What better way to prepare for Feysand Week than to say welcome to some new creators? Whether you're new to creating or new to the fandom, we're glad you're here!
Today's featured writer is @aurelune! Find them on AO3 and check out one of their Feysand fics, Even the Stars Forget.
Am struggling with grad school assignments right now, but trust me I'll update it soon âč my onenote is filled diagrams connecting characters for this fic!!!
For @fuckyesfeysand's August prompt : Myths & Fairytales
A Eurydice and Orpheus retelling with Feyre as the Princess of Carrion and Rhysand as the Lord of Nightmares.
Can be read below or on AO3
The gods have never been kind, though mortals, blinded by hope or desperation, have always tried to name their cruelties as gifts, convincing themselves that the hands that tore lives apart were in truth keepers of balance, that the voices which spoke in riddles and silences were nothing more than stewards of fate, yet to those who had ever stood in the glare of divine indifference, to those who had seen how easily gods shattered what was fragile and pure, it became plain that cruelty was their only true language, and no prayer nor offering could soften it.
It was said that none knew this truth more deeply than the one mortals came to call the Lord of Nightmares, a figure wrapped in shadow, crowned in the lightless sky of his own making, a being whose very presence carried the weight of broken oaths and dreams twisted into torment, and yet within him there burned something the gods had never expected to endureâa love so fierce it was unafraid of darkness, a devotion so unyielding it seemed to mock the cruelty of the very beings who had forged the world, and that love, that defiance, was her.
She who was known to many as the Princess of Carrion, though others cloaked her in gentler names, calling her the Feyre Cursebreaker, Defender of the Rainbow, Feyre Cauldron-blessed, the sovereign born of fire and sorrow, for her first breath had been touched by death and her body had been remade beneath the hands of powers that delighted in destruction, yet she rose not diminished but unbroken, bearing in her veins a light so enduring that shadows bent away from it, and it was she who had been taken from him, seized by the grasp of the Underworld before her time, claimed by the silent decree of gods who cared nothing for the cries of love left behind.
He followed her, as he must, not with sword nor army nor any weapon that could be raised in defiance of divine decree, but with a harp strung with silver strings that were said to catch the echo of starlight if played by hands that knew both grief and tenderness, and he walked the endless road into shadow, through caverns thick with the scent of endings and stone that remembered every sorrow carved into its bones, until at last he came to the throne of death itself, and there he did not kneel nor beg nor bargain in words, but placed his hands upon the strings and drew forth a song.
The sound rose fragile and piercing, delicate as glass yet unbreakable as fate, not a song of triumph nor demand, but a lament woven from memory, a tapestry of laughter shared in secret, of fingers twined together in defiance of all that opposed them, of the taste of hope on a dawn that had once seemed theirs, and as the music unfurled it reached not only the hearts of those who heard it but the very marrow of the Underworld, until even the ancient stone seemed to tremble with tears it could not shed, and the gods themselves, cruel though they were, stilled to listen.
They gave him a bargain, as cruel in its mercy as it was in its design: she would be permitted to follow him back, step for step, from the halls of shadow into the realm of light, but only if he walked ahead without ever once turning to look upon her, for if he glanced behind even for a breath, she would be lost to him forever, reclaimed by the dark without hope of return.
He agreed, for what choice was there but to agree when love was at stake, and so he walked, and she followed, each step measured against silence, the path stretching endless and unchanging, and though he longed to speak, to reach back, to feel her hand in his, he dared not break the fragile thread of trust the gods had left him.
Yet silence is never empty; it is a vessel, and the gods, cunning as they are cruel, filled that silence with doubt, whispering into the marrow of his thoughts that she was no longer there, that he walked ahead with only emptiness at his back, that the bargain had been no more than mockery, and though he knew their ways, though he swore to himself that he would not falter, still he was not made of stone but of love, and love, in its boundless devotion, carries also its deepest frailty: the fear of absence.
At the very threshold of the world above, where dawn gathered in fragile threads of light and the scent of earth stirred faintly against the air, his resolve cracked, and he turned.
In that single motion the path shattered, dissolving beneath him like a dream upon waking, the light splintering into fragments too sharp to bear, and she, who had been so near, her hand stretching toward his as though she might have reached him in another breath, was pulled back into the waiting dark, her figure dissolving without sound, her lips parting in what might have been his name, though no syllable reached him, for the silence of the gods devoured even her final cry.
He remained there, unmoving, his hand suspended in emptiness, his body a monument to despair, and the gods did not laugh aloud, for they needed no sound to mock himâtheir silence was sharper than any blade and their judgment more final than death.
So the tale should have ended, and perhaps for some it does, yet stories are never so easily bound, for there are those who whisper that he did not surrender to silence but laid once more his bloodied hands upon the strings of his harp and played until the sound was no longer sound but a force older than language, a song that carved its way through stone and shadow alike, and that she, caught within the depths where even memory dissolves, heard him and answered, her voice rising faint but unbroken, meeting his song like a flame finding air.
And some claim she walked again, unseen by gods, step by step toward the surface, not as she had once been but remade a second time, crowned in fire yet threaded with night, carrying within her the marks of all she had endured, and that when the world breathed dawn across the horizon there were two figures who stood in its light, though none could ever agree on what became of them after.
For the tale does not close but lingers, ending not in certainty but in the hush of possibility, leaving only the memory of a hand that may or may not have found its counterpart in the dark, and the name that still moves like a shadowed star through the mouths of those who remember, not in mourning but in reverence: the Princess of Carrion.
For @fuckyesfeysand's July prompt : Through Others' Eyes
What if you saw the whole story from the shadows of Velaris, from the rooftops, from the riverâs edge?Â
This is Hawkeâs view of the Night Court, and growing up in a city shaped by legends and maybe becoming their friend.
Can be read below or on AO3 ,Chapter 1, 12, 13
Five years later, and Velaris still stirs when Feyre and Rhysand walk the city.
Itâs early evening, the sun melting into the Sidra like a spilled cup of gold. Iâm walking with Lyra along the edge of the riverbank when I hear the familiar noiseâlaughter, wings brushing stone, a half-argument about Az cheating at cards. I donât even have to look to know who it is.
The Inner Circle is strolling along the path nearby. Feyre and Rhysand side by side, Mor grinning at something Amren muttered under her breath, Cassian half-yelling that he absolutely did not peek at Azrielâs hand. And darting a few feet ahead of them, weaving through the crowd like a sparrow too fast to catch, is Nyx.
Heâs grown since I last saw him, taller now, but still all elbows and energy, his wings not quite keeping pace with his feet.
And then he trips.
Itâs not a bad fallâmore tumble than crashâbut he goes down fast. His hands scrape the edge of the stone and he lands with a grunt loud enough to startle a few people nearby. A couple of strangers take a step forward, but they donât get far.
Because Iâm already moving.
I donât thinkâI just run. Iâm kneeling beside him before I realize it, hands already brushing the dirt off his coat.
âYou good?â I ask, keeping my voice light, easy. Like this doesnât remind me of anything.
Nyx scowls, cheeks pink. âIâm fine.â
I nod, sitting back a little. âThat so? Took quite a dive there.â
âI meant to do that,â he mutters, eyes on the ground.
Behind me, I hear Lyra laughâwarm and familiar, like the sound of cider being poured in winter.
He jams his little fists into his coat pockets.
And I feel something tug at the back of my mind.
Because I know that move. I was that move.
I remember the sting of stone on palms, the way shame always burns hotter than pain. I remember jamming my hands into my pockets so no one would see them shaking, pretending Iâd meant to fall because it hurt less than admitting I hadnât. And I remember the first time someone picked me up like it matteredâCassian, crouching in front of me with his easy grin, and Mor behind him, laughing like she already knew.
âHe acts just like him,â sheâd said then.
And now itâs my turn.
Lyra steps forward and hands Nyx his dropped toy. âHere,â she says, gentle. âNo big deal.â
Nyx grabs it fast, mumbles a thanks too quiet to be sure.
Then Cassianâs voice booms from behind us. âHe okay?â
Feyreâs already there, crouching beside us, checking Nyx over with a quick scan of her eyes and then a kiss to his hair. Rhysandâs not far behind her, hands in his pockets, watching us with that amused look he gets when he sees something unfolding that heâs seen before.
âThanks for catching him,â Feyre says.
I shake my head. âDidnât catch. Just⊠picked up after the crash.â
âStill counts,â Rhys adds, and thereâs a gleam in his eyes that makes me thinkâmaybeâhe remembers too.
We all stand up, Nyx already darting off again, his wings flaring like he never fell at all.
I shove my own hands in my pockets, out of habit.
Lyra nudges me with her elbow, smirking.
âWhat?â I ask.
âNothing,â she says, grinning now. âYou just remind me of someone.â
I roll my eyes, but Iâm smiling, too.
The Sidra flows quietly beside us, carrying the golden light downstream.
And somewhere behind us, Mor starts to laugh.
I glance back and see her nudge Cassian with her elbow, a knowing look in her eyes. He snorts, running a hand through his hair like he canât believe what he just saw.
She doesnât say anything for a second. Then she leans toward Cassian. âYou remember the first time he fell like that?â
Cassian grins, but thereâs something soft in it. âYeah. Didnât even blink. Stood up with blood on his knees and his hands shoved in his pockets like that would hide the limp.â
Feyre glances at Rhys with an eyebrow raised.
âI did not limp,â he says.
âYou absolutely limped,â Mor replies, laughing again. âAnd then tried to convince us it was swagger.â
âFunny how things come back around,â Cassian murmurs.
Then Mor turns slightly, looking at me like sheâs remembered something. âYou know,â she says, eyes glinting, âyou werenât much older when you did the same thing.â
âWhat thing?â I pretend I don't know what she is talking about.
âThe hands-in-the-pockets move,â Cassian says, grinning. âTripped in the market square, tried to act like it didnât hurt, even apologized for falling.â
âOh gods,â I mutter, rubbing my face.
âI said you reminded me of Rhysand,â Mor adds, smiling wider now. âYou were all bones and stubborn pride.â
Lyraâs laughing beside me. âHe still does that. You should see him trip on our stairwell.â
Rhys raises a brow at me. âImitation is the sincerest form of flattery.â
We all walked together for a little while after that.Â
Mor and Cassian drift ahead, their laughter easy, and Nyx bounds back into the path, recovered and fearless again. Rhys and Feyre walk a few steps behind us, hand in hand, speaking low enough that only the river hears.
Lyra leans into me slightly. I donât say anything, just let the silence settle.Lyra leans into me, her shoulder brushing mine. I don't say anything, and neither does she. We just walk. Behind us, memories stretch long, the market stalls, the stars overhead, the boy I was once, hands shoved in his pockets trying not to cry.
The river rolls on beside us, steady as ever.Â
The city exhales. And we walk forward into the night, not as kids chasing legends, but as people who watched them.
Thank you so much for reading, this story meant a lot to me and I hope it made you feel something
For @fuckyesfeysand's July prompt : Through Others' Eyes
What if you saw the whole story from the shadows of Velaris, from the rooftops, from the riverâs edge?Â
This is Hawkeâs view of the Night Court, and growing up in a city shaped by legends and maybe becoming their friend.
Can be read below or on AO3 ,Chapter 1, 11
Itâs been twenty years.
And sometimes, I still think about the day I knew. Not just hoped, or guessed, or wondered. Knew. That Lyra wasnât just my best friend, wasnât just the girl who used to throw grapes at my head during lessons or dared me to climb the cliff wall behind the river. That she was mine.
I think it happened slowly. Like the way night fallsânot all at once, just shadow creeping in until suddenly the world looks different. And one day, I looked at her and thought, âOh.â
But the moment it really sank in, the moment I couldnât un-know it, was stupid. Classic me. We were arguing over something dumbâwhether the starlight looked better over the Sidra or from the House of Windâand she rolled her eyes and shoved me, and I shoved her back, and suddenly I could feel it. That bond. That tether. That pull.
She mustâve felt it too because we both went quiet. Just staring. Her cheeks turned pink and I forgot how breathing worked.
Later, she said sheâd known before I did. Said it was obvious from the way I always gave her the last piece of fruit or let her steal my cloak when it was cold.
And maybe it was. Maybe everyone else knew too.
But I think back to those daysâthose war-shadowed, firelit daysâand I realize it was always going to be her.
She was there when the city was cracked open, when we watched Feyre fly for the first time, when Rhysand handed me a sketch back and told me it meant something.
She was the first hand I held when we ran toward the bells, toward the lights, toward hope.
She still is.
And now, all these years later, I hold her hand as we walk along the Sidra. The same path, the same stars, and somehow everything is new again.
She squeezes my fingers and looks up at me, eyes bright.
âRemember when you cried and blamed it on the wind?â she says.
âI donât recall that,â I lie.
She laughs, and the sound still makes something in my chest settle.
We keep walking. And the city hums around us like it knows.
Like itâs always known.
And then we hear it, not from just one person but from what feels like half the city, all at once. Weâd only just gotten back to Velaris the night before, tired from our trip to the mountains and still dust-covered, and were barely home a few hours when the whispers reached us. It starts at the corner of the market with a sly smile from the cloth vendor, then again from a passing Illyrian who gives us a strange, knowing look, and finally from the bakerâs son, who sprints past us with arms full of rolls and shouts it like itâs the biggest secret the world canât hold onto any longerâFeyre is pregnant.
Not newly, either. Months along now, they say. Showing. Glowing, some add. I stop walking like someoneâs cast a spell on me, blinking into the morning light like I misheard. Lyra turns to look at me, mouth already open in disbelief, and she doesnât even wait for confirmation. She grabs my hand, and weâre off, nearly running through the streets, dodging laughing strangers and joyful crowds like itâs the day after another victory. We donât bother pretending weâre not excitedâbecause itâs Feyre. Our Feyre. The woman who once summoned wolves from the river and walked into the dark for us all.
When we reach the River manor, the wind itself seems to know weâre coming, sweeping around the steps in gentle curls. And there she is. Standing in the open courtyard, sunlight catching on the soft curve of her belly, her hand resting there like itâs the most natural thing in the world. Feyre might as well have been a goddess of old, crowned and glowing, her belly swollen with life. Rhysand stands just behind her, looking more relaxed than I think Iâve ever seen him, one arm looped lazily around her waist, like he still canât believe it either.
They both look up when they hear our footsteps. Feyreâs face lights up immediately. âWell,â she says, arching a brow, âword travels fast.â
Lyra looks like sheâs about to cry, but in a happy, overwhelmed kind of way. She rushes forward and hugs Feyre like sheâs still thirteen and standing by the Sidra all over again.
âI wasnât supposed to tell anyone yet,â Feyre says with a playful glare over her shoulder. âCassian has a very loud mouth.â
From somewhere behind us, Cassian calls, âNot my fault! Those two were gone too long. They deserved to know.â
Lyra laughs, stepping back, eyes still bright with tears.
I just stand there, staring at them both, until Rhys tilts his head and says, âYou going to say something, Hawke? Or just stand there looking starstruck?â
I shake myself and step forward. âI think I forgot how to talk for a second.â
Feyre laughs, and itâs the kind of laugh that cracks through the years like light through clouds. She reaches for me and pulls me into a hug that feels like it never ended, like it picked up right where it left off two decades ago. She smells like paint and wind and something warm I canât name.
Rhys grins, watching us. âYouâll be teaching the little one to climb rooftops in no time."
I grin back. âOnly if they promise not to blame me when they get caught.â
Then Feyre lifts her head and looks at us. âCome by the house later this week,â she says. âThereâs still plenty to talk about. Some stories are better told when youâve had sleep and tea.â
We nod, and I make a mental note not to forget. Because thisâthis feels like the start of something else. Not just change, but continuation. Something quieter. Something more.
For @fuckyesfeysand's July prompt : Through Others' Eyes
What if you saw the whole story from the shadows of Velaris, from the rooftops, from the riverâs edge?Â
This is Hawkeâs view of the Night Court, and growing up in a city shaped by legends and maybe becoming their friend.
Can be read below or on AO3 ,Chapter 1, 10, 12
Chapter eleven: The Night They Returned
We donât hear it all at once.
It starts with bells.
Then shouting, not scaredâhappy. Loud and full and wild. Then the lights start flickering on in every window like the whole city was just waiting for a reason to wake up. And then someone runs past us on the bridge, yelling, "Theyâre back! The war is over!"
We chase the sound before we even think about it. I donât remember grabbing Lyraâs hand but weâre running down the steps, heart beating so fast I can hardly breathe, and the streets are full of people already spilling out of their homes, cheering, hugging, crying, laughing like we all forgot how and suddenly remembered.
They say Feyre walked into the prison again to ask the Bone Carver to fight with her. That she didn't beg, just offered him a new form, a way to exist in the world beyond death. Some say she promised nothing. Others say he followed her anyway because he wanted to fight beside her.
They say she survived facing the Ouroborosâlooked into that cursed mirror and saw herself, all of herself, and didnât look away. That she came back stronger, sharper, like the mirror didnât break herâit made her whole.
They say she unleashed Bryaxis from the library below the House of Wind. That she let darkness loose upon the battlefield, and that even Hybernâs soldiers didnât dare run when that horror moved among them. She commanded itâand it listened.
They say she soared above the battlefield with Illyrian wings strapped to her back, not flying exactly, but high enough to rain down death and water and light. That she fought side by side with Rhysand at the very end. They talk about a mirrorâancient, cursed, impossibleâand that she looked inside and won.
They say Rhysand died.
Actually died. Gave everythingâhis breath, his heart, his soulâto destroy Hybern and save Feyre. That his body hit the ground like the world itself was cracking.
And FeyreâFeyre, who was already broken and bloodiedâheld him and didnât scream. She commanded. She looked at every High Lord and demanded their power, and they gave it. Gave it because he was Rhysand. Because he was theirs.
And when he came back, it wasnât just because of magic. It was because she wouldnât let the world exist without him.
And because the world listened.
The stories arenât all the same. But they feel the same.
Velaris is lit up like itâs made of stars. People dance in the streets, not fancy dancing, just joy. Real joy. Lyra spins in a circle and nearly falls over. Iâm grinning so hard my face hurts.
Someone builds a fire down by the river. Someone else starts painting Feyreâs wolves again, this time bigger than ever. Someone hands out sweet bread. I take two and give one to Lyra because her eyes are shining and her hands are shaking.
I donât know how long we sit there on the steps watching the city glow.
But I do know this: when they returnâFeyre and Rhysand, side by sideâitâs not quiet.
Itâs a roar.
Not a scary one. A glorious one. Like a wind thatâs been held back for too long finally bursting free.
Feyre walks through the crowd not like a queen. Like something older. Like a legend.
And Rhysandâhe smiles like he never forgot us for a second.
And for the rest of my life I will remember that night, not as a boy in a war-touched city, but as someone who got to live in a story where the heroes came back.
And they were ours.
A few days pass, and the stars still havenât stopped glowing.
Then, one morning, Lyra screams.
Sheâs standing by the river path, hands over her mouth, shaking all over. Her brothers are walking toward her, covered in dust and road grime and looking like theyâve barely slept, but smiling so big it makes my chest ache.
She runs to them so fast she almost trips. And when they catch her, she doesnât let go. Not for a long time. I stand back, not wanting to ruin it. But one of them waves at me and says, âYou kept her safe, huh?â
I nod, and Lyra's still crying, but itâs the happy kind now.
Later that week, after things start settling down, we see Feyre and Rhysand again. They're not flanked by guards or dressed up for anythingâjust walking through the Rainbow like itâs any other day. Feyre has a little paint on her sleeve, and Rhysand is holding two mugs of something warm. They both look worn out in a quiet way, like their bones remember things they wonât say out loud, but when they spot us by the stairs near the river, they stop right away and come over.
Feyre crouches beside us, brushing her fingers through Lyraâs hair with a gentleness like she already knows what happenedâbecause she does. Because she always knows.
âWe heard your brothers are back.â
Lyra nods, holding back a smile.
Lyra is the one who asks first. Her voice is small but serious, like she already knows the answer but wants to hear it anyway. âWill you tell us what really happened? Not the stories everyoneâs tellingâlike, the real parts?â
I glance over at her, surprised she asked so boldly, but not really. Itâs Lyra. Sheâs always braver than she looks.
Feyre doesnât answer right away. She looks at Rhysand first, and they share that silent thing they always do, where you can tell theyâre speaking without sound. Then Feyre turns back to us, crouching lower so sheâs eye level.
âWhen youâre older,â she says gently, her voice soft like a blanket. âWeâll tell you all of it. The good, the awful, the parts no one sings about.â
âEven the part where you went to the Bone Carver?â Lyra asks.
Feyre smiles, but thereâs something behind itâsomething thatâs still heavy. âEven that.â
âWhat about the mirror thing?â I blurt. âThe Ouroboros?â
Rhysand lets out a low chuckle. âEspecially that. But youâre going to need a few more years before we get to that one. Some stories arenât bedtime-ready.â
Lyra leans closer. âWhat if weâre ready now?â
Feyre reaches out and taps her gently on the forehead. âYour heartâs ready. But your bones need a little more time.â
Rhysand kneels next to her. âAnd we wouldnât want to tell it wrong. Not to you two.â
I grin a little. âYouâd better not leave out the cool parts.â
Rhysand raises an eyebrow. âOh, weâll include the cool parts. The monsters. The flying. The death gods. But also the parts where we messed up.â
Lyra nods slowly. âOkay. Just⊠donât wait too long.â
Feyre laughs, a real one this time. âDeal.â
I glance at her and then at Rhysand. âWe wonât forget it. Even if you didnât tell us yet. It feels like... like the best story ever.â
Feyre looks at Rhysand again, and whatever she sees in his face makes her smile grow softer.
She pulls us both into a hug, arms warm and strong.
For @fuckyesfeysand's July prompt : Through Others' Eyes
What if you saw the whole story from the shadows of Velaris, from the rooftops, from the riverâs edge?Â
This is Hawkeâs view of the Night Court, and growing up in a city shaped by legends and maybe becoming their friend.
Can be read below or on AO3 ,Chapter 1, 9, 11
The morning is cold and a little too quiet.
Lyra isnât talking much, which is weird for her. Sheâs sitting near the edge of the steps by the river, arms wrapped around her knees, staring out at the water like sheâs mad at it. Her eyes are red, like she either cried already or is holding it back so hard her head might explode. I sit beside her and nudge her shoulder, but she doesnât move.
âThey left this morning,â she finally says. âBefore dawn. Both of them.â
I know she means her brothers.
âThey didnât even say goodbye properly. Just left a note and some gear missing.â
I donât say anything. What could I say? Her brothers had gone to fight in the war against Hybern. Itâs all anyone talks about nowâHybern this, war lines that. Most of us try not to think too hard about it. But Lyra canât not think about it. Itâs her family.
âTheyâre not even soldiers,â she says, almost to herself. âThey just... volunteered. Said they had to help.â
She buries her face in her arms.
I sit there for a minute, not knowing what to do, then scoot a little closer and lean my shoulder against hers. Itâs the only thing I can offer, and for once, she doesnât push me away.
Then I hear footsteps. Soft ones. Slower than usual.
When I glance up, the High lady is coming down the path. She looks... tired. Not just a little bit. Sheâs carrying something big and round, covered in dark cloth, resting against her shoulder. It glints at the edge where the wind lifts the corner. A mirror maybeâbut not a regular one. Something old and heavy and not quite normal.
She doesnât say anything at first. Just stops in front of us and sets the thing down with a soft thunk. Then she kneels in front of Lyra, rests one hand on her arm.
âI heard,â she says softly.
Lyra doesnât look up.
Feyre closes her eyes for a second, and I see the shimmer in the air before I understand whatâs happening. Sheâs speaking to the High Lord, I can feel it somehowâsomething in the way the world around us goes still.
Then her eyes open again, and she touches Lyraâs forehead, gentle and warm.
And somehow, Lyra hears her.
Not out loud.
I see it in her eyes when they widen. Feyreâs powersâher daemati giftâflowing through the bond with Rhysand, bridging something so Lyra can hear her, feel her, without words.
Lyra breathes in sharply.
Feyre doesnât push. Just stays there, quiet, letting whatever she shared settle.
And then Lyra throws her arms around her.
She pulls back to look at Feyre, tears sliding down her cheeks. âThank you.â
Feyre hugs her back.
I sit there, watching the morning grow brighter, and the cloth on the mirror shift again in the wind.
Whatever it is, I know itâs important.
But not as important as this.
Right now, this is what matters.
Feyre stays a little longer, just standing with her hands wrapped around the cloth-covered mirror like it's heavier than it looks. Then she turns back to us, her face pulled tight with something more than exhaustionâsomething deeper. She crouches again, not quite meeting our eyes at first.
âIâm leaving,â she says, and her voice is barely above a whisper. âThereâs something I need to do. Somewhere I need to be.â
Lyra lifts her head.
âYou two are braver than most grown soldiers Iâve met. But you donât need to fight yet. You just need to stay safe. Stay strong. And wait for me.â
I feel my stomach twist. âHow long?â
Feyre doesnât answer right away. Just smiles, soft and a little sad. âNot forever. Just until itâs done. This warâit will end. I promise. And when it does, Iâll come home.â
Then she turns toward the path again, the mirror slung back over her shoulder.
She disappears into the light, one quiet step at a time.
And we sit there a little longer, watching the spot where she left.
Because now we believe her.
This war will end.
She promised.
Lyra stays quiet for a bit, her head tucked down, arms wrapped tight around herself again. But then she looks at me.
âShe showed me their faces,â she says. Her voice is scratchy but calm now.âI saw my brothers.â Her voice is shaking, but not with sadness. âTheyâre okay. She let me feel them. Theyâre scared, but theyâre trying so hard to be brave.â
I blink. âThrough her mind?â
Lyra nods slowly. âIt was like⊠I donât know. Like my heart stopped panicking. Like I could breathe again.â
We both stare out at the Sidra. The lightâs brighter now. Gold hitting the water just right.
Lyra leans her head on my shoulder without saying anything else.
And I donât move.
Because some things are too big for words. But sitting still togetherâthat helps.
For @fuckyesfeysand's July prompt : Through Others' Eyes
What if you saw the whole story from the shadows of Velaris, from the rooftops, from the riverâs edge?Â
This is Hawkeâs view of the Night Court, and growing up in a city shaped by legends and maybe becoming their friend.
Can be read below or on AO3 ,Chapter 1, 8, 10
It had been months. Real ones, not just the kind that feel long when you miss someone. Months where the stars didnât feel as bright and the wind didnât hum the same way. Even the Sidra seemed to run a little quieter, like it knew something was missing and didnât want to make a fuss about it. People still smiled, and the city still moved, but underneath all of it, we were all waiting.
And then one morning, when Lyra and I were coming back from helping her mom carry baskets from the lower market, it happened. We were walking past the Rainbow, talking about something dumbâI think Lyra was trying to explain how you can paint clouds with your fingers if you swirl fast enoughâwhen I heard someone gasp. Not just a little one. A big, loud, surprised one that made everyone nearby stop. A sound that made every thought in my head go quiet all at once.
I looked up.
And there she was.
Flying.
The High lady. Our Feyre. Not a painting, not a dream, not a story someone made up to feel better. She was there in the sky, above Velaris, her wings outstretched, not soaring exactly but floating, a little uneven, like someone learning how to dance and laughing the whole time. Her braid was coming loose and her sleeves were rolled up and she looked like she didnât care what anyone thought, like she was free and wild and home.
People started calling her nameâsoft at first, then louder, and louder still. I shouted before I even knew I was doing it. âFEYRE!â My voice cracked right through the morning air.
She turned.
And smiled.
Not a small one. A full-face, full-heart kind of smile. The kind that makes you want to smile too, even if youâre about to cry.
But then she lost her balance.
It wasnât a big fall. Just a little drop like when someone misses the last step on the stairs. She dipped, wobbled, and hit the ground near the Rainbow, her boots skidding across the stone. She didnât crashâjust landed on her side, then rolled onto her back laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world. Some people gasped. A few started to rush over. But she waved a hand like, "Iâm fine, really," and sat up brushing chalk dust off her palms.
Lyra was already running. She didnât even stop to ask. She just threw her arms around Feyre like she hadnât seen her in years and didnât want to let go ever again. Her face was buried in Feyreâs stomach, and even though she was trying not to cry, I saw her shoulders shaking.
I stood there like an idiot, heart pounding so hard I thought it might fall out of my chest. I didnât know if I was supposed to run or shout or cry or what. I just stared.
Feyre looked up and found me in the crowd. Her eyes lit up, like sheâd been waiting to see me too. âDid you draw wings on me?â she asked, grinning like she already knew the answer.
I nodded, and my throat tightened so much I could barely breathe.
She opened one arm toward me and I finally moved. I didnât run like Lyra, but I didnât walk either. Just got there as fast as my legs would let me. And when I reached her, I hugged her, hard. It was her.
âYou canât leave like that,â I mumbled into her shoulder, voice shaking. âYou canât leave us again. Not without saying anything.â
Feyreâs hand came up to rest gently on the back of my head. âIâm sorry,â she said. âI never wanted to go. I had to.â
âI know,â I said, but it still didnât feel like enough.
She pulled back just a little so she could look at me. âYou kept drawing me?â
I shrugged. âWe didnât want people to forget.â
Her eyes went soft. Not sad, exactly. Just full of everything she didnât have to say out loud. âThank you.â
The breeze picked up, and I felt it before I saw him.
The High lord landed beside us with that way he moves, like heâs not touching the ground so much as convincing it to hold him up. He didnât say anything right away. Just watched us, quiet, his eyes a little brighter than usual.
Feyre stood, brushing herself off and keeping one hand on Lyraâs head the whole time, like she wasnât ready to let go yet either. Rhysand stepped closer and pulled her into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I looked up at him, then at her.
âYou promise youâre back for real?â I asked. âNo more leaving?â
Feyre bent down again, so we were eye to eye.
âI promise,â she said.
Rhysand just nodded. "She always keeps her promises," he said, then looked at me with a slight smile. "But I should warn youâshe has a terrible sense of direction. If she disappears again, weâll just assume she got lost somewhere over the Sidra."
Feyre rolled her eyes, but her smile didnât fade. Lyra giggled into her sleeve, and I tried not to laugh too loudly, even though it bubbled up anyway.
We didnât let them leave right away.
Somehow, someone pulled out a basket of food, and then someone else brought out cups and fruit, and before long we were all sitting by the river with bread and cheese and something warm that tasted like honey and spice. Feyre sat cross-legged on a blanket, her boots kicked off and her braid finally starting to come apart completely. Lyra was curled beside her like a cat, still clinging to her sleeve like she thought if she let go Feyre might disappear again.
Rhysand sat with us too, though he didnât eat much. He just leaned back on one hand and let the other rest on Feyreâs knee, always touching, always near. He watched us more than he talked, smiling in that quiet way that made you feel like he knew something good you hadnât figured out yet.
âDo you always crash land when you visit?â I asked, after she nearly choked on a fig from laughing.
Feyre wiped her mouth, still grinning. âOnly when someone yells loud enough to knock me out of the sky.â
âNot my fault you canât fly straight,â I said.
She gasped like Iâd insulted her honor. âYou better take that back, Hawke.â
Rhysand raised his cup and said, âI warned you about her sense of direction.â
Lyra giggled so hard she snorted, and Feyre tossed a grape at Rhysand, which he caught without looking. I didnât know it then, but I think that meal might be the one I remember even when Iâm a hundred years old. Not because it was fancy, or because of the food. Just because it felt like something we lost had come back.
For @fuckyesfeysand's July prompt : Through Others' Eyes
What if you saw the whole story from the shadows of Velaris, from the rooftops, from the riverâs edge?Â
This is Hawkeâs view of the Night Court, and growing up in a city shaped by legends and maybe becoming their friend.
Can be read below or on AO3 ,Chapter 1, 7, 9
It starts like everything in this city does: a whisper.
Lyra hears it first from the fishmongerâs wife, who swears on her favorite knife that Feyreâs not just his mate. Not just the Cursebreaker. Sheâs the High Lady. Of the Night Court.
A High Lady.
We donât know what to do with the words. Theyâre heavy and bright, like picking up a sword that doesnât belong to you yet. But they echo in every corridor after that. The baker says it. Then the bookseller. Then the old retired Illyrian who always pretends he doesnât care about politics but nearly knocks over his tea when he hears.
âSheâs what?â he croaks.
âThe High Lady,â says the butcherâs son. âLike, officially.â
One boyâTomas, I thinkâscoffs loud enough for everyone to hear. âYou lot believe anything. Rhysand doesnât have a High Lady. Thatâs not even a thing.â
Itâs quiet for a breath.
Then his mom smacks him lightly on the back of the head with a rolled-up list. âNot a thing? She faced Amarantha. She ripped the sky open. She carries all seven powers in her bones. Donât be stupid.â
Tomas rubs his head, scowling. But he doesnât argue.
And none of us laugh.
Because we remember the wolves. We remember the night she burned through shadow and threw monsters out of the sky.
Sheâs the High Lady.
And it fits.
But then a few days pass.
And she doesnât show up.
No river walks. No chalk stars in the square. No stories, no wolves, no quiet smile in the crowd.
People start to notice.
"Maybe sheâs busy," someone says at the market.
"Sheâs probably traveling," someone else mutters. "High Lady stuff."
But we still look. All of us. Even the little kids who canât spell her name right. They glance down alleys and up at rooftops, like maybe sheâll land again, just as suddenly.
By the fifth day, the old painter with the shaky hands stops halfway through another mural of her and sighs.
âWhole city went quiet again,â he says. âLike she took the stars with her.â
Lyra leans over to me and whispers, "Where is she?"
I donât know.
But I miss her, too.
At first, everyoneâs just quiet.
We just wait. Kids peek around corners hoping to spot her wings. Grown-ups pretend not to check the skies every time a shadow passes overhead.
But when she still doesnât show up after days, the questions creep in.
Lyra hears it from someone near the market. âMy cousin in the Dawn Court saw her,â they whisper. âGreen velvet, gold collar. Said she looked happy.â
Green. Spring colors.
âSheâs back in the Spring Court,â someone says. âBack with him.â
Only two people say that out loud.
One of them is a boy named Velric whoâs always trying to sound smarter than he is. He says it right by the fountain where everyoneâs gathered.
âGuess she got tired of playing High Lady. Bet she ran back to Tamlin the minute things got hard.â
I stop walking. Lyra grabs my sleeve, but I shake her off and face him.
âYou donât know anything,â I say.
Velric just shrugs. âI know sheâs not here.â
âSheâs fighting for us,â I say. âShe doesnât have to be here every second to prove it.â
Another voice pipes up, trying to act brave. âThen where is she?â
I donât get a chance to answer.
Because Amren shows up.
One blink sheâs not there. The next, she is. Standing like sheâs been there all along. Quiet. Still. Watching.
âShe is where she needs to be,â Amren says, voice cold and flat. âSheâs on a mission. One that might stop a war youâre not ready for.â
Velric opens his mouth.
âDonât,â she warns.
He closes it again. Fast.
Amrenâs eyes glow just a little. Then sheâs gone.
Velric doesnât say anything after that.
No one does.
I miss her, more than I thought I would. I donât mean the stories or the magic wolves or even the way she made everything feel possible. I mean herâjust her being here. Walking around the city, showing up out of nowhere, making you feel like she saw you even when she barely said a word.
Itâs been too many days, and every time I walk past the Sidra or the market or even the chalk drawings on the walls, it feels like thereâs a space missing. Like something that should be there just isnât.
People are still talking about her, but not in the loud, excited way they did when they first called her High Lady. Now itâs quieter, like everyoneâs trying not to sound worried.Â
Someone painted a version of her wolves with these swirls of blue and silver that made it look like the whole thing was moving. I wanted to do something tooânot to show off, but just to have something of her around, even if it was just mine.
So that night, after everyone was asleep, I sat by the window with my sketch pad and started drawing. I didnât really have a plan, just a feeling. I drew Feyre with wingsânot because Iâve seen her fly, because I havenât, but because it felt right. Like thatâs how she should be, up in the sky, above everything. And beside her, I drew Rhysand, tall and shadowy, but not scary.
They looked strong together, like the stars themselves might shift just to make room for them. Below them, I sketched Velaris, not perfect, but close enough that someone from here would know it.
The next day, I waited around the market, hoping I might see him. And I did. The High lord, walking alone through the booths, shadows trailing behind him like they had minds of their own. I didnât even think, I just walked up and called his name. My voice cracked a little, but he turned, and when he saw me, something in his face softened.
I held out the drawing with both hands. I couldnât look right at him when I said it.
âI made this for you and the High lady.â
He took it without saying anything at first. Just looked at it.Like it mattered. Then he knelt so we were almost eye level and said, âThank you, Hawkeâ in this quiet voice that didnât sound anything like the High Lord who once made the sky go dark.
âSheâll want to see this,â he said. âI promise.â
I nodded, and he nodded back, then walked away with the sketch folded carefully in his hand like it was something fragile. And for the first time in days, I didnât feel like I was just waiting around for her to come back.Â
I felt like maybe Iâd sent something ahead, something small and quiet and mine.Â
Something that might remind her sheâs not forgotten.
For @fuckyesfeysand's July prompt : Through Others' Eyes
What if you saw the whole story from the shadows of Velaris, from the rooftops, from the riverâs edge?Â
This is Hawkeâs view of the Night Court, and growing up in a city shaped by legends and maybe becoming their friend.
Can be read below or on AO3 ,Chapter 1, 6, 8
Chapter Seven: The Evening Flame
Itâs been a few days since the attack, but not everyone is fine.
Lyraâs little cousin is not fine. He is five years old and furious. And loud.
Heâs throwing a full-blown tantrum on the River Hall steps, kicking the stone, yelling that his wooden gryphon is broken, that he hates the city, that he wants to go live with the sea lions. A few other children glance his way, amused or annoyed. Most of the adults just give us pitying looks.
We try everything. Bribes, jokes, making ridiculous faces. Nothing works. He wails louder.
The wind off the Sidra rustles through the square, scattering petals from a cart someone forgot to tie down. The sun is lowâalmost gone. The light hits the tiles in pinks and reds, turning everything soft, like the city is trying to calm him too.
Then, from across the square, Feyre walks toward us.
She doesnât say anything right away. She just sits on the step below him and rests her chin in her hand like she has all the time in the world.
âWant to hear a story?â she asks.
He sniffs. âNo.â
âGood,â she says. âBecause I wasnât going to tell a boring one.â
His tantrum slows. Just a little. Enough to breathe.
She lifts her hands. Magic sparks to life.
Water curls up from the river in delicate strands. Flame flickers between her fingers. A gust of wind stirs her hair, and ice shimmers faintly along the stone.
One kid from the bakery drifts over, half a roll in his mouth. Anotherâone of the twins from the north stairsâtugs her sister by the sleeve and sits cross-legged nearby.
More children begin to gather.
And then Feyre says:
âHave you ever heard the story of Anansi and the Sky God?â
I blink. I havenât. But I sit down.
So does everyone else.
âAnansi was a spider,â she begins, shaping a thread of fire into a glimmering eight-legged figure. âBut not just any spider. He was clever, and greedy, and wanted all the stories in the world for himself.â
The spider dances across her palm, spinning gold webs of flame and wind.
âHe went to the Sky God, who owned every tale, and demanded to buy them. The Sky God laughed. He told Anansi he could have themâbut only if he could bring him four impossible things.â
Her other hand lifts, forming the first task in water: a snake with silver eyes, coiling and hissing. The children gasp.
âThe first was Mmoboro, the deadly hornet swarm,â she says, and the water swirls into a buzzing cloud of tiny sparks. âAnansi tricked them into hiding in a gourd, pretending a storm was coming.â
Then, the shape shifts again.
âNext was Onini, the killer python. He was proudâtoo proud. Anansi flattered him, measured him, tied him down. Two down.â
She coils a rope of air around the snake. The illusion shifts.
âThen came Osebo, the stealthy leopard,â Feyre says, and the ice forms a sleek, powerful cat. âAnansi dug a pit and waited. The leopard fell right in. He covered it in web and hauled it out like a prize.â Ice forms sharp, elegant fangs. The leopard growls, but the spider weaves a net of flame.
âHe tricked it into a trap.â
âLast was Mmoatia, the fairy who could vanish and reappear with a blink.â Feyreâs hands twist, and a shimmer of air and mist forms a tiny dancing shape. âAnansi made a sticky doll, offered food, and let her get stuck trying to slap it. Even fairies can be outsmarted.â
The illusions sparkle, each of them folding inward until they vanish like embers in wind.
âHe brought all four to the Sky God,â Feyre says, her voice soft but clear. âAnd the Sky God, annoyed but impressed, gave him all the stories. To share with humans. To keep them company when the nights got too quiet.â Feyre finishes, folding her hands as the illusions vanish into sparks. âAnd for that, the Sky God gave him the stories. Which is why spiders still spin tales today.â
A small voice says, âThatâs not real.â
Itâs Azriel. Heâs leaning against the edge of the fountain behind us, shadows curled around his shoulders like lazy cats. I didnât even hear him come up. Heâs always doing thatâjust appearing like part of the air decided to solidify.
âIt is if you believe it,â Rhysand says, appearing beside him, hands in his pockets, grin crooked.
Cassian flops down on the steps like heâs just finished a battle. âI liked the leopard best. Definitely the most Cassian of the bunch.â
Mor comes spinning around the corner like sheâs been listening the whole time, whichâknowing Morâshe probably has. She tosses her golden hair over one shoulder and says, "The spider was obviously the best part. Outsmarting gods? Thatâs my kind of story."
Lyra grins at me. I try to act cool, but my face goes all warm. Mor actually noticed the spider. And said it was the best part.
Amren walks by with a single raised brow and a muttered, âYou would,â like she's somehow judging the whole story and everyone in it.
The children laugh. Even Lyraâs cousin.
Feyre just smiles and brushes the dust from her skirt. Then Rhysand holds out his hand. Feyre takes it without even looking, like theyâve been doing that forever. He leans in and says something just to herâI canât hear itâbut she laughs, soft and real.
They lift off slowly, not like a big dramatic exit, just... together. Like even the wind didnât want to bother them. Rhysandâs wings flare wide and strong, Feyre looked like the magic hadnât left her yet.
We all stare up, necks tilted, even the littlest kids.
And long after they vanish above the rooftops, the stars from her story still shimmer faintly above the square
For @fuckyesfeysand's July prompt : Through Others' Eyes
What if you saw the whole story from the shadows of Velaris, from the rooftops, from the riverâs edge?Â
This is Hawkeâs view of the Night Court, and growing up in a city shaped by legends and maybe becoming their friend.
Can be read below or on AO3 ,Chapter 1, 5, 7
I was thirteen when the city found out they were mates.
It didnât come from a royal proclamation or anything fancy. It came from someone shouting it from the Rainbow. Loud. Like they couldnât keep it in.
âTheyâre mates! Rhysand and Feyre!â
And that was it. Everyone just started cheering and clapping and grabbing the nearest person to hug them. Even the grumpy tailor who hated noise.
The baker gave out sweet rolls until he ran out. A bunch of Illyrians flew over the city in a circle, whooping and trailing blue and gold sparks. People threw flower petals in the streets. Someone painted Feyreâs name in silver down the side of a fountain.
Lyra and I ran around trying to hear everything. The stories were wild.
âThey touched hands and it lit up the whole bridge.â
âI saw them kissing near the River Garden!â
I didnât know if any of it was true. But it felt real enough to believe.
It was one of those days where the whole city felt like a giant family. Everyone was happy. Even the sky looked happier.
Until it didnât.
That night, when the lanterns were still glowing and kids were still out dancing, something slammed into the sky.
A noise like metal shrieking. A burst of wind that smelled wrong.
And then screaming.
I saw shadows drop down from the clouds. Fast and sharp.
Attor.
Iâd never seen one before, but I knew. Everyone knew. Wings too thin. Faces too long. Smiles like broken glass.
They came straight for the Rainbow.
People scattered. Guards shouted. Magic lit the sky.
Lyra grabbed my hand. I didnât even think. I just ran.
Velaris had waited fifty years for peace.
And in one heartbeat, it shattered again.
The first scream doesnât sound real. It tears through the lantern-lit air like it doesnât belong. Then another comes, sharper, closer.
I spin toward the sound just in time to see the sky break.
Black shapes fall through the cloudsâthings with torn wings and too-long limbs. The stars vanish behind them. One crashes into a rooftop with a shriek like metal scraping stone. Another dives straight toward the Rainbow.
People run. I hear glass shatter. Somewhere, someone is yelling for the guard. Lyra grabs my hand, but Iâm frozen.
Thereâs too much noise. Too much movement. I canât think.
The Attor are real. Theyâre real and theyâre here.
We duck into an alley, but itâs too narrow. Too dark. The walls feel like theyâre closing in. I trip over a broken crate, fall hard, scrape my knees. Lyra helps me up, breathless.
âTheyâre everywhere,â she gasps. âWhat do we do?â
I want to be brave. I want to fight like the stories. But all I have is fear. It sits in my throat like a stone.
A shadow falls across the alley mouth. One of them. Long limbs. Crooked wings. Eyes like burning coals.
It hisses. Starts toward us.
Lyra screams.
I throw myself in front of her. I donât think. I just do. My arms go wide, useless. But I wonât let her be taken.
I donât care if Iâm afraid.
I wonât let her be taken.
Then the wind shifts.
Something surges out of the Sidra. A sound like rushing waterâand then I see them.
Wolves.
But not flesh and bone. Water and starlight. Transparent jaws and gleaming eyes. They move like they were born from the river, teeth bared, paws crashing onto stone.
They leap.
The Attor turns too late.
One wolf hits it midair, knocking it off the alley ledge. Another snarls as it snaps at a second creature diving toward the bridge.
I canât move. Canât breathe.
Then she lands.
Feyre.
Wings wide. Power crackling at her fingertips. Her face is calm, but her eyesâher eyes look like the sky just before lightning strikes.
She doesnât shout. She doesnât even blink.
She lifts her hand.
More wolves pour from the river, each one made of crashing tide and magic. They donât speak, but they listen. They move where she tells them. Guarding. Tearing. Protecting.
The Attor shriek and scatter.
I fall to my knees, watching as she steps forward. The alley lights shimmer around her.
And when she turns to usâme and Lyraâshe nods once.
âRun home Hawke, I've got you,â she says.
And I believe her.
Because the wolves are still here.
And she is too.
More screams echo from the market. Something explodes near the east gate. I hear a child crying, a guard shouting orders, someone begging for a healer. The wolves race off, splitting into pairs. Feyre lifts into the air again without a word, her wings slicing through smoke.
I grab Lyraâs hand and pull her toward the bridge. Sheâs shaking, Iâm shaking, but we move. The city needs help. People are trapped. I donât know what I can doâbut I have to do something.
We pass a collapsed archway where an old man is trying to lift a broken cart. I rush over, hands under the wood. Lyra joins me. We heave. The man stares at us like he doesnât believe what weâre doing, then nods once.
âGo,â he says. âGet to shelter.â
We keep running.
Somewhere above, Cassian bellows a war cry. Mor flashes through the streets like lightning. Azrielâs shadows curl around rooftops.
And at the center of it, holding the storm togetherâFeyre. Feyre Cursebreaker. I am terrified.
And above us all, like the sky itself was obeying him, is Rhysand.
I see him through a break in the clouds. Wings like the night sky, cloak whipping behind him as if even the wind follows his command. He doesnât just flyâhe commands the air like it belongs to him. Power crackles around him, so thick I can feel it in my bones even from the ground.
Then I see it. The Attor. Trying to escape toward the sea. One of them.
And I see her go after it.
She vanishesâwinnowsâand reappears above it. I barely understand what Iâm seeing. But the Attor shrieks, and suddenly itâs falling. And sheâs falling with it. Holding it. Flames coil around them both. And then, just before they hit the ground, she vanishes again.
The sound when the Attor hits the cobblestones shakes through the bones of the street.
And then Rhysand is there. The wave of night that follows him crashes over the city, sweeping out anything still hidden, still lurking. But it doesnât touch us. It only clears the darkness the enemy brought.
And when it vanishes, heâs standing in the street.
The streets are scorched. The Sidra is stained red. But people are standing now. I see them. Soldiers helping children. Artists carrying the wounded. A healer pressing light into a broken arm.
I sit on the steps by the bakery, knees bandaged, holding a sweet bun someone handed me without saying anything. My fingers are sticky. I donât care.
Lyra is beside me. Her braid is a mess and she has soot smudged across her face. She doesnât say much either. Weâre both listening.
Velaris is still here.
Thereâs a strange kind of peace in that.
And then I see her.
Feyre.
Sheâs in the square, standing barefoot on the stones. Her hair is braided down her back, long and loose. Sheâs talking to a little boy who wonât let go of her hand. She crouches to his height and listens like heâs the only one that matters. When he finishes his storyâsomething about hiding under a benchâshe hugs him so tightly I can feel it from across the square.
Then she looks up.
Rhysand is there, a few steps away, talking with a group of kids crowding him like heâs telling them battle secrets. He grins and says something that makes all of them laugh. One of them pokes at his wings and he just lifts one in slow motion, letting them duck under like itâs a tent.
Lyra elbows me. âTold you he likes kids.â
I nod, still staring.
Someone starts drawing chalk stars on the stone. Feyre joins them. She doesnât say sheâs too tired. She just picks up a piece of chalk and starts drawing too.
By noon, there are stars all over the plaza. Someone adds wolves. Someone else adds wings. Feyre paints a tiny rainbow over the Sidra drawn at her feet.
I add a little figure with a slingshot and say nothing when Lyra grins at me.
Feyre notices me then.
She stands slowly, brushing chalk dust off her palms, and walks toward us. Not fast. Not like sheâs someone important. Just like she wants to be near.
"I like your slingshot," she says, stopping beside our stars.
I blink up at her. My mouth is dry. "Thanks. Itâs supposed to be me. From before."
"Before?" she asks gently.
"Before the wolves. Before everything. When I thought I could fight with a rock."
Feyre kneels beside the chalk figure, her fingers tracing the air above it. "That boy saved someone, though. Didnât he?"
I glance at Lyra, whoâs pretending not to listen.
"He tried."
Feyre meets my eyes. "Trying is a kind of bravery too."
My throat tightens.
She nudges a piece of chalk toward me. "Want to draw the wolves next? The ones that showed up because someone tried."
I take the chalk.
Rhysand comes over then, wings tucked close, his hair wind-tossed. He drops a pastry in my lap like heâs done it a hundred times. "That slingshot better have the right angle on it," he says.
For @fuckyesfeysand's July prompt : Through Others' Eyes
What if you saw the whole story from the shadows of Velaris, from the rooftops, from the riverâs edge?Â
This is Hawkeâs view of the Night Court, and growing up in a city shaped by legends and maybe becoming their friend.
Can be read below or on AO3 ,Chapter 1, 4, 6
It had been a few more months since we were caught planning our ridiculous Spring Court mission. Iâd stopped trying to sneak out, mostly because I knew it was pointless now. But that didnât stop the whispers.
They said she was here. That the High Lord had brought her to Velaris.
That the girl from the mountain, the human who had become fae, who had broken the curse and faced the queen and survived the wyrmâthat she was finally in the city.
People said she was beautiful. They said she held all seven powers, that magic ran through her like music. That she had shadows and flame and water and wind in her blood now. That when she walked, even the stone paths of Velaris took notice.
I didnât know what to believe. I just wanted to see her.
Lyra and I checked every corner of the city we were allowed into. The Rainbow. The Riverwalk. The upper terraces by the old watchtowers. We even pretended we were going to buy paint just to sneak around the artistâs quarters. But no one had seen her. Or if they had, they werenât telling us.
âSheâs probably staying somewhere secret,â Lyra grumbled as we walked past the Sidra one morning. âProbably in a palace carved into the cliff or hidden behind ten layers of wards.â
âSheâs not a secret,â I muttered. âSheâs Feyre Cursebreaker. She saved the whole court. Why would they hide her?â
âI donât know,â Lyra said. âMaybe because she wants to be left alone. Maybe because sheâs tired.â
We both fell quiet, kicking at loose stones, our frustration hanging around our shoulders like heavy cloaks.
âI just want to see her,â I said, for what felt like the hundredth time. âOne time. Thatâs it.â
âYou and half the city,â someone said behind us, loud and warm.
We both froze.
Cassian was leaning against a fountain wall, arms crossed, grin wide like heâd been listening for a while. Beside him stood Mor, looking amused as ever, golden hair catching the sun like a crown.
âPlanning another daring mission?â Mor asked. âOr just yelling your wish into the wind this time?â
Lyra turned bright red. I wanted the cobblestones to open and swallow me whole.
âWe werenâtâwe were just talking,â I said quickly.
Cassian chuckled. âLoudly. And with very creative complaints, I might add.â
âWe didnât mean anything,â Lyra added. âWe just... still havenât seen her.â
Cassianâs smile softened a little. âYouâre not the only ones.â
Then Mor tilted her head, glanced over her shoulder.
âFeyre,â she said.
We both looked.
She was just there. Standing quietly beside them, like she had been all along. No grand entrance. No magic. Just real.
And I knew her, even before she smiled. I had seen the paintings. The one where she stood over the wyrm. The one where her eyes burned like starlight. The Cursebreaker was here.
But none of them were like seeing her now. None of them showed the way her presence filled the space, how calm she looked. Strong. Not the kind of strength you shout about. The kind that survives.
Lyra and I stared.
Feyre looked right at us.
And smiled.
She took a step toward us, the sunlight catching in her hair. Her eyes, the same color as storm-washed skies, held something softâlike she already knew everything we were feeling. I realized then that I had been holding my breath.
"You two must be the ones who nearly stormed the Spring Court," she said gently, the corner of her mouth lifting.
I flushed so hard I thought I might melt. Lyra elbowed me for the third time that week.
"We werenât really going," I muttered. "It was just an idea."
Feyre nodded like she believed me. Or maybe she remembered what it felt like to want something that badly. âThatâs how all the good ideas start. Just... maybe not the best timing.â
Cassian let out a cough behind her, but Feyre stayed focused on us. On me. And it wasnât the way adults usually looked at kids. It was steady. Clear.
âYouâve been looking for me?â she asked.
Lyra nodded. âWe just wanted to see you. Everyone talks about you like you're a story. But you're real.â
Feyreâs smile faltered, just a little.Â
She crouched down then, knees brushing the stones, and we were almost eye level and reached out and tucked a curl behind Lyraâs ear like they had known each other for years. "Thank you for looking. For caring. That matters more than you know."
Her voice wasnât loud. It didnât need to be. It sounded like it belonged here, in Velaris, like it had always been waiting to come home.
And suddenly, I wanted to say everything at once. That I had memorized every story I could find. That I had tried to draw her from memory. That when the ground shook, I knew she had won.
But all I said was, "Weâre really glad youâre here."
Her eyes softened. "Me too."
My mouth opened before I could stop it.
"Was it really as big as the stories say? The wyrm? Did you really trick it with bones?"
Feyre blinked, then laughed softly, not in a mocking way, but like she was remembering something far away.
"It was bigger," she said. "And meaner. But yes. I tricked it. Barely."
Lyra leaned in, eyes wide. "Were you scared?"
Feyre nodded. "Yes. Every second. But I kept going anyway. Thatâs the part they forget to paint. The fear. The shaking."
I swallowed. "But you still won. You broke the curse. You saved everything."
Feyre looked at me then, and I swear I saw something flicker behind her eyes. Pride. Sadness. Maybe both.
"I had help," she said. "I didnât do it alone."
"Still," I said, louder than I meant to. "Thank you. For not giving up. For fighting for us. For him."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she reached out, rested her hand lightly on my shoulder. "You're worth fighting for. All of you. Donât ever forget that."
She stood, graceful and easy, and Mor stepped close to her side like a quiet shield.
Cassian clapped a hand on my shoulder on the way out. "Try not to start any rebellions this week, yeah?"
Then they were walking, the three of them, sunlight trailing behind them like it was following.
Lyra and I just stood there.
And for the first time since that day at the fountain, I felt like the story had finally caught up to us.
The Cursebreaker was real. And she had smiled at me.
For @fuckyesfeysand's July prompt : Through Others' Eyes
What if you saw the whole story from the shadows of Velaris, from the rooftops, from the riverâs edge?Â
This is Hawkeâs view of the Night Court, and growing up in a city shaped by legends and maybe becoming their friend.
Can be read below or on AO3 ,Chapter 1, 3 , 5
It had been months since the High Lord returned, and still, I hadnât seen her.
Not really. Not up close. Not even from a rooftop or across a river. The girl from the mountain. The human who became fae. The one they called Cursebreaker.
Feyre.
She wasnât here. Everyone said she was in the Spring Court, with Lord Tamlin. That maybe sheâd stay there. That maybe she belonged to them now.
I didnât care what court she belonged to. I just wanted to see her. I needed to see her.
And apparently, I was the only one who thought that was important.
âIâm not asking to go to the Spring Court,â I said, standing in the middle of the kitchen with my arms crossed, âI just want to see her. Once. Even from a distance.â
My mother was scrubbing something that didnât need scrubbing. She didnât look at me. âSheâs not a performer, Hawke. Sheâs not here to be stared at.â
âI donât want to stare! I justâsheâs real. She did what no one else could. Everyone talks about her like sheâs a myth, but I want to know what she looks like when she walks. What she sounds like when she talks to someone. I just want to know sheâs real.â
Lyraâs mother, who had come by to drop off a loaf of bread, sighed deeply. âYou think youâre the only child in this city who wants that? Everyoneâs curious. But sheâs resting. Recovering. What she did... what she went through... no child needs to see that on someoneâs face.â
âSheâs our hero!â I snapped. âSheâs part of our story now.â
That got my motherâs attention. She turned around and looked me right in the eyes.
âSheâs part of his story,â she said quietly. âAnd when the High Lord wants to bring her here, he will. But thatâs not your choice to make.â
I didnât say anything after that. I didnât trust my voice.
Outside, the bells rang the late-morning hour. Somewhere down the street, I heard someone playing a flute, and a child laughing. The city had healed fast, on the outside at least. But I still felt like something was missing. Like the story hadnât ended properly.
I didnât want to wait forever.
I wanted to see the girl who had faced the wyrm. Who had survived the mountain. Who had made the High Lord bow his head when he spoke her name.
I wanted to see the Cursebreaker.
Later that afternoon, Lyra met me by the east fountain, the one where the pigeons always fought over the crumbs. I had barely sat down before she said, "You still want to see her, donât you?"
I looked around, like someone might overhear, even though we were alone. Then I nodded. "Obviously. They think weâll just forget. Like it doesnât matter."
Lyra leaned in close. "What if we snuck into the Spring Court?"
It was so sudden I blinked at her. "What? Thatâs... thatâs insane."
She shrugged like she was talking about stealing a roll from the baker, not entering another court. "You said you wanted to see her. That you needed to. So letâs do it."
I hesitated. "Do you even know where it is?"
"I know itâs south. And I know thereâs a road that leads into the forest. I heard the old spice merchant talking about it. He used to deliver there before the war."
My mind was already spinning with images of us sneaking through trees, slipping past guards, maybe even seeing her in a garden, painting something like the stories said she used to.
"Weâd need supplies," I muttered.
"We can take from my brotherâs satchel," Lyra said, eyes bright. "And I have maps."
I was about to agree, heart racing, when a shadow passed over the fountain.
We both looked up.
The High Lord stood not three paces away. His wings were folded, but they still seemed to take up more space than they should have, like the air shifted around them. His eyes were a color I couldn't name, deep and sharp all at once, and he was smiling in a way you donât expect a High Lord to smile, crooked and knowing.
I shot to my feet so fast I knocked the bench backward. Lyra gasped and nearly tripped over it.
âWeâWe werenâtâwe didnât meanââ I said, which was not even a full sentence, and definitely didnât help.
Lyra elbowed me, hard, and bowed so fast she nearly headbutted the fountain.
I followed, trying not to shake.
The High Lord just stood there a moment, looking at us like we were interesting little puzzles, his brows slightly lifted in amusement. Iâd never felt so small and important all at once.
He said, finally, "The Spring Court is dangerous. Especially for two brave adventurers armed with maps and a satchel of who-knows-what."
His voice was smooth, but there was something gentle beneath it, like he was trying not to laugh.
âWe werenât really going,â I said quickly. âWe just... we wanted to see her. Feyre. The Cursebreaker.â
At that, something changed in his face. Just for a breath. Like a thread pulled tight behind his eyes.
Then he looked at me, really looked. Not just the way adults do when they catch you misbehaving, but like he was trying to remember something, or maybe trying not to.
âSo do I,â he said softly.
I froze. I didnât know what to do with that answer. So I stared at the ground.
He stepped forward, closer to the fountain, and crouched until he was more level with us. "Youâll see her when itâs time," he said. "And when you do, I think sheâd like you."
He looked between us, that sly smile flickering again. "Though you might want to work on your stealth. And maybe your escape routes."
I opened my mouth to say somethingâanythingâbut he had already straightened.
He gave us both a nod, not cold or dismissive, but like we had passed some invisible test.
And then he was gone.
Lyra let out a breath like she had been underwater. âHe smiled. Did you see him smile?â
âI think I forgot how to breathe,â I muttered.
But even with my heart still pounding, I couldnât help the grin pulling at my face.
For @fuckyesfeysand's July prompt : Through Others' Eyes
What if you saw the whole story from the shadows of Velaris, from the rooftops, from the riverâs edge?Â
This is Hawkeâs view of the Night Court, and growing up in a city shaped by legends and maybe becoming their friend.
Can be read below or on AO3, Chapter 1, 2, 4
The ground had gone still again, but something in the air felt different. Lighter. I could hear someone shouting from a few streets over, their voice cracking from how loud they were trying to be. Then we heard more voices, dozens of them, rising like birds taking flight.
Lyra grabbed my hand and said, "Come on." And we ran.
By the time we got back near our street, people were pouring out of their homes. My mother was already in the doorway, staring like she couldn't believe what she was seeing. My father had come outside too, holding her by the shoulders, not saying a word.
Everyone else had the same idea, I think, because the streets were suddenly packed. The baker was standing on a crate, laughing and crying at the same time, shouting something about fifty years. The old painter who never talked to anyone was hugging a street performer. Kids were running around like it was a festival, grabbing sweet bread from baskets and spinning in circles.
Someone had started playing a lute, not very well, but no one cared. One of the butchers was handing out hot pies without charging. I saw Lyra in the crowd with her brothers, all of them wearing flower crowns someone mustâve tossed on their heads.
I didnât know exactly what had happened. I still donât. But everyone kept whispering the same thing. âShe did it.â âShe survived.â âShe freed him.â
Someone near me said that the mountain had gone quiet. Another said the queen was dead. The one who had stolen everything. Iâd never seen her, but I hated her. We all did. Even the kids.
The city was louder than Iâd ever heard it, but underneath all of that sound, everyone was waiting. It was like everyone was holding the same question in their chests: when will he come back?
No one said his name. No one had to. Every time someone looked south, toward the mountains, it was like they were already saying it in their heads.
I didnât know what it would look like when he returned. I didnât know how heâd come back. But for the first time since I was born, the city didnât feel scared anymore.
And for the first time in my life, my parents were smiling.
Not the kind of smile they used when they were trying to be strong. Real ones. Big and real and a little bit shaky.
We all kept looking toward the mountains. And we waited. And we hoped.
And we knew he was coming.
It happened the next day, just after the sun climbed past the rooftops. The city hadnât really gone to sleep. No one could. Not after what weâd felt. But it had quieted, like even the stars were listening.
And then someone cried out, from somewhere near the Sidra, and the sound ran through the streets like lightning.
He was here.
I ran. I wasnât the only one. Everyone flooded into the streetsâfamilies, shopkeepers, guards with tears in their eyes, children still clutching half-eaten bread. Even the quiet ones, even the ones who had not dared hope.
People didnât need to be told what to do. As the path cleared, from the fountain plaza down to the river, everyone fell to their knees. Not from fear. Not from duty. Because it was the only thing their bodies could manage. I saw my father go down slowly, his hand over his heart. My mother beside him, tears sliding down her face. I heard murmurs, not shoutsâ"He came back." "Itâs him." "Heâs alive."
The crowd stretched from the markets to the domed Hall of Records, a river of fae bowing in silence.
And then he stepped into view.
The High Lord of the Night Court.
He didnât glide. He didnât strut. He walked, with steady steps, straight-backed. His wings were outâmassive, midnight black, and full of quiet power. They curved behind him like a second sky, the membrane shining faintly with starlight. His face was unreadable. Beautiful, yes, but not in the way people usually meant. Beautiful like the night is beautifulâmysterious, endless, a little frightening if you look too long.
He didnât wear a crown. He didnât need one.
His power moved ahead of him, like the air shifted around it. It felt like gravity. Like silence before a storm. It hummed through the stone. People shivered when he passed.
And yetâhe smiled.
Only slightly. But it was real. The smile of someone who had seen death, walked out the other side, and found something worth returning to.
He stopped halfway down the plaza. Looked out at us.
âYou waited,â he said. His voice was soft, but it carried.
No one answered at first. We didnât know if we could.
Then the baker said, âAlways.â And it broke something open. People sobbed. A child called out, âHigh Lord!â like it was his name and title all at once.
Rhysand knelt.
He knelt before the city.
No one moved. No one knew what to do.
Then one voice whispered, âHe remembers us.â
The High Lord rose again, turned slightly, and held out his hand to help an elderly fae stand. She clutched his wrist, and her lips trembled as she whispered something I couldnât hear.
He nodded, touched her cheek, and moved on.
He spoke to others tooâbrief words. A smith. A courier. A mother holding a baby. Each time, people cried harder.
And then, for the briefest moment, he turned in our direction.
I couldnât breathe.
He looked across the crowd, past the kneeling fae and the painted buildings and the paper lanterns someone had already begun stringing from rooftop to rooftop. He looked past all of it, and maybe, just maybe, saw a boy standing beside his parents, holding his breath.
He kept walking. Not away from us, but toward something deeper in the city. Toward the place only he had ever seen clearly.
And the people followed. Slowly. Quietly. Like the world was waking up.
