the dusk in your eye {CHAPTER ONE: God On High, Can You Hear Your People Cry?)
Series synopsis: It was nothing but mere kindness that your uncle had taken you in after your parents died to the same sickness that took your aunt. Despite being cousins, the Acherons treated you like you were a daughter and sister – especially Feyre. Yet even with that love, you are still left with the bitter knowledge that you were an additional burden to an already hungry family. But when you're forced to meet the depths of the Cauldron, you realise your path was to be more than a burden on your family. You were deliverance for a forgotten court.
Chapter summary: It has been two years since you and your cousins were Made fae, and eight months since the birth of Nyx. Time had felt like it trickled by faster than it did before, and you couldn't help but feel left behind – no partner to hold, no powers yet to show. But a single night during the Winter Solstice, an event presenting the Night Court heir, breathes fate into your story.
Warnings: Explicit language, sexual content in later chapters (18+ only!), violence, bodily injury, torture, major character death, class and race wars, period misogyny.
Chapter song: "Deliver Us" from The Prince of Egypt (Original Cast Recording)
Note: I highly recommend listening to the Prince of Egypt soundtrack – especially the chapter song – before reading!
The memory came not as a vision, but as a thread of warmth woven through the haze of terror as the Cauldron swallowed you whole.
Not of the Archeron estate, not of days spent among cousins who would become everything and nothing to you—but farther back, softer. Your only memory of her.
The storm had been relentless that night. Thunder shook the windows with furious roars, and jagged lightning split the sky, briefly burning every shadow away. The scent of rain-soaked earth crept in through the cracks, mingling with the soothing scent of lavender that clung to your mother’s pale skin. You were ten, nestled in her arms, trembling—not from cold, but from the storm and the raw edge of pain she hid from you.
Her shawl was rough against your cheek, but her touch was gentle—frail fingers threading through your tangled hair. You could hear the fire snap and pop, its golden light painting the room in soft hues of warmth and safety. Her breath was ragged, uneven, and faint, but she sang to you with a voice both strong and breaking, weaving a fragile lullaby against the thunder’s fury.
“At dusk, when the light slips away...”
The words were simple, but each syllable settled like a balm on your racing heart.
“Be gentle, always, to creatures you don’t understand...”
Her voice faltered for a moment, a shudder beneath the softness, but she held on, rocking you as the tempest raged outside. You watched the shadows play across the walls, felt the rock of the chair beneath you, and for a moment, felt safe—unbroken.
A searing frost crept up your spine, prickling under your skin, an icy fire spreading from your chest to every fingertip. The warmth of the hearth dimmed, extinguished by a cold that clawed beneath your bones. The Cauldron’s voice—silent yet terrible—called to you, shattering the quiet. Your heartbeat hammered, fast and fractured, as though it feared what was coming.
Pain bloomed like ink in water, dark and swallowing, twisting every muscle and bone as if they were clay in a sculptor’s hands. Your breath caught in your throat; your ribs felt as though they were splintering. The scarves of warmth wrapped around you unravelled; the scent of lavender gave way to the sterile, biting tang of raw power.
You gasped aloud—a small, frightened sound swallowed by the sudden vastness of the dark. Torn between the fading light of memory and the crushing grip of transformation, you clung desperately to the thread of her voice, fragile as gossamer against the roar.
The rocking slowed to a stop. Your limbs trembled uncontrollably as your skin prickled with burgeoning magic—wild, erratic, unforgiving. The ache was not just physical, but something deeper, a wrenching loss of innocence and childhood as you were remade.
Tears burned behind your eyes, though they would not give—not here. In the face of this terrifying cold, you pulled her melody close, a shield of remembrance against the consuming void.
“To the creatures you don’t understand...”
And as your body shifted from fragile human to Made, you let the lullaby carry you, trembling and broken but unbowed, into the unknown.
The storm was still distant, a low rumble beneath the whispered murmur of the assembled crowd, a crack of thunder occasionally teasing the heavy sky beyond the Court of Nightmares’ high, arched windows. The air was thick with winter’s bite, chilled and sharp, but inside the grand hall, warmth shimmered against the shadows. A soft glow of candles flickered from wrought iron sconces, rich crimson and black velvets were draped along towering columns, and the faint scent of moonflowers mingled with the spice of mulled wine.
The orchestra began, a slow, measured swell of strings and woodwind, weaving the traditional Night Court waltz through the air. The familiar melody, haunting and lilting, stirred something deep within the gathered guests. It was a sound that spoke of darkness and beauty intertwined, of secrets carried under the moon’s watch, of a court defined by contrasts.
The hall was vast, yet every inch seemed alive. Nobles, dignitaries, and emissaries from courts across Prythian filled the wide space. Silk gowns rustled quietly alongside sharp folds of finery; Illyrian warriors stood tall, their wings folding like shadows behind them; seelie courtiers shimmered with frost lace and light. Differences were set aside beneath the weight of the moment, grudges tucked into pockets alongside pride and power. Tonight, all eyes looked toward the same destiny, the shared hope held within a fragile new life.
Whispers buzzed through the crowd, a low humming anticipation, as the enormous doors at the far end of the hall swung open with slow grace. A hush fell like velvet.
The Inner Circle entered—offerings of strength and unity personified. Rhysand led, tall and commanding, his dark eyes scanning the room with the quiet authority of a lord born to darkness and daybreak alike. Feyre followed, serene and radiant, her presence a balm even as it drew every gaze. In her arms rested Nyx, the eight-month-old heir of the Night Court, swaddled in soft midnight silk. He was small and fragile as a star’s first light, but already a promise of hope, of legacy, of a future forged in the crucible of shadow and fierce love.
The movement through the crowd was fluid, seamless, the Inner Circle’s steps measured and deliberate. Cassian and Nesta flanked Feyre, a shield of grim strength and quiet fire, while Mor and Azriel completed the circle, their expressions sharp and watchful. Both Elain and you followed close behind.
Reaching the double thrones, Rhysand gestured smoothly, signalling Feyre forward first. She settled, the baby cradled tenderly against her breast, and Rhysand took his place beside her. The gilded thrones gleamed under flickering candlelight, a beacon of power and protection. The room stilled, the only sound the soft lull of the orchestra’s waltz winding through the air like a thread of silver.
Rhysand’s voice broke the silence, rich and crisp, carrying easily to every whispered corner. “Tonight, we gather not as friends or rivals, but as witnesses to hope incarnate. Nyx,” his eyes softened as they rested on the babe, “my son, and the future of the Night Court.”
Feyre’s hand glided gently over Nyx’s head, her voice calm but filled with quiet strength. “We invite you all to celebrate with us, to honour the legacy of our court, and the fragile new life we protect.”
Thunder rumbled low in response, as if the very skies had sworn allegiance.
From the assembled crowd, the first to move forward was Keir. His eyes narrowed as they caught the babe’s fragile form nestled against Feyre. The passage from long-held power to fading influence was etched in every careful glance he cast. A legitimate heir to the throne—a symbol that slowly eroded the shadow of his own claim.
Keir offered a stiff nod to Rhysand and Feyre, then stooped slightly to catch a glimpse of Nyx. The air between them sharpened with unspoken tension, a silent acknowledgement of an ending and a beginning. He extended a small gift, a delicate amulet woven from midnight iron and starthread, heavy with old magic.
"Long may he live," Keir murmurs, the words weighted.
The room remained still, watching the subtle exchange with bated breath. Rhysand merely quirks a grin and gestures for the next guest awaiting his attention.
Soon followed a Lady of the Summer Court, her gown spun from the palest gold and threaded with sunflowers, a stark contrast to the shadowed grandeur of this hall. She knelt before Feyre and Rhysand, reverent yet proud, and presented a delicately carved box lacquered in shimmering coral and pearl. Opening it just enough to reveal a bouquet of sunfire lilies, enchanted to bloom forever beneath moonlight.
“May the light of your son always burn bright,” she said softly.
Next came an emissary in the stead of the Autumn High Lord, bearing a crystal vase etched with swirling leaves that seemed to shift colours between amber and emerald. The vase was filled with dried herbs and spices gathered at the height of their season, each chosen to protect, heal, and bring balance. Their leader inclined his head. “For Nyx, a safeguard against any threat that seeks to unravel us.”
You watched as the gift was accepted with a nod from Feyre, her fingers brushing the smooth crystal thoughtfully.
Then, from the Winter Court, a tall, slender figure approached, her presence as chilling as the ice frost that clung to her flowing cloak. She unwrapped a thin silken scarf embroidered with frozen starlight, threads woven from the rare frostflame flower, a bloom said to ignite with cold fire in darkness. The scarf was a pledge of both defence and solidarity.
The handoff was quiet, but the eyes of Rhysand flickered with acknowledgment.
As the line moved on, noble houses from lesser courts presented gifts steeped in meaning: a jewelled dagger said to have been forged in the deepest caverns of the Spring Court, a tome of faerie lore inscribed in ink that shimmered with moonlight, a set of enchanted crystals rumoured to calm the fiercest tempests of both mind and storm.
Each exchange was a performance, a measured gesture in the delicate chess game that was court politics. Some smiles glimmered with sincerity; others flickered with challenge, and all were weighed carefully by the watchful eyes of the Inner Circle.
As a pile of gifts began to form, with everyone's attention solely placed on the young heir, Azriel was the first to break from the group. Without a word, he slipped away, moving through the crowd with a practised ease. His dark form vanished between tall pillars before anyone could question his departure.
You watched him leave, puzzled. You guessed he was making a careful survey of the hall, reading the undercurrents of alliances and rivalries woven into the gathering, but a flicker of something unsettled slid beneath your skin as you wondered why he had left the moment he stepped out of sight of the High Lord.
The line of guests lengthened—each stepping forward to greet Rhysand and Feyre, to offer their respects and extend gifts to Nyx. Some brought finely embroidered cloaks; others, rare delicacies from their courts; a few carried scrolls inscribed with pledges or prophecies.
Each gift was more than it appeared, an intricate gesture in the delicate dance of power.
You stood on the edge, silent and alert. The gaze of the Court was a weight you felt acutely as noble eyes passed over you, measuring, considering. The music spun around you, a river of sound that carried the night forward, into legend.
The orchestra’s waltz continued, notes drifting like breath across stone, and outside, the storm crept closer, its thunder growing deeper, a reminder that the fragile peace of the night had yet to be truly tested. You remained vigilant, carefully taking in every detail, aware that within these gifts lay the heartbeats of alliances, the whispers of trust, and the latent threat of betrayal.
As the line of guests wound through the hall, each offering their gifts and cautious greetings, a subtle shift rippled through the room—an edge of unease beneath the carefully maintained decorum. It came not from any visible disturbance, but from an absence.
Rhysand’s gaze faltered slightly, eyes scanning the length of the chamber with a quick sharpness.
“Has anyone seen Azriel?” he murmured, voice low enough to stir only the Inner Circle clustered around the thrones. His usual poised command held a flicker of concern.
Nesta’s brow furrowed. “He was with us moments ago.”
Mor glanced toward the pillars, where shadows clustered dense and thick. “I didn’t see him leave.”
The question hung between them like a blade balanced on an edge.
At that moment, you stepped forward, voice clear despite the undercurrent of tension. “I saw him leave,” you said. “He slipped away just a few minutes ago. I can find him.”
There was a pause—an exchange of glances filled with the weight of unspoken concerns. To be sent alone into the vastness of the gathering, even here in the court’s heart, was not a choice made lightly.
Nesta’s eyes locked mine. “Without an escort?”
“I believe he couldn’t have gone beyond this hall,” you assured them. “If he had—someone would have noticed. He’s likely nearby.”
Rhysand’s amber eyes flickered with reluctant trust as he considered. “Very well. But be careful.”
“I’ll find him,” You said firmly.
Turning, you slipped between the towering columns into the gathering shadows, the whispers of the crowd following close behind you. The hall stretched vast and dark, but if Azriel was near, you intended to find the shadow within the shadow.
Moving through the shifting currents of fae assembled in the hall, every step felt like wading deeper into a cold, bottomless pool. The waltz played on, a silken thread winding between the guests, but conversation dipped, and eyes followed as you passed. It was a parade of curiosity, thinly veiled, sometimes open, sometimes sharpened into barbed whispers.
“That’s the cousin. The High Lady’s blood,” one elegant female murmured behind a silver fan, her voice carrying despite the music.
“Never seen her at court before,” another said, her words shaped with suspicion and intrigue. “Strange that no one ever speaks of her power. Does she even have any?”
Their stares trailed you—some sharp, some searching—as if expecting glamour or spectacle would bloom from your skin. You felt the weight of all the expectations, fears, and myths spun around the unfamiliar, wrapped around you like a second, colder cloak.
The fae from the other courts glittered with difference. From Summer, cloaks shimmering like sunlight on water. Winter courtiers wore gowns traced with delicate veins of frost, eyes bright and distant. Autumn guests walked in a restless swirl of red and gold, every movement like a falling leaf caught by wind.
But the fae from the Court of Nightmares stood apart: tall, thin, hollow-faced. Their skin was pale as candle wax or so dark it seemed to swallow the light, and their smiles were sliced sharp, more threat than welcome. The collars of their midnight coats rose like walls and their eyes glimmered with a cold curiosity—cold as glass. Some watched with open contempt, others with bored indifference, but all seemed to hunger for weakness exposed.
One, in particular, stepped aside as you approached—a massive male, towering and broad, his posture almost bestial. Black, curving horns rose from his brow, arcing back like a ram’s but heavier, more menacing, as if carved from the stone of the Hewn City itself.
His stare locked on you, unwavering and cold, pupils like twin pinpricks of night, expression utterly hollow. There was no polite mask. In his face was raw hunger, an almost gleeful malice that made the skin on the back of your neck prickle. He tilted his head, as if savouring your discomfort, the pale candlelight sliding over the ridges of his horns.
You met his gaze, forcing yourself not to break step, not to show any flicker of fear. The stories said you must never look away from a predator in the dark. You held his eyes for a heartbeat, chin high, and only then did he turn, slowly, vanishing back into the muted shadows and the flickering crowd.
You threaded between clusters of nobles—skirts rustling, arms gleaming with starlight gems—listening for any sign of Azriel, watching for movement where there was only stillness. In the overhang of an archway, shadows seemed to beckon, and you became aware of every hush, every footstep, every sharp intake of breath as you pushed deeper through the great hall, searching for the master of shadows who’d disappeared into his namesake.
It was only after your second slow sweep of the Great Hall—after weaving through archways drowned in shadow and passing the same gilded candelabras and silent-eyed nobles more than once—that you accepted the truth: Azriel wasn’t here.
Each pass took you through clusters of tightly packed fae, their conversations shifting from sharp speculative whispers to thin, brittle politeness as you brushed by. You’d watched for any flicker of movement or presence that didn’t belong, listened for the subtle hush Azriel created just by moving. Still, his absence pressed in around you, unmistakable, chilling in a way nothing else at this gathering could rival.
Your pulse thrummed with dread, that old ache of fear whispering that something horrible must have happened, some plot or violence that forced Azriel out of reach. But deeper—a quiet certainty flickered like a candle’s flame. You would have known if something truly disastrous had occurred. There would have been more than empty space and heavy quiet left in his wake.
You let yourself pause, drawing near one of the marble balustrades beneath the towering windows. Looking back toward the dais, you studied Rhysand and Feyre on their thrones, their forms regal and unyielding, cast in candlelight and shadow. They presided over the gathering like storm gods in flawless control, distant as stars, as if sitting above the tides of the living world.
They looked nothing like the family who had welcomed you on quiet afternoons or laughed around humble dinners. For a flickering moment, the divide between them and the rest of Prythian felt like a yawning chasm, and you were at its very edge.
The vision of returning to those twin thrones without Azriel twisted your stomach. You could almost see the tightening of Rhysand’s jaw, the clipped precision of his questions. Azriel might take blame quietly, as he always had—but tonight of all nights, such a mistake would echo.
So you weighed your choices: return empty and resigned, or push forward, braver than before, with no certainty and only instinct as your guide.
You let your breath steady, put on a mask of composure, and turned from the hall, setting your shoulders with quiet resolve. Whatever shadows Azriel had sought, you would follow, even if it meant slipping beyond velvet-draped thresholds and into the unknown silence of the Court’s deeper corridors, trusting that your own courage would cast enough light to find him.
The corridor beyond the Great Hall swallowed you almost at once, the heavy doors at your back sealing with a breath of muffled music and voices. Here, the world unspooled into shadow and stone, the ancient arteries of the Court of Nightmares. The ceiling arched high above, vanishing into pitch-black gloom, pierced only sporadically by the flicker of torches, their golden flames stretched and bent by every draft.
Carvings lined the walls, grim faces and twisted figures gouged out of the rock, eyes hollow, mouths frozen mid-snarl or scream. Some were little more than suggestions of monsters, others unmistakably fae: long, cruel, all teeth and horns and spines. The torchlight played along their features, coaxing every frown and leer into writhing life. Here, even the stone gargoyles that perched overhead seemed to watch you with a cold, predatory interest as you passed, their shadows trailing up the walls and across the floor in shapes that didn’t belong to any living thing.
The storm was closer now, thunder rolling in from the distance, grumbling low and deep, a sound that vibrated through your ribs and into your teeth. Every so often, a cold gust of wind would snake through the corridor, carrying with it the metallic tang of rain and the wild energy of a tempest.
It all made you feel small, like a child again who feared the dark and the wrath of storms, flinching at every ghostly echo and fleeting whisper of footsteps on stone.
But you pressed on, sweeping your gown aside with clammy hands, determined not to let courage falter. Your shoes scuffed softly, almost lost beneath the insistent beat of your heart, the only rhythm in the hush. Shadows slipped along the baseboards, threatening to close around your ankles like cold fingers.
For a while, there was only the storm and your own too-loud breathing. Then, as you turned a corner, you caught the faintest sound—low voices, two males, echoing from further down the snaking corridor. Their words were indistinct, carried by the murmuring stones, but one voice sent a jolt through you; Azriel. That familiar, steady timbre, velvety and clipped, coaxed your pulse into fresh focus.
Curiosity—and something hotter, sharper—drew you forward until you found a pillar broad enough to hide behind. You pressed yourself against the cold stone and peered through a sliver of shadow. The torchlight caught on flashes of gold and cream. The other male’s profile was unmistakable beneath the thin circlet and dawn-hued cloak; Thesan, the High Lord of the Dawn Court, his face pulled into a cautious frown.
You strained to catch words, but they were careful, too practised or too soft for you to glean anything clear. Frustration welled, confusion not far behind. Why was Azriel, the Night Court’s Spymaster, meeting privately with Thesan on this night of all nights? What knowledge could be so urgent or so secret as to draw him away from the Solstice, from Rhysand and the watchful Inner Circle?
Your mind raced for answers, but before you could gather a single strand of certainty, the chill on your wrist changed. A familiar hush. Somehow, you knew, one of Azriel’s shadows, blacker and silkier than midnight, had found you. It curled up from your wrist, slipped into your hair, winding with a feather-light caress as if in apology—a gentle, wordless warning.
Before you could move, the shadow slipped away, ducking around the corner, traitorous and loyal all at once, off to whisper its secret to Azriel, already preparing him for your accidental eavesdropping.
You pressed back against the stone, heart pounding, knowing you’d been found out before you’d even truly begun.
Azriel appeared before you so suddenly, you barely had time to straighten, let alone summon a dignified defence. He seemed to materialise from the darkness itself, no sound of his footfalls, no warning save the subtle shift in air and the faint chill where shadows pooled deeper. His gaze, so calm and unreadable in the candlelit gloom, found yours with an intensity that held every old secret of the Night Court.
You startled, cheeks burning. The memory of the gossiping nobles, the cruel stares of the Court of Nightmares, faded into a sharp embarrassment; you hadn’t meant to spy, but the appearance was damning.
“What are you doing out here?” Azriel’s voice was low, just above a whisper, equal parts wary inquiry and rebuke.
You straightened, pushing back from the wall, indignation and embarrassment tangling in your throat. “Rhysand asked if anyone had seen you. I told him I saw you slip out—he asked me to find you.”
A muscle feathered in Azriel’s jaw; his eyes flickered past you, surveying the shadows for any more hidden witnesses. “You came alone? Through these corridors, tonight of all nights?” His tone sharpened, quiet but fierce. “These halls aren’t safe for anyone—especially not for you. Why didn’t you bring a guard or a guide?”
You met his glare, cheeks growing hotter as anger overrode the tremor in your voice. “Because if I came back empty-handed, you’d be the one in trouble! Rhysand would have sent someone else out after you. I—I thought I could—” You trailed off, stung by the words you couldn’t finish: that you wanted to protect him, too, in your own small way.
Azriel’s stare softened a fraction, mouth tight, a rueful private smile flickering behind his eyes.
From the corner of your vision, you realised Thesan was no longer there. The High Lord of the Dawn Court had vanished, as quietly as Azriel had appeared.
You hesitated for only a heartbeat before trying your luck, voice hushed. “What was that about? Why are you speaking with the High Lord of Dawn out here in secret?”
Azriel’s mask dropped into place, his voice going colder than the marble beneath your feet: “Confidential. It’s not your concern.” His tone allowed no argument—walls up, secrets locked.
You frowned, the unspoken truth hanging between you. Whatever this meeting was, it was obvious the rest of the Inner Circle knew nothing about it—and Azriel knew, without question, that you had realised exactly that. There was a flicker in his eyes that said as much: a warning and an apology, bound tight together.
You let the question fall away, a silent promise that you would not press further, though the storm within you had only begun to build.
Azriel cleared his throat, clearly eager to close the shadow-draped conversation. “We should get back to the Great Hall,” he said, his voice returning to that quiet, controlled steadiness. “Before someone realises you’ve disappeared, too. Rhysand wouldn’t be pleased if both his spymaster and his mate's cousin vanished on Solstice night.”
You fell into step beside him, the thick hush of the corridors broken only by the distant roll of thunder and your own matched footsteps. Azriel’s stride was deliberate—slower than his usual pace—allowing you to keep up. Occasionally, a wisp of shadow would dart ahead into the corners or curve along the ceiling, his silent sentinels checking for threats, secrets, or eavesdroppers.
He scanned every empty arch, every whorl of torchlit gloom, shoulders set and jaw taut. There was a trace of something uneasy in his stance, not quite guilt, but the familiar tension of someone caught doing something private and now searching for the right words… or the right mask.
The silence lengthened as you wound through the labyrinthine halls, but you found yourself watching Azriel’s face, the muscle working in his jaw. Impulse overtook caution; you spoke, unable to resist.
“Azriel,” you ventured, quietly but clear in the hush, “was it—whatever you were doing with Thesan—was it anything… bad?” You didn’t ask about the topic, only shaded your voice with the worry knotted deep since you’d found him gone.
Azriel looked as if he were about to shut you down again, eyes shuttering, breath tensing. But then he glanced down at you walking at his side. Something in your face, perhaps, or the tremor in your question, softened the steely set of his features. The corner of his mouth twitched, almost weary.
He shook his head once, voice gentler and honest. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t anything bad.” There was truth there, something reassuring in his steadiness, even though it sat atop so many other hidden truths.
You nodded, feeling some small comfort at that admission, while outside the corridor, thunder cracked again, this time a little closer, echoing through the bones of the ancient Court and the uncertain peace that followed your footsteps.
The corridor stretched before you, shadows long and cold as you and Azriel moved steadily back toward the Great Hall. The distant thunder grumbled deep like some ancient beast’s breath, settling low in your bones. Your footsteps echoed softly on stone, mixing with the faint flicker of torchlight that flickered against the walls.
Then, suddenly, the quiet shattered. A harsh, sharp shouting erupted somewhere ahead—a clash of anger and voices raw with frustration. Your attention snapped upright, eyes darting toward the tall windows that overlooked the courtyard beyond the castle’s gates.
Something in the urgency of the noise pulled you like a thread you couldn’t ignore. Without hesitation, you pivoted, moving faster toward the source, curiosity twisting now into the prickling edge of worry.
Azriel’s hand shot out suddenly, blocking your path with a swift, firm grasp. “You’ll get noticed,” he warned, voice low but urgent. “We can’t afford people noticing you vanishing when the whole court is watching.”
But his usual calm was fraying with something odd—uneasy, strained—and you found yourself pushing past him, driven more by questions raised in that tension than any intention to disobey. “I have to see,” you murmured fiercely. “Azriel, something’s wrong.”
He hesitated a heartbeat, then stepped aside, his shadow weaving behind him like a protective cloak as you both pressed forward.
Outside, beyond the towering gates that bartered with the night and kept the outside world at bay, a restless crowd had gathered. Lower fae from the Court of Nightmares—their faces gaunt, their eyes shadowed and desperate—clustered tightly in the courtyards, murmurs thick as smoke.
The shouts carried clearer now, weaving through the cold air.
At the heart of the crowd, a worn cart stood tipped with battered crates and discarded cloths, a cart overflowing with food that was being tossed out like scraps to a hungry tide. Crusty bread, wilted greens, small cuts of meat, less bounty than meagre handouts.
The sight hit you like cold water. The cart’s provisions were nowhere near enough for the swelling mass of fae pressing in from every corner.
You looked to Azriel, voice low and edged with concern. “What’s happening?”
He studied the crowd, jaw clenching tight. “They’re hungry,” he said softly.
Your eyes swept across the sea of hollow faces, the shadows deepening on their skin beneath the storm-darkened sky. The Court of Nightmares was known for its ruthless rule and terrifying beauty, but this was a hunger raw and unmasked. Restlessness and hardship lay bare.
The storm’s distant thunder cracked again, louder now, as anxiety pulsed through the air like a live wire. You knew, with sudden, sharp certainty, that the night held more than a celebration and a presentation. It held secrets, pressures, and fractures that stretched far beyond illuminated halls and gilded thrones.
Azriel presses a hand to your back, ushering you away from the window before you're noticed by the rebelling crowd. You did not tear your eyes away until they were out of sight.
The clamour of the restless crowd receded behind you as you made your way back toward the glow and grandeur of the Great Hall. But in your mind, the image of the meagre cart and hungry faces remained sharp and unsettling. Inside, the room gleamed with opulence, the enormous table groaning under piles of untouched food, platters brimming with roasted meats, jewel-toned fruits, and delicately frosted pastries. The feast was lavish, extravagant, almost obscene compared to the scraps thrown out in the courtyard.
Your eyes drifted to the growing mound of gifts at the feet of Rhysand and Feyre, the delicate trinkets, the heavy jewels, the rare delicacies offered in fealty and celebration. All tokens of fortune and power bestowed upon a child so young, so unaware of the shadow the night carried just beyond the stone walls.
A bitter question slipped from your lips, barely loud enough to be more than a whisper. “Why is this happening? The Night Court has gold enough to feed those people… why would they be starving?”
Azriel was quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes tracing the lines of the feast before shifting to meet yours. You could see the calculation in his gaze, the careful weighing of words, the balance between what could be safely said and what was buried beneath layers of politics and pain.
Finally, he spoke, voice low and steady, wary of your reaction. “The war with Hybern was devastating. Most of the reconstruction efforts went toward Velaris—toward rebuilding the Night Court’s heart—and to strengthening the army. We needed to be ready again.”
He gestured subtly toward the distant shadows, the curves of the hall. “But even before all that… it wasn’t much different. The Court of Nightmares has always struggled. Keir,” Azriel’s voice darkened just a touch, “is the one presiding over them. His priorities are… elsewhere.”
The weight behind those words settled on you like a stone. The Court of Nightmares, even under the shadow of the new High Lord, still bore old wounds and fractures, not all of which healing or power could mend.
For a moment, the glitter and light of the feast felt hollow and distant, mere gasps of luxury amid deep and persistent hunger.
Azriel’s gaze held steady, guarded but honest. “It’s the truth we live with.”
You glanced at Azriel, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face. “But even if Keir was presiding over the Court of Nightmares,” you said quietly but firmly, “Rhysand was still the High Lord. They are still his people.”
Azriel’s eyes darkened, the familiar weight of truth settling between you. “Most of the Court of Nightmares is wicked and conniving,” he said, voice low and edged with a hint of bitterness. “They look out for themselves first, and often at others’ expense.”
“But they are still his people,” you pressed, feeling the sting of the divide between power and loyalty. “No matter their baser tendencies, they are part of him. This court is part of him.”
Your gaze hardened, voice taking on a bitter edge. “Mor—she’s from the Court of Nightmares, too. His cousin. So if anyone understands those shadows and what they carry, it’s him.”
Azriel said nothing for a moment, the firelight flickering across his face as if playing with his private thoughts. Whatever else the Night Court carried, its bonds ran deep and tangled—and the frayed edges were not easily ignored, especially by those who lived them every day.
A tightening coil of tension began to wind itself through your chest, subtle but insistent, as if the shadows you had glimpsed in the Court of Nightmares were reaching beyond stone walls and polished floors, threading themselves into the very heart of the Night Court itself. Knowing now that these struggles were real—and actively kept from you—felt like a weight settling deep inside, one that wouldn’t easily be brushed aside.
You wondered who among the Inner Circle truly understood the depths of this hardship. Did Feyre know? While she poured herself into building and decorating the River House in Velaris, turning it into another sanctuary, her own people in the Court of Nightmares faced empty tables and gnawing hunger.
Images stirred in your mind; the small children you’d seen, clambering for a half loaf of bread, faces smeared with dirt and desperation. So far removed from the warmth and promise cradled in Nyx’s tiny hands as he slept peacefully against Feyre’s chest.
As you walked back through the flickering glow of the Great Hall toward the dais where the rest of the Inner Circle waited, your shoulders felt heavier than before. The music swelled, guests mingled on the edges of celebration, but inside you carried the sharp ache of knowing, and the creeping sense that in your previous ignorance, in your silence, you had been part of the problem.
And now that the truth was out, there was no turning back. The storm outside rumbled again, wild and unyielding, a fitting echo to the unrest growing within you, and within the court you called family.
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