forest with no true destination in mind. His body—his heart—disagreed wholly. That is, until he reached the staircase.

As he put a hand on the bannister, Lucien’s whole body locked into place. Three people stood in the doorway: Jurian, Vassa, and Elain.

Elain wasn’t just nearby; she was in his house.

Hearing her voice cooled the bond like a blizzard snuffing out a wildfire. Rationality took control of him—what was he doing? Did he forget what had happened? Lucien’s grip on the bannister tightened until his knuckles turned white.

“...and you should leave. Now,” he heard Vassa finish in a clipped voice. He missed the first half of the conversation, but Vassa’s crossed arms and tapping foot told him the gist of it: not friendly at all.

“He doesn’t want to see you,” added Jurian just as cooly.

A voice that made Lucien’s traitorous heart jump floated up the stairs. “I’m not leaving until I see him.”

“That’s not an option,” Vassa retorted. “Do you understand what you did to him?” A pause, and then Vassa spoke again. “And why are you dressed like that?”

Elain spoke again with an increasingly irritated tone.“I’m not here for a lecture. I want to see Lucien.”

“You can’t.”

“I will.”

Lucien, summoning his courage, stepped around the corner to the first stair. Peering down at the doorway, he saw Vassa and Jurian standing side-by-side, an uncrossable wall between their visitor and himself. Just beyond that stood a familiar-looking female. When their eyes locked, the bond jumped so violently that he fought off the urge to retch.

Lucien offered Elain no greeting. “Why are you here?”

With squared shoulders, she looked him straight in the eye as she responded.

“I’m here for you.”

Slowly, he descended the stairs. Vassa and Jurian shared a concerned look as they stepped backwards to allow him a full view of his mate. Gone was the Elain he left in Velaris—the version of Elain standing in front of him couldn’t be farther from the one in the white townhouse.

Burnt-orange leather armor protected her chest, forearms, and shins. Her long hair that usually spilled down her back now sat in a sleek bun on the back of her head. On her waist hung a belt outfitted with a dagger and a curled up whip. Something about the dagger immediately piqued his interest.

Lucien peered at the weapon with narrowed eyes. “I’m not your mate—and why are you dressed like you’re going to war?”

Elain’s face remained stolid. “I’m not breaking the bond.”

Lucien’s muscles tightened. “I’m not interested in fighting you on this.”

“I’m not interested in fighting you, either.” Elain turned her gaze to Vassa. “I’m interested in fighting her.”

Vassa balked, as did Jurian. “Excuse me?”

Lucien froze. “What are you talking about?”

Elain unsheathed the knife on her waist. As she did, Lucien’s eyes widened. He knew recognized her weapon: a medium-sized bronze blade on a gold-tinged hilt.

“You told me that I never fought for you,” she explained as she palmed the dagger in one hand. “And you’re right. I’ve been a coward—and a liar.” Her eyes shifted past him to Vassa. “So, I’m here to fix that. I’m here to do something Eris suggested a long time ago.”

Lucien’s eyes flitted from her weapon to her face. “Elain, why do you have my brother’s dagger?” He saw Jurian’s mouth drop open from the corner of his vision.

Elain tilted her chin upwards and cleared her throat as she stared down his red-haired best friend. “By the sovereign power bestowed upon me by the future High Lord of Autumn, Eris Vanserra, I hereby challenge you to a duel on this day.”

The world faded away. A high-pitched whining noise reverberated through his ears. There’s no way.

From behind him, Jurian sucked in a breath. “No way. She’s not actually doing this, is she?”

Lucien held up a hand. “Stop,” he barked. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” His breath rattled in his lungs. He couldn’t think straight; maybe he was dreaming. He hoped desperately that he was dreaming.

She ignored him, still focused beyond him at his best friend. “With my High Lord’s authority, I invoke my divine, Cauldron-given claim on the male named Lucien Vanserra.”

Lucien regained his voice as she sped through the words he learned as a boy. “What the Hel are you doing?” he yelled loudly

Vassa looked between Lucien and Elain frantically. “What is she doing? I don’t understand!” Vassa didn’t understand, but Jurian sure did. He grabbed Lucien’s shoulder and pushed him forwards.

“Do something,” his friend hissed angrily. “Before it’s too late.”

Unfortunately, it was too late. By the time Lucien opened his mouth again, Elain finished the formal incantation. She pointed the dagger at Vassa and finished the challenge’s final words. “I, Elain Archeron, challenge you, Vassa, the rightful Queen of Scythia, to the Blood Duel.”

The words echoed through the house and into the fog-covered lawn outside. Jurian sputtered and pushed Vassa behind him, backing up into the corridor. Lucien stood unable to move, staring down at the female who had just invoked one of Autumn's most sacred—and most deadly—traditions.

Elain kept her stony gaze locked on Vassa for a few moments. Then, looking at Lucien briefly, she turned and walked into their yard. “I’ll give you a moment to choose your weapon.”

With that, all hell broke loose.