Hello! I'm Isa, and I'm here only because I can't keep my ideas to myself lol.
Please be gentle with me, I'm just a girl in college trying to do something fun 😭😭
Did I mentioned I love music? Yeah, you'll see it everywhere. Look, there is one right here.
I can try writing for other characters of ACOTAR and maybe for Ruhn Danaan, so I'm open for requests, but I won't promise too much
Azriel Masterlist
Cassian
Rhysand Masterlist
Scars
Req: training w/ cassian? and cassian accidentally hurts the reader?
Burn For You
Req: Faking dating with Cassian? Happy ending too please :(
Kiss The Girl
Req: single mom with Cassian?
Lucien
Dear Theodosia (and Philip)
Req: pregnancy w/ lucien?
What Makes You Beautiful
Req: You can write a story in which Lucien braids the reader's hair or if you want it can be the other way around. Thank you!😊
Eris
The Night We Met
Req: Ooooh for the Bingo, fluffy and angsty Forbidden Love with Eris??? 🥰🙏🏻🔥
Helion
Baby Mine
Req: Hi! For bingo: nightmare with Helion, fluff
Serendipity
Req: Hi! I really enjoyed the story of Helion you wrote. I would ask you if you could write more of his stories when you have time and inspiration. Thank you!
I can't believe we're ending 😭😭 such a small journey for us guys
I suffered to find a good translation for this song's title
Last chance to make a request so I can add it in the last chapter, I'm still building it
Warnings: rotten fluff, healthy family relationship, friends, Rhysand ✨️
Whispers of Secrets and Starlight - Masterlist
Chapter 15: Flash Of Light
The day of your coronation dawned crisp and clear, the skies of Velaris painted in the soft hues of early winter. The city buzzed with anticipation, but within the grand chambers of the Town House, there was only warmth, only quiet laughter and the scent of jasmine oil and fresh linens.
You sat before a massive mirror, the golden light of the setting Sun catching the edges of your dark ceremonial robes, the fabric pooling like liquid night around you. Mor stood behind you, her fingers deftly weaving delicate silver chains into your hair, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of pride and mischief. Feyre perched beside you, holding a small vial of perfume, dabbing it lightly against your wrists. Even Nesta and Elain had come, standing by the grand windows, watching as the city around prepared to celebrate you.
You caught Elain’s gaze in the mirror. She smiled softly, her eyes bright. “You look beautiful.”
You chuckled, shaking your head slightly. “They haven’t even finished yet.”
Mor clicked her tongue. “Oh, trust me, we could leave you just as you are and you’d still outshine everyone.”
Feyre rolled her eyes. “Alright, don’t let it get to her head even more.”
Mor only winked, adding another delicate chain to your hair. Nesta stepped forward then, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. You had not expected her to come. Had not expected Elain either. But here they were, watching as you prepared to take your place in history.
“Are you nervous?” Feyre asked, smoothing out the embroidery on your sleeves.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, at the deep violet of your coronation robes, at the silver accents and celestial patterns sewn into the fabric, reminiscent of the stars above the Court.
“No,” you said, voice steady. “I was born for these lands, for this court. I am exactly where I need to be.”
There was silence, heavy with understanding.
Nesta studied you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, softly, so softly you almost thought you imagined it, she said, “I’m proud of you.”
Your breath hitched. The room stilled. Mor and Feyre both turned to look at her, as if they, too, couldn’t believe what they’d just heard. Nesta only held your gaze, unwavering.
You swallowed past the sudden lump in your throat. “Thank you.”
Elain reached for your hand, squeezing it. “We all are.”
You exhaled shakily, nodding, allowing yourself to take in the moment, to let the warmth of their words settle deep in your bones.
Mor cleared her throat, blinking rapidly as if trying to ward off tears. “Alright, that’s enough sentimentality before I start crying and ruin my makeup. Just because you're the main event doesn't mean I need to look like a frog.”
You laughed, wiping a stray tear from the corner of your eye. “I appreciate that.”
Feyre shook her head, grinning. “Come on, let’s finish up. You have a coronation to attend.”
You nodded, letting them continue their work — Mor finishing your hair, Feyre applying soft strokes of a shining powder around your eyes, Elain fastening a delicate silver bracelet around your wrist, Nesta adjusting the weight of the ceremonial cloak that would rest upon your shoulders for the rest of the event.
And as they worked, as they laughed and teased and whispered their quiet encouragements, you let yourself feel it — the love, the pride, the belonging.
This was your court. This was your family. And today, you would rise for them.
☆
The weight of the moment settled upon your shoulders like the cloak you were wearing. Beyond the grand doors of the temple’s Great Hall, the whole Night Court waited. Your court. Lords and warriors, scholars and merchants, High Fae and Illyrians alike, your people. They had gathered under the celestial glow of enchanted starlight, waiting to witness history unfold.
Azriel and Cassian stood beside you in the quiet hallway, their presence steady, their strength a silent promise. They were your shadows, your sentinels, but on top of everything, your family.
Cassian smirked, but there was a gentleness in his hazel eyes as he reached out, adjusting the clasp at your shoulder. “You ready for this, High Lady?”
Azriel, standing at your other side, merely took your hand in his scarred one, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. His touch lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, a rare show of emotion from the shadowsinger. “We’re with you,” he murmured. “Forever.”
Your eyes barely had time to fill in with tears before the temple doors began to groan as they opened, revealing the vast, golden-lit chamber beyond. You let out a slow breath. Their hands slipped from yours, and they stepped behind you, taking their places at your back, standing as warriors and brothers in quiet reverence.
A sea of faces greeted you, rows upon rows of your court, their gazes filled with pride, with expectation, with devotion. The banners of the Night Court hung from the high marble columns, the deep indigo fabric shimmering with silver thread.
At the far end of the hall, Rhysand stood beside the priestess, a crown of onyx and amethyst resting upon his dark head. The pride in his expression was unmistakable, a quiet sort of joy that made your chest tighten.
And Helion stood not far from him, his golden robes a striking contrast to the dark elegance of Velaris. Lucien stood beside his father, his expression unreadable, though you could see the flicker of something soft in his russet eye. The priestess, clad in robes of midnight blue, waited at the altar, her presence calm and unwavering.
The air thrummed with anticipation as you stepped forward. Each step down the grand aisle was slow, deliberate. The murmur of your people faded into silence, save for the quiet rustle of fabric, the soft intake of breath as they watched you approach the altar. By the time you reached the dais, your heart was steady.
You knelt before the priestess. She raised a slender hand, her voice clear, ringing through the chamber. “Who stands before me, seeking the blessing of the Night?”
Rhysand’s voice was the one that answered, deep and sure. “The rightful ruler of this court.”
The priestess’s silver eyes met yours. “Do you swear to uphold the values of the Night Court? To serve its people, to protect them and to rule with wisdom and strength?”
You inhaled sharply, letting the words settle within you before you spoke, your voice steady. “I swear it.”
A soft murmur rippled through the crowd. The priestess turned to Rhysand, who stepped forward, his gaze never leaving yours.
“And do you, Rhysand, rightful High Lord of the Night Court, accept this ruler as your equal, your partner in governance and in magic?”
His violet eyes gleamed with something like awe, something like devotion. “I accept.”
The priestess nodded, turning back to you. “Then rise, High Lady of Night Court.”
You stood, the ceremonial cloak settling over your shoulders as Rhysand lifted a crown from its velvet cushion. Unlike his, which was sharp and regal, this one was delicate, woven silver and deep purple gems, shaped like crescent moons and stars. A crown made for a ruler who was the heartbeat of her court.
Rhysand stepped closer, his hands reverent as he placed it upon your head. “You were definitely born for this,” he whispered, too low for anyone else to hear.
The great hall erupted in sound. Applause, cheers, voices calling your name. Cassian let out a sharp whistle behind you, and even Azriel gave you a small, approving nod. Mor beamed, Elain clapped with wide eyes, and Nesta met your gaze, dipping her head ever so slightly.
Lucien grinned, and Helion, ever the dramatic one, pressed a hand to his heart in mock reverence.
But it was Rhysand’s fingers brushing against yours that grounded you. That reminded you, you were home, exactly where you were meant to be.
The sound slowly started to slow down as everyone began to sit back at their places. Feyre slowly takes her place at the side of the stairs, along with Mor and your cousins.
The coronation had been a moment of history, of duty, of stepping into the role you had been destined for. But this right now, this was a moment of love.
The ceremonial cloak was lifted from your shoulders with delicate precision by another female, the weight of it slipping away like the past fading into memory. As it was taken from you, murmurs of awe filled the temple.
Beneath it, your gown was a thing of starlight. Silver fabric cascaded down your form, impossibly delicate yet luminous, as if woven from the very essence of the night sky. The back of the dress was left open, revealing the expanse of your bare skin, where Rhysand’s fingers had traced constellations in the dark, where his lips had whispered devotion in the quiet hours before dawn. Diamonds adorned the fabric like falling stars, shimmering with every breath you took, every subtle movement.
The world had slowed, as if Prythian itself held its breath for this moment when another priestess stepped forward, this one clad in robes of light lilac, her presence radiating a quiet power. The first priestess, the one who had crowned you, dipped her head in reverence before retreating. A shift in the ceremony. A shift from duty to love.
The second priestess held a silver chalice between her hands, its surface reflecting the flickering candlelight.
“This bond has long been written in the stars,” she intoned, her voice soft yet carrying across the great hall. “Bound by the laws of magic and fate, but sealed only by the will of those who stand before us now.”
Rhysand reached for your hands, his touch grounding, warm. His violet eyes held nothing but love, no jesting remark, no wicked glint. Just endless, boundless love.
“Before the Mother and the Cauldron, before the court that you now rule together, do you accept this bond? Not as something forced upon you by fate, but as a choice?”
Your fingers tightened around his. “I accept it.”
Rhysand’s lips parted, as if he could scarcely believe that after centuries of war, of loss, of loneliness, he had this. Had you. “I accept it,” he said, voice thick with emotion.
The priestess nodded, turning to the chalice she held. “Then, as tradition dictates, you shall seal your bond in blood and in magic.”
She extended the chalice first to you. The ceremonial dagger was placed in your free hand, its handle cool against your palm. The tip gleamed as you pressed it lightly against your own skin, just enough to draw a single drop of ruby-red blood. It fell into the chalice, mixing with the enchanted liquid inside.
You passed the dagger to Rhysand. He did the same, watching as his blood mingled with yours in the chalice, as a physical manifestation of the bond that had already existed between you for lifetimes untold.
The priestess lifted the chalice, whispering words in the Old Language, blessing the union before extending it back to you both. Rhysand held your gaze as you took the first sip. The liquid was warm, sweet, a pulse of magic and eternity running through your veins. You passed it to him, and he drank as well.
The moment the chalice left his lips, the room seemed to vibrate with energy. A soft glow emanated from where your hands were joined, a visible tether of your bond shimmering between you. A bond that had always been there, now made official in the eyes of the world.
The priestess smiled. “You are bound in soul, in magic, and in blood. Let this be the night the stars sing for eternity.”
Rhysand exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head as he looked at you, his expression one of utter reverence. “You are my heart,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand. “My love. My beginning and my end.”
Tears pricked your eyes, but you smiled. “And you are salvation. My honor. My light and my dark.”
The priestess lifted her hands, her voice ringing with finality. “You are now one.”
The entire court erupted in cheers again, the temple filled with a joyous roar as people clapped, now with much more laughter as celebration broke the sacred silence.
But you only had eyes for Rhysand. He cupped your face with both hands, his touch gentle but sure, as he leaned in and kissed you. Not just a kiss of love, but a promise. Of forever. Of a court ruled together, of battles fought side by side, of laughter echoing through the stars. Of everything that had led to this moment. The Night belonged to you both.
☆
The great hall of the Night Court was alive with music, laughter, and endless celebration. The coronation had been history. The wedding had been a promise. And now was the time to revel in all of it.
The moment the ceremony had ended, the flood of well-wishers had begun. Lords and Ladies of every court, emissaries from far lands, warriors and friends alike had lined up to offer their congratulations. Rhysand had handled them with charm and grace, always the perfect High Lord, while you learned how to play the part with him, your fingers laced together in a quiet, intimate anchor amidst the formalities.
But, Mother above, there were so many people. You could practically feel Helion’s impatience crackling like a live wire from across the room. The High Lord of Day had been watching, waiting, shifting from foot to foot as yet another courtier stopped you and Rhysand to offer some sentimental speech or a lavish gift. His golden eyes flickered to the refreshments table more times than you could count, but he remained where he was — barely.
Until, finally, after what must have felt like an eternity, the last noble finally stepped away, and Helion all but swept in.
“By the Cauldron,” he groaned, stopping before you both. “How do you stand this? Who even invites this many people to this kind of ceremony?”
Rhysand, who had been nursing a glass of wine with lazy amusement, smirked. “Someone who enjoys watching you suffer, obviously.”
Helion let out a dramatic sigh, rubbing his temples. “I have been waiting to speak with you for hours. Hours.”
Lucien, standing beside him, gave a long-suffering sigh of his own. “I did warn you.”
“You did, and yet I held on to hope,” Helion mused. “A mistake I shan't make again.”
Rhys smirked, raising a brow at the Day Court’s High Lord. “Oh, come now. You survived the wait.”
“And look, you’re still as devastatingly handsome as when you got here.” You said with a laugh.
Rhysand hummed in agreement. “Indeed. A lesser male would have let the agony of patience wear at his beauty.
“But not Helion. No, he thrives in the spotlight.” You answered with a mocking surprise.
“He basks in it.” Your mate agreed.
Helion looked between the two of you, an amused sort of horror settling in his features. “This is... unsettling.”
Lucien let out a dramatic groan. “I agree. The way these two just speak on each other’s answers, it’s... weird.”
Helion shook his head, exhaling sharply. “Scary, honestly. But also surprisingly attractive.”
Lucien, looking as though he wanted to vanish into thin air, groaned again. “Father, please, not now.”
Rhysand clapped a hand on Lucien’s shoulder. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, little fox.”
Lucien turned his tired gaze to you. “You see what you’ve done? Now there are two of them.”
You grinned, leaning into Rhysand’s side. “And yet the world keeps turning.”
Helion took a sip of his drink, watching the two of you with something between admiration and deep concern. “You are going to be insufferable together, aren’t you?”
Rhysand’s smile was slow and dangerous. “Oh, my friend. We already are.”
Lucien simply walked away, deciding, perhaps wisely, that he had suffered enough for one night. Helion sighed, shaking his head, but there was a fondness in his gaze as he lifted his glass in a silent toast to you both before following his son.
And then, finally, you and Rhysand were alone, for a moment, at least. The party raged on around you, music swelling, voices lifted in laughter and joy. But here, with him, it was quiet.
Rhysand turned to you, the dim candlelight casting golden hues across his sharp features. “Are you happy, my love?”
You smiled, reaching up to brush your fingers against his cheek. “I am.”
He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours, a whisper of a kiss that spoke of forever.
And then, with a devilish grin, he murmured against your lips, “Shall we give them something else to talk about?”
You laughed, tilting your head. “What exactly do you have in mind?”
He only smirked. “Oh, darling. You know exactly what.”
And before you could protest, he had swept you onto the dance floor, spinning you into the night as the stars above watched, as the court you both loved so fiercely cheered, as the rest of the world faded away.
The music changed. It was slow at first, a gentle, beckoning melody that curled through the air like a whisper of fate. And then Rhysand was reaching for your hand, pulling you into him, into the center of the great hall, beneath the starlit ceiling that showed the endless night sky.
Your dress shimmered with every movement, diamonds woven into the fabric catching the light, making you look like you had stepped straight from the heavens themselves. And Rhys had never looked more radiant, more at peace, more utterly, devastatingly yours.
The room stilled, all eyes turning to the two of you. But there was only him. There had only ever been him.
He lifted your hand to his lips, brushing a kiss against your knuckles before lowering it to rest against his chest, just above his heart. His other hand settled at your waist, guiding you effortlessly as you began to move.
And you knew. You knew what he was thinking. What he was remembering. A dance, long ago, in a place filled with blood and nightmares. A dance that had been a lifeline, a tether between two souls who had clung to each other in the darkness. Now, you were here, in the light. And still, you danced.
His touch was gentle, reverent, as he spun you, as he led you through each step with the kind of grace that made it seem effortless. Your heart pounded, your skin burned where he touched you, and though the room was filled with hundreds of people, it felt as if there were only the two of you.
You let yourself go. Let yourself feel everything, from the warmth of his hands, to the weight of his gaze, and the promise that lingered between each breath.
Rhysand pulled you closer, his voice barely a whisper. “I once dreamed of this.”
You looked up at him, eyes searching. “Of dancing with me?”
His fingers traced over your spine, slow and deliberate. “Of dancing with you, under the stars, without fear. Without chains.”
Your throat tightened, emotion clawing its way up. “And what do you dream about now?”
His lips brushed against your temple. “I don't need to drram, I have everything I ever wanted.”
Your steps faltered, just for a moment, as your heart cracked open, as you let yourself fall into the depth of his love, into the certainty of it.
And then, before you could think, before you could stop yourself you kissed him. Right there, in the middle of the dance floor, in front of your entire court.
You felt the way his breath hitched, the way his grip on you tightened just before he melted into you completely. His hands cradled your face, his lips soft and sure against yours, as if he had been waiting for this moment his entire life.
A cheer erupted around you, laughter and applause filling the space, but you barely heard it. Because this was it. This was the beginning of everything.
When you finally pulled away, breathless and utterly undone, Rhys was smiling at you like you were the most precious thing in the world.
And then he murmured, for only you to hear, “I love you, High Lady of the Night Court.”
You smiled, pressing your forehead against his. “And I love you, Rhysand.”
☆
The great hall was filled with laughter and music, the air electric with warmth and joy as your family gathered for the twin celebrations: Starfall and Feyre’s birthday. The tables were laden with food and wine, and the stars had already begun their celestial descent, streaking across the sky like whispers of forgotten dreams.
You found Feyre near one of the open archways, a glass of wine in hand, her face aglow with happiness.
“Happy birthday, Feyre darling,” you said with a teasing smirk, pulling her into a tight embrace.
She huffed a laugh against your shoulder, squeezing you back. “You only call me that when you want something.”
You grinned as you pulled away. “Well, I do want something, for you to enjoy tonight, truly enjoy it. No thinking about responsibilities or training or whatever book Rhys has managed to sneak onto your desk this week.”
Feyre rolled her eyes but smiled. “I promise, I’ll enjoy it.”
Nesta and Elain approached then, Nesta holding a glass of whiskey while Elain carried a delicate bouquet of midnight-colored roses.
Elain offered them to Feyre with a soft smile. “Happy birthday, Feyre. I thought they suited the night.”
Feyre’s expression melted as she accepted them. “They’re beautiful, Elain. Thank you.”
Nesta, with a smirk that barely hid her new-found warmth, clinked her glass against Feyre’s. “Don’t get too drunk, or your High Lady will never let you hear the end of it.”
Across the room, you caught sight of Rhys watching the interaction, his eyes filled with quiet pride. He lifted his glass slightly in acknowledgment, and you returned the gesture.
Cassian and Azriel, standing by the balcony, were already deep in their own drinking game, Helion and Lucien caught in the crossfire of their antics.
“I’d say it’s time,” Rhys murmured, appearing beside you and Feyre.
The music softened, and the murmurs around the room quieted as everyone made their way to the open balcony. The stars were falling now in full force, a thousand silver trails across the sky, an endless cascade of light and wonder.
Feyre let out a quiet breath, her fingers tightening around her wine glass. “It’s still so surreal.”
You smiled, taking her hand. “It’s pure magic.”
And it was. A magic older than any court, any kingdom. A reminder that time moved forward, but some things, like love, like family, were eternal.
Cassian clapped his hands together. “Alright, who’s ready to drink every time a star nearly crashes into Rhysand?”
“Cassian,” Mor groaned, but the grin on her face ruined her attempt at scolding.
Rhys, unfazed, merely smirked. “Jealous of my gravitational pull, Cass?”
Helion scoffed. “If we could all stop fighting for five minutes, maybe I’d actually be able to enjoy this without drowning in the conversation.”
Everyone laughed, and you turned back to the sky, letting yourself sink into the moment. You leaned into Rhys, his arm wrapping around your waist as he pressed a kiss to your temple. It didn’t take too many more seconds until a star crashed into his face when he tried to kiss you again.
“I told you! One more drink for Cassian!” The general howled, running to get another cup.
“Does it happen every time?” Lucien was the one to ask, as you tried to help Rhys take off the glowing liquid but only smudged it even more.
“Every single Starfall since he became Hugh Lord, believe it or not” Mor was the one to answer, clicking her glass with Azriel as both filled their cups.
“Well, it might be my charm, but at this point I believe it's just a really big joke against—” he couldn’t finish his phrase as a star crashed against your head, leaving traces of pure glow against your hair.
Cassian came back just in time to see it happening, already taking another cup from a passing servant. “Do we drink one for the High Lady as well?”
You couldn't contain your laugh, shaking your head as everyone took another cup for themselves. You would leave the jokes for another day. Tonight, you will celebrate life. Tonight, you should remember why you kept going on.
☆
The laughter and music from the grand celebration still echoed faintly behind you, but here, on this quiet balcony, far from the revelry, it was just the two of you. Just you and Rhysand, bathed in the soft glow of the stars as they streaked across the sky.
Rhys leaned against the railing, his arms crossed, his midnight hair speckled with the remnants of falling stardust. He looked ethereal, unreal in a way that stole your breath. You had seen him bloodied, broken, dangerous. You had seen him laughing, teasing, grinning. But this… this was your favorite version of him. At peace. At home.
A smudge of starstuff clung to his cheek, shimmering faintly. You stepped closer, brushing your fingers across his skin to try to wipe it away again. He stilled at the touch, his violet eyes locking onto yours, something unreadable flickering in their depths.
Your fingers lingered, cupping his face as you smiled. You felt the way he leaned into your touch, the way his lashes fluttered just slightly, as if even now, after everything, he couldn’t believe you were real. And maybe that was what made you say it.
Maybe it was the way the stars had always seemed to write his name across the sky. Maybe it was the way his heart had beat for you even when you were too lost to hear it. Maybe it was just because there had never been anyone else.
“I love you,” you whispered.
Rhys let out a quiet breath, his hand coming up to rest over yours, keeping it pressed against his cheek. But you weren’t done.
“I have loved you since the first moment I saw you,” you continued, voice trembling slightly. “That night at Calanmai, when you looked at me like I was something intriguing, was the first time I felt it. I didn’t understand it then, but I felt it.” His fingers curled over yours, his grip tightening. “When you fought for us Under the Mountain, when you smiled at me like you weren’t terrified, when you teased me even when I was breaking, I loved you then too. It was so easy to choose you, Rhysand. Even when I didn’t know what I was choosing, I chose you.”
A choked sound left him, and by thr Mother, he was crying.
You swallowed hard, blinking away your own tears as you continued. “Leaving you to go back to Spring, it nearly killed me. I told myself it was duty, I told myself I had no other choice, but the truth is, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Because even then, even when we didn't talk about the bond yet, my soul already belonged to you.”
Rhys closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against yours. His breath was unsteady, his hands trembling as they framed your face.
“I love you, Rhys. I love you so much it terrifies me sometimes.” Your voice was barely a whisper now, shaking with emotion. “But not loving you, not choosing you, that would be the real nightmare.”
A small, broken sound escaped him. And then he was kissing you, soft and desperate, like he was trying to memorize every inch of you, like he was afraid you might slip away.
He pulled back just enough to breathe, his lips brushing against yours as he whispered, “I love you too.”
You let out a small, shaky laugh, and he kissed you again.
“I love you in every possible way a person can love another,” Rhys continued, voice hoarse. “I love you for every moment we lost, for every second I didn’t know I could have you. I love you because you are everything, because you are my home. Because you are the stars that have guided me through the darkest nights.” Your hands tangled in his hair, your tears mixing with his. “I would have waited a thousand more years for you,” he murmured. “But, my love, my mate, my High Lady, I’m so damn grateful I don’t have to.”
You let out a quiet sob, laughing through the tears as you pulled away.
And then, with a smirk that had him instantly narrowing his eyes, you reached into your pocket. “What are you—?”
You pulled out a small, neatly wrapped piece of cake. Rhys stared at it. Then at you.
“Are you—?” His voice caught, a disbelieving laugh bubbling out of him.
You shrugged, offering him the piece. “I figured, if we’re going to make the bond official, we should do it right.”
Rhys let out a long, shaky breath, his lips curling into a smile so full of love it made your knees weak. “You made me cake?” he asked, voice thick.
You grinned. “Of course I did. I’m not just a regular High Lady. I'm also a baker, actually. It's a surprise secret talent I show from time to time.”
Rhys shook his head, laughing softly as he took the offered piece. He broke off half, handing it back to you. And then, under the stars, with nothing but love in your hearts, you ate the cake that bound you together for eternity.
☆
The moment you winnowed, the world shifted. One breath, you were at Starfall, the next, you were far from the prying eyes of your family, in the quiet solitude of the sea-kissed house gifted to you by Helion.
Rhys didn’t ask where you’d taken him. He didn’t need to. He could taste the intent on your bond, feel the pulse of longing, of devotion, wrapping around his ribs like a second heartbeat.
He didn’t wait. The second your feet touched the floor, he was on you. Hands firm as they cupped your face, tilting your head back as his lips crashed onto yours. It was not a slow kiss, not the careful reverence of a courtly dance. It was raw, starved, all tongues and teeth and desperation.
You gasped into his mouth as he walked you backward, his hands already working at the laces of your gown. “You planned this,” he growled against your lips.
“Of course, I did,” you murmured, dragging your nails down his chest, relishing the way his breath hitched. “You think I’d leave something this important to chance?”
A chuckle, low and wicked, before he tugged your dress down in one swift movement. Cool air kissed your skin, followed immediately by Rhys’s mouth. A trail of heat down your throat, along your collarbone. His hands mapped your body, fingers tracing the patterns of constellations down your spine, down your waist.
His lips hovered just over your heart. “You’re gonna keep wearing your crown.”
You smirked, running your fingers through his hair. “I was planning to leave it on.”
His pupils darkened. “Good.”
He lifted you, strong hands gripping your thighs as he carried you deeper into the room, not breaking eye contact, not stopping for breath. Clothes vanished with each step, lost to the floor, to the night, to the sea-salt breeze drifting through the open windows.
When he laid you down, you went willingly, but before your back could touch the sheets, he stopped.
“No,” he murmured. “Tonight, I want you on top.”
You blinked down at him, perched over his lap, his hands firm around your hips. “Rhys—”
He shook his head, something softer, something vulnerable, flashing in his expression. “I need this, love. I need you to be in control tonight.” His fingers traced reverent circles over your skin. “I have all of you, but I want you to have all of me, too.”
Your throat went tight. There had been a time when Rhysand would never have allowed himself this, never have allowed anyone to see him like this, open, willing, unguarded.
But here, beneath you, with stardust still clinging to his lashes and your name whispered on his tongue like a prayer, he was entirely, irrevocably yours. And you were his.
With a trembling hand, you reached for his face, cradling it as your thumb brushed over the sharp angle of his cheekbone. His eyes fluttered shut, leaning into your touch, into the quiet promise of it. You kissed him slowly this time, deeply, pouring every unspoken vow into the way your lips met, into the way your fingers tangled in his hair, into the way your bodies pressed together, heat against heat.
And when you finally moved, taking him fully, claiming him as he had claimed you many times beforr, his head fell back against the pillows, a broken, reverent sound escaping his throat.
“You're mine,” you whispered against his mouth.
Rhys opened his eyes then, dark and bright all at once, endless galaxies spinning in their depths.
He smiled.
“Yours.”
LAST CHANCE what do you guys want to see in the last chapter? I can fit in cmon
And here I close the Archeron sisters chapter, goodbye girrrls you barely showed up but you were very useful thanks
Would love to hear your thoughts about the series now we're getting closer to the end, is there something else you would like to see? Maybe I can fit in here or smt
Warnings: Use of Y/N, ACOTAR rewrite, female main character, I don't even remeber the original, trauma bonding, Rhysand 📍
Whispers of Secrets and Starlight - Masterlist
Chapter 14: Is This Love
The house was quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful, but heavy with things left unsaid. You had been avoiding this moment, not out of fear, or out of resentment, but because you weren’t sure what to say. What could you say to them, after all? But now, standing before the door to their room, you took a slow breath before knocking.
Feyre opened it, her expression unreadable, but when she stepped aside to let you in, you knew she had been waiting for you to come. Nesta and Elain were sitting near the window, bags half-packed beside them. The sight of it twisted something inside your chest.
"You're finally here," Nesta said, her voice as sharp as ever, but there was no true bite to it. Elain just gave you a small, polite smile.
You took a few steps inside, arms crossed as you surveyed them both. They looked different. Not older, but changed in a way that wasn’t just about time, it was something deeper. Maybe it was the abandoning. Maybe it was the war. Maybe it was the weight of everything that had happened.
Feyre sat down closer to Elain, as if grounding herself. "I've told them everything," she said softly.
You nodded, exhaling slowly. "And?"
Elain hesitated before speaking, her voice gentle. "We understand why you stayed here. Why you never came back to the human lands."
"But that doesn’t mean we agree with it," Nesta added, her tone firm, though not unkind. "You left. Both of you. And we had to figure out how to keep going alone."
Guilt settled in your stomach, even though you knew there hadn’t been another choice. "It was never about abandoning you," you said, meeting Nesta’s gaze directly. "We were trapped in Spring. And when we finally left, Amarantha was already on our heels. We had no time to go back, no time to explain."
Elain looked down at her hands. "We were scared. When the war reached us, when we were taken..." She swallowed. "We thought we would never see you again."
Feyre reached over and squeezed her hand.
You took a step closer. "I should have come to you sooner. I wanted to. But... I was afraid of what I’d find."
Nesta’s expression softened just a fraction. "And now?"
You inhaled. "Now, I just want to make sure you’re safe. If you truly want to return to the human lands, I won’t stop you."
Elain glanced at Nesta before nodding. "We need to go back. We need to see what’s left, and what we can help rebuild in the village."
You understood that. Even if it hurt, even if it felt like losing them all over again.
Feyre looked at you then, something unreadable in her eyes. "Then we’ll make sure you get there safely."
You nodded. It wasn’t the reunion you had imagined. But it was real. And, for now, that was enough.
Nesta's gaze was sharp, piercing straight through you. There was no anger in her voice when she spoke, but there was something else, something that made your throat tighten.
"You never told us," she said. "Not once. Not about being fae. Not about any of this."
Elain looked down, as if she didn’t want to take a side, but Nesta kept her eyes locked on you, waiting.
You swallowed hard. "I—"
"I don't need an excuse," Nesta interrupted, shaking her head. "I just want to know why."
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "Because I was afraid," you admitted, voice quiet. "Afraid of what you’d think of me. Afraid that, if you knew, it would change things. I wanted to help you, but I didn’t want you to see me as... something else. Something other."
Nesta crossed her arms. "It did change things."
Guilt twisted inside you. "Nesta, I—"
"Don't apologize," she cut in again, surprising you. She exhaled sharply, glancing at Elain before looking back at you. "You showed up in our lives and helped us when no one else did. You gave us food, a house, clothes, even when you didn't have to. That doesn't just disappear because you kept secrets." You blinked, taken aback by her words. "It'll take time," she continued, her voice softer now. "But... I want to see you again. Maybe in the human lands. When things settle."
Your chest ached, something warm and fragile blooming there. "I'd like that."
Nesta gave you one firm nod before turning away, packing up the last of her things. Elain smiled at you, something hesitant but real, before she followed. You took a slow breath, steadying yourself before speaking.
“There’s something else,” you said, voice firm, making both Nesta and Elain turn back to you. “Before you go, you need to apologize to Feyre.”
Nesta’s brows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” you said, crossing your arms. “You need to apologize to her. She was the only one who stepped up. The only one who did something for all of you.”
Elain shifted uncomfortably. “We were doing our best—”
“Were you?” You tilted your head. “If I wasn’t there, would you have let a fourteen-year-old go into the woods, alone, to hunt for your survival?”
Silence. Nesta’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t answer. Elain looked away.
You exhaled sharply. “That’s what I thought.”
Nesta shook her head, as if trying to fight back the words forming in her throat. “It was—”
“Don’t say it was different,” you cut in. “It wasn’t. She had no choice. And you two let it happen. You never thanked her for it. Never thank me for it until now. Never acknowledged what she sacrificed so you could stay comfortable in that cottage.” Elain bit her lip. Nesta’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “She deserves to hear it,” you said, softer now. “She deserves to know you understand.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Nesta exhaled through her nose, tilting her chin up. She turned toward the doorway, where Feyre stood, watching.
“We should have helped you,” Nesta said, voice steady but low. “We should have done more.”
Elain’s eyes were glassy as she nodded. “We’re sorry, Feyre.”
Feyre didn’t speak right away. Her expression was unreadable, but then, after a long pause, she simply said, “Thank you.”
It wasn’t everything, but it was a start. You let out a slow breath, taking in the moment before speaking again.
“There’s still a lot for us to figure out,” you admitted, glancing between the three of them. “As a family. But we’ll be watching from a distance. There’s time to heal, and time to learn how to love. No rush.”
Nesta didn’t say anything, but her eyes flickered with something unreadable. Elain gave a small, hesitant smile.
Then, as if a light switched on in your head, you brightened. “But enough of this heavy talk, how’s the wedding planning going?”
Elain’s face lit up instantly, her shoulders losing their tension. “Oh! There’s still so much to do, but I think we’ve finally chosen the flowers.”
Nesta crossed her arms, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Finally? You’ve been debating them for weeks.”
Elain huffed. “It’s important! The arrangements set the tone for the whole atmosphere.”
You grinned as they started to bicker over details, the tension in the room lifting as the conversation shifted to colors, music, and dress fittings.
Feyre leaned in slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”
You turned to her, and she gave you a small, knowing smile. You wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into a quiet side hug. “Always.”
☆
Velaris was bathed in the golden glow of sunset as Lucien and Feyre strolled through the city, the quiet hum of life around them adding to the peacefulness of the evening. Lucien held her hand gently, tracing small patterns against her skin with his thumb, but she could feel the slight tension in his grip.
“My mother reached out to me,” he said suddenly, voice softer than usual. “She told me something… unexpected.”
Feyre turned to him, tilting her head. “What is it?”
Lucien let out a small breath, gathering himself. “Beron… wasn’t my father.”
Feyre blinked. “What?”
“It’s Helion. Helion is my father.” His golden eye flickered with emotion. “Which makes me his only heir.”
Feyre squeezed his hand, not saying anything yet, letting him continue.
“I talked to Rhys and to your cousin. I want to spend some time in Day Court. To get to know him. To… understand where I come from. Maybe learn or something…” His voice was steady, but she could hear the hesitation beneath it.
“But?” she prompted gently.
Lucien swallowed, stopping in his tracks to face her fully. “But I don’t want to leave you behind. I don’t want to miss you again.” His free hand came up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “I want to see you getting better at fighting. I want to hear you reading those ridiculous romance books out loud just to annoy me when you practice your reading. I want to be with you, Feyre, and I barely have time with you before I need to leave again.”
Her heart swelled, but she knew where this was going. “Lucien—”
“But I also don’t want to take you away from your family so soon,” he admitted, his eyes searching hers for any hint of disappointment. “I know how much they mean to you. I know what it’s like to feel like you’ve finally found your people, and I don’t want to be the one to pull you away from them.”
Feyre smiled then, something warm and knowing. “Lucien.” She reached up, cupping his face, tracing her thumb over his cheek. “I want you to go.”
He looked startled. “You do?”
“I do.” She nodded. “You need this. You deserve this. And just the fact that you’re giving me the choice, that you’re worrying about me at all, already gives me the answer I needed.” Lucien exhaled, something deep and relieved. Feyre grinned. “Besides, I’ll want to visit Day Court anyway once this court is settled. I want to be with you fully, and I know you’ll come back to me. We have eternity, don’t we?”
Lucien chuckled, his grip on her tightening slightly. “That we do.”
“And while you’re away, I’ll finally have the chance to focus on my writing without you distracting me.”
He barked out a laugh. “Oh, please. You love the distraction.”
She hummed, pressing closer. “Maybe.”
He smiled, eyes bright, before capturing her lips in a kiss, slow and deep, promising and sure.
A few rooftops away, you leaned against Rhysand’s shoulder, spooning another bite of ice cream into your mouth as you watched them from a distance.
“I told you they were getting together,” you said smugly.
Rhys rolled his eyes, stealing a bite from your cup. “Of course you were right. She’s your cousin. You had inside information.”
“Then why did you argue with me about it?” you teased, bumping your hip against his.
Rhys smirked. “I don’t know, maybe I just wanted to argue with you.”
You snorted, setting your ice cream aside to kiss his cheek. “In a few hundred years, maybe you’ll finally win an argument against me, darling.”
He scoffed, but you could feel the love radiating through the bond as he pulled you closer, both of you watching as Feyre and Lucien melted into each other below.
☆
Velaris was blanketed in soft snow, the kind that made everything look as if it had been dipped in sugar. The House of Wind, high above the city, was glowing with warmth, the large sitting room flickering with the light of the fireplace and the laughter of the Inner Circle, plus Lucien, plus Helion, who had decided to spend the time before winter solstice with them.
"You all claim this is just a casual, friendly evening," Helion drawled, sipping a rich, golden liquor, "but the weird tension in this room says otherwise. You all are too competitive for me."
Cassian, already sprawled across the rug like a lazy cat, grinned. "Oh, no, we’re always friendly. Just not when there’s prizes involved."
"You’re just mad because you lost last time," you teased, settling into one of the armchairs.
Cassian scoffed. "That was not a loss. It was sabotage. Tell your mate that it doesn't matter if he's the High Lord of the court, he's not the High Lord of the games."
"Ah, so now we're finally admitting Rhys uses the ‘High Lord Card’ whenever he’s close to losing," Mor smirked, swirling her wine.
Azriel, quiet as always, only raised a brow, the faintest hint of amusement on his face.
"He absolutely does," you confirmed, grinning at Rhys, who lounged on the couch beside you with an arm draped over your shoulders.
Rhys tsked. "I have never—"
Feyre snorted. "You winnowed behind Cassian last time and tied his shoelaces together. Mid-round."
"That's just strategy," Rhys countered smoothly.
Helion let out a bark of laughter, clearly delighted. "You all are insane. I should visit more often."
Mor clapped her hands. "Alright, let’s get to it! Since we’re being fair—" she shot Rhys a look, "—no powers, no winnowing, no mind games."
"You’re taking all the fun out of it," Rhys said, feigning disappointment.
"You’re just upset that you can’t cheat," you murmured, leaning into him.
“Once you're High Lady you'll understand the necessity of winning against these fools” he slightly bit your ear, kissing it after.
The games began with something easy. Charades, a safe warm-up before things got too heated. It was immediately chaos.
Cassian nearly fell over trying to mimic a swan.
"How is that a swan?!" Mor cackled, "You look like you're being chased by lightning!”
And Helion, surprisingly, was very good at guessing. When you acted out a lion, he barely took a second before exclaiming, "The manticore we fought in Day Court!"
Lucien groaned. "I was there, how did I not get that first?"
Rhys, to your eternal amusement, was terrible at it. His dramatics were almost too much.
"I swear this is a book!" he cried, miming flipping pages aggressively.
Azriel, deadpan, "It looks like you're throttling a chicken."
Mor was howling with laughter, Cassian actually had tears in his eyes, and even Azriel looked close to smiling.
Helion leaned toward you. "Are these nights always like this?"
You grinned. "Oh, this is nothing. Just wait until we break out the card games."
Next came the real competition: Cards Against Velaris.
Helion, having never played before, was delighted. "This is the true reason you invited me, isn’t it? To corrupt my innocent mind?"
Lucien muttered, "Innocent is not the word I’d use for you."
To no one’s surprise, Azriel had the darkest humor.
"Az," Cassian wheezed, clutching his stomach, "how—how did you even come up with that?!"
Azriel merely shrugged, sipping his wine. "It fits the prompt."
Mor was losing it, Rhys was nearly crying with laughter, and you swore Helion was actually wiping tears from his eyes.
"I am so stealing this game for Day Court," he declared.
The next round was truth or dare, which, with your family group, was a terrible idea.
"Lucien," Mor grinned wickedly, "truth or dare?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Truth."
A wicked glint. "How many times have you fantasized about Feyre since meeting her?"
Lucien choked on his drink. "That is not—"
“Oh, please. Not in front of me” you hid your face in Rhysand’s back, not wanting to hear any of that.
"You picked the truth, fire boy."
“If you answer this, Lucien, my first decision will be to ban you from this court” You screamed at him.
Rhysand sighed, rubbing his temples. "We are never playing this game again."
By the time the night started winding down, everyone was exhausted from laughter, full from the feast laid out earlier, and thoroughly entertained.
You curled against Rhys on the couch, his arms wrapped around you, watching as Mor and Cassian tried (and failed) to balance spoons on their noses.
"That was a good night," Rhys murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair.
You hummed, turning to look up at him. "I think they just wanted an excuse to keep me distracted before the coronation."
His smile was soft, filled with something warm and unspoken. "Maybe. But they also just love having you here. Having us all together."
Your heart ached in the best way. As the fire crackled and the laughter still echoed in the air, you knew, this was love.
☆
The temple was quiet in the late afternoon light, the golden sun casting long shadows across the ancient stone. You and Rhysand walked side by side, your steps echoing softly against the marble floors. The air smelled of aged parchment, of sacred incense, of prayers whispered through generations.
This temple was older than Velaris itself, older than any living fae in the city. It had stood through wars, through peace, through centuries of change. And yet, it remained, like the beating heart of the Night Court, carrying its traditions, its people’s memories, their hopes and faith. You traced your fingers along the edge of a carved pillar, feeling the weight of its history.
Rhys watched you, his expression softer than usual. “You love this place,” he murmured.
You nodded. “I do. It’s a reminder of everything we’ve fought to protect.”
He hummed in agreement. “Sometimes, I think about what it was like before, before Velaris was a sanctuary, before we could walk these halls without fear.” His violet eyes darkened slightly. “And I think of what it means now, to be here. To be able to stand before this temple and choose how we honor our people. To choose peace.”
Your heart swelled at his words. “I love this court,” you said quietly, your fingers still tracing the stone. “I love everything about it. Its history, its resilience, its people.”
Rhys tilted his head, waiting for you to continue.
“I love how the mountains hold stories older than any of us,” you went on. “How every street in Velaris carries laughter, music, and art. How Illyrian warriors, even with all their flaws, still fight for what they believe in. How our people celebrate life, how, even after war, after loss, they choose to move forward. How they wake up every day and make this place feel like home.”
Rhys was quiet for a long moment, just watching you. Then he whispered, “Tell me more.”
You turned to face him fully, your chest tight with emotion. “I love our traditions,” you said, voice barely above a breath. “The old ones, the new ones. The ones we create just by being together. I love how, even in the darkest of times, we dance under the stars every year during a whole night just to celebrate life. How we paint our hopes into the world. How we hold feasts not just for the powerful, but for everyone. How we remember those who came before us, and how we build a future for those who will come after.”
Rhys reached for your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And what do you love now?”
You swallowed, your mind swirling with all the different kinds of love you had discovered. “There are so many ways to love,” you murmured. “I think I’m only just realizing it.”
Rhys didn’t interrupt, letting you untangle your thoughts out loud.
“I love my cousins,” you said, exhaling softly. “Even if our history is a little turbulent. Even if they’re still learning how to love me in return. It’s a complicated love, but it’s still love. It’s in the way we argue, in the way we fight to understand each other. In the way we try, even when it’s hard.”
Rhys nodded, encouraging you to continue.
“I love the way Lucien and Feyre love each other,” you said, smiling at the thought of them. “They’re just starting something, but it’s something sweet and pure. I can see it in the way they look at each other, in the way they talk. It’s like watching the first snow of winter, delicate and full of wonder. And I love them enough to be patient with them, to let them find their own way, their own happiness.”
You squeezed Rhys’s hand.
“I love our friends. Our family,” you whispered. “Cassian, Mor, Azriel. I loved Amren. Even Helion sometimes, in some strange way.” Rhys huffed a quiet laugh at that. “They are home in a way I never expected. They make this court feel like something more than just a responsibility. They make it a joy.”
Rhys kissed the top of your head, his voice a low murmur. “And what about the court itself?”
Your chest ached with how much you felt for it.
“I love it,” you said simply. “Not just as a place, but as a people. As a dream that keeps going, even when it’s been shattered before. As a promise we make, over and over again, to build something better. I love it enough to fight for it, to earn my place in it, rather than just take it. I love it enough to stay.”
Rhys swallowed, as if your words had struck something deep within him. You smiled up at him. “And I love you.”
His violet eyes darkened. “Me?”
You nodded. “I love you in a way I didn’t know was possible. In a way that feels endless. In the way the stars love the sky, the way the ocean loves the moon, like it was always meant to be.”
Rhys cupped your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek. His voice was barely a whisper. “You undo me.”
You let out a small laugh, blinking back the burning in your eyes. But then you inhaled deeply, your voice turning softer. “And I also love those who aren’t here anymore,” you murmured.
Rhys stilled, his grip on you tightening.
“I love my mother,” you said. “Even if she’s gone. I love the friends we lost, the people who gave their lives for this court. Love doesn’t disappear just because someone is no longer standing beside us.” You gestured to the temple. “That’s why this place matters. It’s proof that love doesn’t fade, it remains. In our traditions, in our stories, in the choices we make every day.”
Rhys pressed his forehead to yours. “You’re going to be a great High Lady,” he murmured.
You exhaled shakily, feeling the weight of it all. “Only because I have you beside me.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you fully, his gaze fierce. “Always.”
Rhys’s fingers tightened around yours as you stood in the sacred silence. Your words still hung between you, your love for this court, for its people, for him. But there was one more name that hadn’t been spoken yet, one more love that still lived in the deepest parts of your heart.
You took a slow breath, your voice barely above a whisper. “And I also loved your sister like she was mine.”
Rhys stilled completely. His entire body locked up, as if the world had stopped moving. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “What?”
You turned to face him fully, gripping his hands. “Your sister.” You swallowed, emotion tightening your throat. “Selene.”
His breath hitched, his violet eyes wide, startled, like you had just spoken a ghost into existence. Rhys staggered back a step, his grip on you slackening. “How do you—”
“I knew her,” you interrupted softly. “I grew up with her. Your mother and mine were friends.”
Rhys’s chest rose and fell sharply, his expression unreadable, but you could feel the way his mind reeled through the bond, through the weight of all the memories rushing back at once. So you told him.
Because once, many years ago, someone had whispered stories about him in the dark.
Tales of the Night Court's heir. The half-breed with violet eyes and a silver tongue. The boy who laughed at the rules of his Court, who danced in the shadows and played wicked games with hearts and minds alike.
He had been nothing but a name back then. A distant legend told between stolen giggles through drunk females in bars and hushed gossip your mother’s friends told her in secret dinners.
So he'd never been a stranger to you.
You had stopped to hear the stories whispered in firelit rooms by your best friend long before Prythian had become your prison of torture and grief.
Had listened to a young female with dark hair and a quick tongue speak of the male with shadows in his veins and a crown he never wanted, how he lied to keep the appearances, how he protected his mother from his father, how he would be the best High Lord she would ever have the pleasure to see.
You remembered the way her eyes had glowed when she spoke his name—Rhysand—as if he were something out of a dream that she hoped to witness.
Rhys’s breath was ragged now, his hands trembling as they reached for yours again, as if he needed to hold onto something solid before the weight of memory crushed him.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I didn’t know you knew her.”
Tears burned at the back of your throat. “She never stopped talking about you when we were kids.”
Rhys let out a shaking breath, his knees nearly buckling.
“She told me about how you used to take her flying, even when your father forbade it,” you continued, voice thick with grief. “How you used to sneak her out of the estate to watch the stars, how you would read to her when she had nightmares. She told me how you always lied to keep her safe. How you bore the brunt of your father’s rage to protect your mother, to protect her.”
Rhys’s jaw clenched, his eyes shimmering with something raw, something broken.
“She told me you would be the best High Lord the Night Court had ever seen.” Your voice wavered. “And she was so proud of you, Rhys. Even back then, before you ever put on the crown, she knew.”
Rhys let out a strangled sound, something between a sob and a laugh, his head dropping forward. His hands came up to his face, as if trying to hold himself together.
“I tried to protect her,” he whispered.
Your throat tightened. “I know.”
“I tried,” he said again, his voice cracking. “I tried, I tried, I tried.”
You reached for him, pulling him into your arms, and he shattered. Rhys sank against you, his body trembling as silent sobs wracked his frame. His hands clutched at you as if you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely. And you held him.
For the boy who had once danced in the shadows. For the sister who had whispered his name like a prayer. For the love that still lingered, even after centuries of loss.
“I miss her,” he whispered against your shoulder. “Every gods-damned day.”
“I know,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his hair.
You stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in each other’s grief, in each other’s love. And then, finally, Rhys pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes still glassy, but steadier now.
“My mother would have loved you,” he whispered.
You smiled, even as fresh tears burned your eyes. “She did.”
Rhys let out a choked laugh, cupping your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek.
“We’ll heal together,” you promised softly.
He nodded, exhaling shakily. “Together.”
And as the temple stood around you, ancient and unwavering, you knew, this love, this grief, this family, it would never be forgotten. It would remain in the shambles of this temple, in the history of this court, in the wind carried to the new generation. Love is all that remains, after all.
One tiny little tear went down after the discourse not gonna lie
Finally, we are back to the lovebirds, I was STRESSING with the war and stuff
Also, I'm noticing many arcane fans reading here heeey wanna be my friend? 😚😚😚
Warnings: Use of Y/N, ACOTAR rewrite, female main character, no more book following sorry, mentions of character death, a bit of demolished stuff post-war, we are sane actually, Rhysand 🤞🏻
Whispers of Secrets and Starlight - Masterlist
Chapter 13: From Now On
For seven days, Velaris was silent. Not in the way it had been under Amarantha’s rule, suffocated by fear and grief. This was a different kind of quiet. The hush of a city breathing again, of wounds, physical and otherwise, starting to knit themselves back together. And through it all, you and Rhys did not stop. There was too much to do. Too much to fix, to rebuild, to account for. You barely slept. Barely ate. Every waking hour was spent assessing losses, damages, the state of the court, of Prythian itself.
Rhys had gone to Hewn City first, making sure Keir and his ilk understood their place. Those who chose to not fight for petty reasons would not be rewarded for their cowardice. That, in exchange for keeping their miserable existence intact, they would pay in resources, labor, blood if necessary.
Then there was Autumn. Three times now, you'd checked in on Eris, ensuring his claim to power was secured. It had taken him less than a day to name himself High Lord of Autumn, Beron's body barely cold in the dirt before his son stepped over it and took his place. And the court had let him. No challengers, no uprisings, not even from his brothers. Perhaps they knew what Eris had done, what he was capable of doing again if they dared stand in his way.
Whatever the reason, Autumn now belonged to him. And so long as he kept a good side with the Night Court, you would allow it to remain that way.
Then there was Spring. The biggest surprise of all. You had expected a fight, a scramble for power, some power-hungry brute trying to seize control in the aftermath of Tamlin’s death, a random male being named High Lord after Tamlin’s lineage ending with him in the grave. Instead, a female had taken it. Ilora Verden. A name you barely remembered hearing before, a courtier once, someone who had lingered on the edges of Tamlin’s rule, unseen and unheard.
And yet, when Tamlin’s body had been dragged from the battlefield, it was her who had stepped forward. Who had walked into that ruined manor, stood before the scattered remains of the Spring Court, and asked: “Who do you follow now?” And the land had chosen her. Because while Tamlin had let his court rot in Amarantha's reign, Ilora had been the one cleaning up his messes, working in the shadows to keep his people safe. It turned out she had been ruling long before Tamlin’s fall. Now, the rest of the world would see it, too.
Rhys had been stunned. You had been positively surprised. But Spring’s people weren’t. And that said everything you needed to know for now.
The first week passed in a blur. You met with war widows, with orphans, ensured that those who had died were honored, remembered.
Cassian reported that the Illyrian war-bands were badly weakened, that the camps needed to be rebuilt, and new warriors to be trained. He was already handling it. Mor had been ensuring Feyre’s sisters were safe, being tended to, protected while the human lands were being taken care of.
Velaris had survived. The Night Court had survived. Prythian had survived. Barely. But it had. And so had you. And yet, by the end of it all, one thing was certain. Prythian was not the same. And neither were you.
☆
The first dinner after the war was quiet.
Not the comfortable kind of quiet the Inner Circle usually had, the kind filled with warmth and shared glances over wine glasses, with the occasional sarcastic remark from Cassian or a dramatic eye roll from Mor.
This quiet was heavy.
It sat in everyone’s bones, in the dark circles beneath Feyre’s eyes after sleepless nights explaining to her sisters the whole story and trying to calm them down over the situation, in the stiffness of Lucien’s shoulders as he adjusted to this new life in a court he had never truly belonged to before and dealing with the loss of his traitor friend. It was in the way Cassian kept glancing at the empty chair where Amren should have been, the way Azriel barely touched his food, the way Rhysand’s hand tightened around yours beneath the table every few minutes, as if making sure you were really still there.
Grief lingered in the air like the ghost of something lost but not forgotten. For a while, no one spoke.
Then Mor sighed, pushing her plate away. “We’re all avoiding it, so we might as well talk about it.”
No one needed to ask what it was. Amren was gone. Died in a sacrifice she kept telling everyone she didn't have a reason to do. And she wasn’t coming back.
Cassian set down his fork, rubbing his face with both hands. “She would’ve called us all insufferable for moping like this.”
“She would’ve called us much worse,” Azriel muttered, voice quiet.
Rhys huffed a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s true.”
The silence stretched again, pressing down on the table like a weight no one could lift.
Then Lucien spoke. “And the human lands?”
You turned to him, his face carefully neutral. He hadn’t spoken much these past few days, adjusting to Velaris, to Night, to all of you, to a new family. But this… this distraction, this work, this comments… that was something he knew well.
Feyre shifted beside him, looking just as troubled. “They were affected,” she admitted. “The Cauldron’s power… it reached them, too, Nesta said. War wasn’t just in Prythian. It touched every corner of these Lands.”
Rhys nodded grimly. “We’ll send aid where we can. But with how fragile everything is now, we have to be careful how much we intervene.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened, his amber eye flickering to Feyre’s before settling back on you. “And your cousins?”
“They’re safe,” you assured him. “They’re still adjusting. Nesta…she’s Nesta. And Elain—”
“Elain is Elain,” Feyre finished softly.
Lucien’s face betrayed nothing, but you didn’t miss the way his fingers curled slightly against the table.
“We should check in with Ilora soon,” Rhys said, shifting the topic. “Spring has been eerily quiet, and I don’t like it.”
Mor smirked. “You still can’t believe they accepted a High Lady so easily, can you?”
Rhys rolled his eyes. “I can believe it just fine. I just want to make sure she’s not secretly planning to turn her people against us the first chance she gets.”
“She won’t,” Feyre said. “She actually cares about them.” The words hung in the air, unspoken but understood. Unlike Tamlin.
Rhysand exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. “Then there’s Eris.”
Cassian scowled. “What about him?”
“We need to make sure he holds up t
Autumn's part in the alliance. At least with his father we knew to expect the worst.” Lucien tensed again, but didn’t argue.
“Everything is fragile right now,” you murmured. “Every court, every alliance, everything we fought for…it could all crumble if we’re not careful.”
Rhysand squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “That’s why we’re here.”
Another silence fell over the table. But this one felt…different. Still heavy, still filled with loss and exhaustion and everything that had changed. But beneath it, something steadier. Something unbroken. Hope.
You had survived the war. Now, you had to survive what came after.
Dinner had taken a turn for the better. The worst topics had been laid out, the burdens shared, and now the tension in the room had finally begun to ease. The wine flowed more freely, Cassian and Mor were bickering about something ridiculous, and you… You were watching Feyre and Lucien.
The way they spoke in soft tones, the small glances they exchanged, the way Feyre’s lips twitched in amusement whenever Lucien muttered something under his breath, something only she could hear. It was…nice. Warm. For everything that had happened, for all the pain and loss, it was good to see Feyre and Lucien like this. Happy.
Rhysand’s voice purred into your mind, highly amused. "You’re staring."
You didn’t look away. "I am not."
"You are. And before you say anything, yes, my love, you absolutely put your nose too much in Feyre’s business."
"I do not!" you protested, scowling at him, on your side of the table.
"You do. Look at you, smiling like a mother hen seeing her baby bird fly for the first time. It’s nauseating."
"I just think it’s sweet," you defended, sipping your wine.
"You think it’s an adorable tale of fated mates and second chances and—" Rhys’s voice took on a sickeningly sweet tone, "—oh, isn’t it just so precious that they’re talking so softly to each other? That they’re making heart eyes? That—"
"You’re the worst."
"I’m the worst? I’m not the one practically writing their love story in my head."
"I hate you."
"You love me, in fact."
You resisted the urge to throw your wine at him and turned to Feyre instead, clearing your throat. “Feyre.”
She raised a brow. “Yes?”
“Do you think I take too much care of your life? Do I intervene too much?”
Feyre exchanged a look with Lucien before tilting her head at you. “You’re…inquisitive when you want to be.” Cassian snorted into his drink. “But that’s probably a High Lady thing, so I don't care that much,” Feyre added with a smirk.
Your jaw dropped. Rhysand burst into laughter, and suddenly the entire table was howling.
Your offense was immediate. “So my love is too much for you? That’s what you’re saying?”
“No,” Feyre said quickly, laughing. “I love you too, but if you keep looking at me and Lucien like you’re some poor girl who’s been traumatized by our tragic fates, I might throw a fork at you.” More laughter.
Betrayal. Utter betrayal. You placed a hand over your chest, feigning deep injury. “I can’t believe this. My love is being mocked. My care, my affection—”
“Is exhausting,” Mor cut in, grinning.
More betrayal. “I hate all of you,” you muttered, crossing your arms.
Rhys leaned back in his chair, utterly delighted by your suffering.
Feyre gave you a sweet, syrupy smile “And when will you assume your position as High Lady, then?”
Your bickering came to a screeching halt. Silence fell over the table. You blinked. “What?”
Feyre smirked. “Can I put my nose in this business?”
Before you could fully process that, Rhysand, still smirking like a cat who got the cream, chose that exact moment to say, “Keir and Devlon both asked for meetings about this whole ‘you as a leader’ thing.”
Your mind short-circuited. Cassian exaggeratedly choked. Mor gasped dramatically. Azriel just raised a brow. Lucien? Still sipping his wine, clearly having the time of his life watching the chaos.
You gawked at Rhys. “Excuse me?”
Rhysand leaned forward, swirling his wine as he explained, “Keir and Devlon both requested meetings to discuss your position as future High Lady.”
Silence. The kind that weighed over the entire table. Your fingers curled around your glass as he continued,
“We’ve been meeting with them to adjust the terms for when you officially take the title, whenever you’re ready.” He gave you that look, the one that meant ‘there is no rush, no pressure, my love.’ “Devlon even offered to fly with the Illyrian camp leaders to the Moonlight Palace to discuss it further.”
You just… stared. Silent. Your face was unreadable. Rhysand’s gaze sharpened, and for the first time that evening, his amusement flickered into concern.
And then, Lucien snorted. “You forgot you had to assume the position, didn’t you?”
Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then, very quietly, with just a hint of shame, you muttered, “…Yeah, I did.”
Cassian and Mor immediately lost it. Cassian howled with laughter, practically wheezing as he clutched his stomach. Mor was crying, her entire body shaking as she tried to catch her breath. Even Azriel, stoic, calm, ever-composed Azriel, huffed a laugh, his shoulders shaking as he covered his mouth.
You shot a glare at all of them. “In my defense,” you said, voice rising over their laughter, “I’ve been working so much on all of this that I completely ignored the fact that this is not my title yet!”
Cassian wheezed louder. Mor was halfway to falling out of her chair. Rhysand was utterly relieved. So relieved, in fact, that he didn’t even try to fight his grin, just reached through the bond and drowned you in love. Warmth. Adoration. Amusement. So much love.
You felt it all and just sighed, dramatically leaning against his shoulder. “Whatever. I hate you all.”
Cassian wiped tears from his eyes. “Yeah, sure you do.”
☆
Rhysand sat at the head of the massive obsidian table, the dim glow of faelights reflecting off its polished surface. Every major leader of the Night Court was here, the Hewn City, the Illyrian warlords, representatives from the court’s largest cities. Some had fought beside you in the war. Others had stayed in the shadows, waiting for the dust to settle before making their alliances clear.
And then there was you, sitting beside him, straight-backed, face carefully neutral. A crown shining on top of your head. Rhys reached at you through the bond, sending a thread of warmth, of assurance, before turning his attention back to the room.
"Before we discuss anything else," he said, voice even, authoritative, "there’s something that needs to be established. Many of you have questions, about the war, about what happens now, about how this court will move forward." His violet gaze swept across the room. "But I imagine most of you are here for one reason." A brief pause. "My mate," he continued smoothly, "will be assuming the position of High Lady of the Night Court."
Silence. Not a shock, not exactly, everyone had known this was coming. You had been at his side for months now, had commanded soldiers, led armies. You had won the battle for them, fought alongside them, bled for them. This was just making it official. Rhys let the silence settle before continuing.
"There is no debate on this matter," he said. "No discussion. No vote. The only reason we are gathered here is to determine how her transition will be handled." A few of the Illyrian warlords shifted in their seats, assessing you, but they didn’t speak.
Keir, of course, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, face set in a sneer. Rhys ignored him.
"She has spent the past few months leading beside me, assisting in rebuilding efforts, ensuring the Night Court emerges from this war stronger than before. Many of you fought alongside her. You saw her command. You saw how she handled herself in battle, how she strategized, how she protected our people." He gestured toward you slightly, but his voice didn’t waver. "But her claim to this position does not come from her role in this war alone. It does not come from her being my mate. She was born in this court. She was raised by one of our strongest warriors. She trained among the Illyrians, she lives in the Hewn City, learned our politics, our histories, our people. And when the time came, she did not hesitate to put herself on the front lines for this court, for all of you."
His voice was calm, but there was something undeniable in his tone. Something unyielding.
"This court does not need a Lady who rules from the shadows," he said. "It does not need a Lady who bows to tradition, or who bends to outdated expectations. What it needs is someone who will fight for it. And she has done that. She will continue to do that. The Land said it itself."
Keir scoffed. “A High Lady.” Rhysand’s gaze snapped to him in an instant.
"Yes," he said smoothly, a slow, cruel smile tugging at his lips. "A High Lady. And what a shame for you, Keir, that she is already twice the leader you will ever be."
A few Illyrians snorted. Keir’s sneer deepened, but he didn’t argue.
Rhys turned back to the room. "There are two matters that need to be settled today. The first is how Illyria will handle this transition. Devlon has already proposed flying with the camp leaders to the Moonlight Palace, whenever we choose to turn the ceremony official" He nodded toward the warlord, who inclined his head in acknowledgment. "The second matter is the Hewn City."
Keir stiffened, but Rhys ignored him.
"Keir’s approval is required for the title to be formally recognized," Rhys said casually, as if it were an inconvenience, "but I doubt that will be an issue."
Keir’s jaw tightened. You just smiled.
Rhys sent another pulse of warmth through the bond before adding, "After that, the ceremony can be planned. Which means that, soon, the Night Court will have its High Lady."
The meeting was exactly what you expected, a headache. Keir kept being a pain in the ass, as usual, sitting with his arms crossed, his expression resting somewhere between bored and vaguely disgusted as he watched you. The Illyrian warlords, on the other hand, were more neutral, their gazes assessing but not hostile.
You could feel the weight of the entire Night Court pressing down on this room. And still, you sat there, calm, collected, unbothered, as Rhysand explained what would happen next.
Devlon was the first to speak once Rhys finished. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his wings twitching slightly. “You fought in the war.” His voice was deep, steady. “We all saw it. You didn’t just fight, you commanded. But you didn’t treat us like weapons, didn’t throw us away like other High Lords did. You knew the strategies, understood the battlefields. Even before this war, you have respected Illyrian culture, our ways, while we prepared for war. You trained with one of ours.” A few other Illyrians nodded. Devlon’s sharp eyes met yours. “You’re not Illyrian,” he said. “But you know us.” A beat of silence. Then, with a nod, “That’s enough for me.”
It was as close to an approval as Devlon would ever give. You inclined your head, allowing just the barest hint of a smirk. The Illyrians were handled.
Keir, on the other hand, “Typical,” he muttered, finally speaking, his voice dripping with mockery. “The Illyrians are always so eager to kneel.”
Rhys tensed. Cassian’s hands clenched into fists. You just smiled. A slow, knowing, dangerous smile.
“You know, Keir,” you mused, resting your chin in your hand. “I had a lot of time to think, during the war. And it occurred to me, my mother knew so many secrets about Hewn City. She lived here for a while, you know. And some of them are… rather vile. And, well, you know, she loved to talk to me about politics, and a little bit of gossip.”
Keir went still. Dead silent. A flicker of something, something like fear, crossed his face.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to start discussing those things, would you?” you asked sweetly.
Keir didn’t even hesitate. With barely contained rage, he snatched the document in front of him, signed it, and pushed it forward with a sneer.
“I’ll be awaiting the ceremony,” he bit out.
Then he stood and left. Rhysand exhaled slowly through his nose, relief crashing through the bond as he sent you a dry, “you could’ve started with that,” before turning back to the rest of the table.
That was when one of the representatives from one of the larger cities of the Night Court leaned forward. A tall, elegant-looking male with sharp, assessing eyes.
“If I may,” he started, gaze cutting straight to you. You thought you knew what was coming before he even said it. “You’ve been away for three hundred years,” he said. “Gone. Not here during Amarantha, not here for Velaris, not here when our people suffered. And now, you return, and we’re expected to simply accept you as High Lady?” Silence fell. The air tightened. He leaned forward slightly. “What gives you the right to sit here and make these decisions?”
Rhysand’s power crackled through the room, a sharp, silent warning. His grip on your hand tightened, his body going still beside you, and you felt the dark promise that was coiling in his chest. He was seconds away from tearing that male apart.
But you just squeezed his hand. The smallest touch. And he stilled. Not because he wanted to, but because you did.
So you turned your gaze to the male who had spoken, to the faces watching you, waiting, doubting. And you took a breath, let it settle deep inside you before you spoke. "You’re right."
A flicker of surprise in the male’s face. In all their faces.
"I was gone for three hundred years." Your voice was even, but there was something real in it. Something beyond politics, beyond power. "I left. I was not here when Amarantha took Prythian, when Rhysand left Velaris, when our people suffered. I was not here when the Night Court bled."
You looked down at your hand in Rhysand’s, at the way his thumb brushed over your skin in silent reassurance.
"But I left because I lost everything." A breath. "My mother." The words felt like a blade to your ribs. They always did. "The one who raised me to be strong. Who taught me how to fight, how to think, how to love this court with everything I had."
You swallowed past the lump in your throat.
"My best friend." And gods, saying that hurt too. She should have been here. Sitting beside you. Arguing about the color of your dress for the ceremony. Laughing about the idea of you wearing a crown at all. "Everything I cared about was taken from me." You met the male’s gaze, met the weight of every single person in this room watching you. Judging you. "And at some point, I—I didn’t know how to be here anymore. I didn’t know how to live in a place where every street, every mountain, every sound reminded me of what I had lost. Home means a lot of things. Sometimes it means tradition, land, duty. But sometimes it means family, too. And I—" A breath. "I couldn’t see my family anymore." Silence. "So I left."
Rhysand sent another pulse of warmth through the bond, but you barely noticed it.
"I ran. For years." You shook your head, a dry laugh slipping past your lips. "I ran because I thought maybe the world outside would have answers. Maybe it would have something else." You exhaled sharply. "But the truth is—I was always trying to come back." That surprised them. "Again and again." Your voice was stronger now. "I tried. But the emptiness in my chest was too much. The grief was too much. And so every time I reached the borders of the Night Court, I turned away." You let your gaze drift across the room. "Until Feyre."
Rhysand’s chest lifted with a slow breath beside you.
"Until I found myself staring at her, this human girl, fighting for her family. Hunting in the woods. Holding a bow like she wanted it to be an extension of her arm." A small smile, distant, remembering. "And I thought of Illyria. I thought of the young warriors I saw training when I was young. I thought of the ones who taught me how to hold a blade, how to stand my ground, how to make every single arrow count." A pause. "When she grew up, every morning I watched her hunt, and I thought about my home."
Some of the Illyrians were watching you differently now.
"Every time I searched for clothes for her and my cousins, I thought about the seamstresses in Velaris, about the colors of our court, about the silks and leathers and armor we crafted." A breath. "Every time I cooked for them, I thought about the spices of our kitchens, the way food in the Night Court tastes like nothing else in the world." You leaned forward slightly. "Love is in the details." The words hung there. "And sometimes, you have to leave to understand why you need to come back."
For the first time, the male who had spoken was silent.
"I don’t feel entitled to this position." Your voice was quiet. Honest. "I don’t believe it’s mine by right, or by blood, or by birth, or by magic." You looked at them, at all of them, one by one. "But I love this court. I love its people. And if the magic of these lands wants me here, if the people of the Night Court let me stay here, then I will fight every single day to prove I deserve it."
A beat of silence.
"Well, shit." You turned to see Cassian, arms crossed, grinning. "If that’s how you’re gonna give speeches as High Lady, I’m gonna need a lot more wine at these meetings."
A snort from Mor. Even Azriel huffed out a quiet laugh. And beside you, Rhysand just took your hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. Slow. Deliberate. Pride radiating through the bond.
One by one, they stood. The Illyrians. The High Fae. The leaders of the Night Court. And they bowed. Not just to Rhysand. To you.
Your heart hammered in your chest, but you kept your shoulders squared, your chin high. Rhysand’s fingers brushed against yours, the bond between you both humming, full of warmth and quiet, unshakable pride. The leaders stepped forward one at a time, signing the document that would solidify it all, your title, your rule, your place.
As they did, they spoke.
"Your mother would be proud." One of the High Fae murmured, clasping your hand.
"The Illyrians remember how you fought for us." A camp leader told you. Devlon watched in silence, but nodded his approval.
"Your heart is in the right place," another said. "That’s what matters most."
"Congratulations, High Lord." A High Fae smirked at your mate. "You chose well."
Rhysand just smiled, smug as ever, his grip on your hand never loosening. One by one, they spoke their hopes for your reign, their confidence in your rule. Until, at last, they all left the room.
And the Inner Circle remained. Silence. The weight of it settled around you, around all of you.
"From now on… be prideful, dear. You have what it takes to do everything you want. So do it."
Your mother's words echoed in your mind, as if they had always been there. As if they had been waiting to be spoken to. You turned to them, your family.
"From now on, this is my home again." Cassian blinked, caught off guard. "From now on, I stop running." Mor’s face softened. "From now on, I will make my time here count."
Azriel watched you, unreadable, but there was something warm in his shadows. You exhaled, something in your chest unraveling, finally settling into place.
"I know I was gone, I know I took too long to find my way back." You looked at each of them, really looked at them. "But I’m here now. And I swear to you, I’m not leaving again. What waited until tomorrow starts tonight. It starts to Night."
And Rhysand just pulled you in, held you close, and whispered against your hair "I knew you'd come home."
☆
The moonlight spilled into your bedroom, casting everything in a soft silver glow. The war, the meetings, the weight of everything, it was all outside of these walls. Here, in this bed, there was only him.
Rhysand’s arms were around you, his body warm against yours, his wings partially unfurled across the mattress. His fingers traced slow, aimless patterns across your back, and when you shivered, he smiled against your temple.
"I can’t believe you forgot you weren’t High Lady yet." His voice was filled with laughter, but there was something deeper there, something tender beneath the teasing.
"I was working too much," you mumbled, pressing your face into his neck. "And you weren’t exactly reminding me."
"I thought you knew."
"Well, I didn’t." You huffed, lifting your head to look at him properly.
And he just looked at you. His violet eyes, soft as the stars outside.
"I’m proud of you," he whispered.
The words sank into your bones, into the deepest parts of you, filling all the places that had once been hollow.
"You’ve always been my High Lady," Rhys continued, his knuckles brushing over your cheek. "But today, you stood before all of them and proved it to yourself too."
You swallowed hard, leaning into his touch. "And I’m proud of you," you murmured, tracing the lines of his face, committing them to memory, like you hadn’t already done it a thousand times before. "For fighting for our people, for leading us through all of this, for being the best mate I could ever ask for."
Rhys closed his eyes for a second, like he was feeling those words the same way you had felt his.
Then he kissed you. Slow, unrushed, a kiss that wasn’t about claiming or passion, but about love. And you melted into him, hands sliding into his hair, fingers caressing the sensitive part of his wings, feeling him shudder beneath your touch.
"We should go somewhere," he murmured against your lips.
"Go where?"
"Anywhere." His nose brushed against yours. "Just the two of us. No responsibilities, no war, no court politics, just us. After we accept the bond, I mean."
Your heart ached with the sweetness of it. "That sounds perfect."
He smiled, kissing your forehead, then your nose, then each of your cheeks, worshiping you in the way he always did, in the way he always would.
"Then it’s settled," he whispered, pulling you closer, wrapping his wings around you both, sealing you into this perfect moment.
And as you buried yourself into his warmth, his love, you knew… You were home.
You settled deeper into Rhysand’s embrace, the comfort of his warmth surrounding you, the quiet of the night making everything feel suspended in time. The flicker of candlelight danced softly around the room. After a long pause, you turned your head to look at him, your fingers gently tracing the lines of his jaw. "What about kids?" you asked, the question slipping out almost casually, though your heart beat faster as the words left your lips.
Rhys’s eyes softened, and he chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "You’re thinking about that now?"
"Well," you began, your voice quieter, more thoughtful, "We’ve been through so much, and I’m—" you hesitated, trying to find the right words, "I’m just wondering when you’d want kids. How many, maybe?"
Rhys laughed, the sound so warm, so comforting. "I haven’t been thinking about it much," he admitted, running a hand through your hair. "We’ve got time. We’ve already been through so much, and I want to enjoy this, us, before diving into everything else. But I’d be lying if I said the thought hasn’t crossed my mind."
You smiled, a little teasing, as you ran a finger over his chest. "How many?" you asked, intrigued by the idea.
Rhys’s grin grew, his gaze heavy and intense. "Maybe two... three? Honestly, I think I’d be happy with however many you want. It’s not about the number, it’s about us building a fanily together."
You blinked, feeling a rush of warmth at his words. "Well, I already have a bit of a plan," you said, your voice teasing now. "Maybe start with one... and then see where it goes. We could make it an adventure. Make a whole frontline of mini us."
Rhys raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing. "An adventure, huh? I like the sound of that. Do you plan on training for this adventure anytime soon?" He leaned down closer, his voice lowering to a whisper, his lips brushing against your ear. "Because I think I know a few ways we could start practicing..."
A shiver ran down your spine at his words, the heat between you two rising instantly. You caught his gaze again, feeling the tension, the pull of desire that had always been there, simmering just beneath the surface. The soft, teasing touches, the lingering kisses, this was all part of the same game, the beginning of something.
You let out a soft laugh, lips curling. "Well, I suppose we have plenty of time to train. We need practice if we want to make it right."
Rhys smiled wickedly, his hand sliding down to your waist. "Plenty of time," he murmured, before capturing your lips in a kiss that was fierce, slow, and full of promise. And as the night deepened, the world outside faded away. It was just the two of you, together.
As the Archeron sisters grow older you take in as your mission to make things right for your cousins, even if the secrets you keep of where you are from and who you are might one day collapse. You never wanted to go back to that life, but something is calling you, and it might be your only way back home.
Mastermind
Req: AHH! OMG can you do Rhys with pregnancy? I mean all prompts would be brilliant with Rhys (he's my fav too) but we never got to see him with a pregnant mate. lly so much ❤️
Wait For It
Req: Solo Dad Rhys!!!! Fluff piece!!!
Waiting On A Miracle
Req: Heyy for the acotar bingo can you do second option??? Or maybe co workers but like modern! Au
The Loneliest
Req: Hello for the ACOTAR bingo, could you do Nightmare with Rhys? I need some comforting fluff right now 😅😅
That's not my focus bbs I don't even know how to write a war sorry 😚🫶🏻
Warnings: Use of Y/N, ACOTAR rewrite, female main character, 2,3% book following look at me, mentions of PTSD, character death (more than 1), lots of trauma, war, blood, bit of gore, Tamlin 🤢, Rhysand 😭
Whispers of Secrets and Starlight - Masterlist
Chapter 12: Six Hundred Strike
The battlefield stretched wide before you, the rolling hills of Spring Court now a war camp. The armies of Prythian had gathered, a sight unlike any seen in centuries, warriors from every court, standing side by side.
The Illyrians stood in disciplined ranks, wings tucked close, siphons gleaming in the overcast light. Peregrines from the Day Court waited alongside them, their lighter armor built for speed, their wings flicking in anticipation. Soldiers from Winter, Summer, Autumn, and even the handful from Spring who had abandoned Tamlin’s failures, all waited in formation. Then came the scouts.
A Peregrine landed first, his wings folding as he strode toward Helion. “Hybern is marching.”
An Illyrian warrior, barely seconds behind, knelt before Cassian. “The King is with them. And he has the Cauldron.”
Even with two pieces missing, it was still a force to be reckoned with. A cold weight settled in your chest.
Rhys squeezed your hand once. “We stick to the plan.” He said in your mind. You nodded.
Cassian’s voice rang out, commanding, clear. “Everyone, move into position!”
The army shifted. Prythian’s forces began their descent, moving toward the open valley ahead. The land sloped downward, just enough to disguise their movements, just enough to let them control the battlefield before Hybern fully realized what was happening.
The valley was the perfect trap. And the first step was yours.
Rhysand turned to you, his violet eyes sharp as he opened his hands, power rippling through him. You mirrored him, feeling the raw magic pulse within you, rising, coiling, eager. Together, you misted the battlefield. Hybern’s barriers, carefully crafted shields meant to keep their forces secure, began to break. Like smoke in the wind, they vanished under your power. Holes spread across their formations, gaps in their defense.
Hybern’s army didn’t even realize what was happening at first. Their march continued, blind to the fact that they were now exposed. Until the second wave of magic came crashing down.
"NOW!" Cassian roared.
Prythian’s forces rushed forward. From above, Illyrians and Peregrines launched themselves into the air. From the ground, warriors from every court surged forward, blades drawn, powers crackling. Hybern barely had time to react.
The battle had begun. The battlefield erupted into chaos. Hybern’s forces barely had time to adjust to the sudden breach in their barriers before Prythian’s armies tore through them.
From above, Illyrians and Peregrines dived like shadows and flame, striking with lethal precision. Blades slashed through armor, arrows found gaps in helmets, and magic rained down like a storm.
On the ground, Winter Court warriors fought with icy grace, their swords glowing with frost as they cut through Hybern’s front lines. Summer Court soldiers wielded water like living serpents, drowning foes where they stood.
You didn’t stop moving. With one hand, you misted an approaching commander, his scream barely beginning before he was gone. With the other, you threw out a wall of black fire, forcing back a group of Hybern soldiers who had nearly flanked Vivianne and her fighters. She met your gaze across the battlefield and nodded once before spinning, slashing her twin blades through the next enemy in her path.
Rhys was a storm in the heart of battle. Wherever his shadows passed, Hybern’s forces fell. A general surged toward him, a massive broadsword raised, Rhys merely vanished into the darkness and reappeared behind him, his blade slipping into the man’s spine before he could react.
Cassian and Azriel fought side by side, a deadly whirlwind of steel and magic. Azriel moved like a ghost, his siphons flaring with cobalt light as he cut down three soldiers before they could even lift their weapons. Cassian was a battering ram, using brute force and sheer skill to send Hybern’s warriors crashing to the dirt. He bellowed commands, rallying Illyrian soldiers, dodging a spear at the last second before slamming his blade through the wielder’s gut.
And Hybern was still marching. More soldiers poured into the valley, their sheer numbers pressing forward despite the trap that had been laid for them.
A pulse of power rippled through the battlefield. Not magic from any High Lord. Not a spell from any warrior. No. It was the Cauldron. And whatever the King of Hybern had just done, it was about to change the tide of this war.
The Cauldron’s power struck the battlefield like a hammer. The first time, the shockwave rippled outward, vaporizing Hybern’s own front lines. Screams of confusion and terror erupted from their ranks as soldiers collapsed, their bodies turning to ash. The second time, another pulse, another wave of death. More of Hybern’s forces fell, confusion turning to panic as their king’s magic devoured them. The third time, the air itself seemed to shudder as the Cauldron’s power gathered once more. It took three trials before the king got one right into Prythian’s forces.
But you were already moving. Magic surged through you as you whispered the words, an ancient, bone-deep summons that curled through the fabric of this world and beyond. A shadow deeper than night unfurled in the distance, something ancient and crawling, something that sent a shiver down every spine on that battlefield.
Then, they appeared. The Weaver, standing at the edge of the battlefield, her blood-red cloak billowing, her smile sharp as a blade. The Bone Carver, small and delicate in the boyish form he introduced himself to you — until he wasn’t, until the shadows peeled away, revealing something made of death and prophecy. And Bryaxis, the thing that lived in nightmares, crawled into the world, a shape of pure, shifting terror.
Rhys winnowed to your side immediately.
“What. The fuck. Is this?” His voice was calm, too calm for the situation, his violet eyes wide as he stared at the creatures of legend now standing at your command.
You merely smiled, tilting your head. “I’ve been making friends.”
Rhys blinked. Once. Twice. Then he turned to face you fully.
“How,” he asked, very carefully, “did you even get the Weaver out of her cottage?”
You shrugged. “You gave Feyre free time. I gave her training.”
Rhys made a choked noise. “You are insane.”
You grinned. “Don't worry, I was there the whole time. In case something went wrong, I had an offer to use in exchange for Feyre. Although, I still used it as a sacrifice for Weaver's participation today.”
The Weaver, as if she listened to you, laughed, the sound low and curling like smoke.
Rhys inhaled sharply as if something had just clicked. “Wait. That means—” He stared at you. “Where the hell did Ianthe go when she disappeared a few days ago?”
You just smiled.
Rhys’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
You said nothing.
“Oh, Mother above.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I’m not asking. I don’t want to know.”
You patted his shoulder. “Smart choice.”
Then you turned back to the battlefield, where the Weaver, the Bone Carver, and Bryaxis had begun to move. And Hybern’s army, already broken and bleeding, had nowhere left to run.
The King of Hybern finally stepped forward onto the battlefield. His army lay in ruins, shredded by Prythian’s forces, the Weaver’s hunger, the Bone Carver’s cold blade, and Bryaxis’s living nightmare. He had nothing left.
And yet, he smiled. Because in his hands, he held two girls. Nesta and Elain. Your stomach dropped. But you had to hold your ground.
“Fuck,” you murmured under your breath. “Damned gossiper motherfucker, Tamlin.”
Rhysand winnowed to your side, his hands clenched into fists as he watched your cousins crying while being held by the enemy. Your mate dripped with regret as he looked at the two humans with nowhere to run. Cassian, Azriel, and Morrigan weren’t far behind, their magic and weapons ready to strike. But the King? He just laughed.
“You all seem so confident,” he drawled. “So sure of your victory. So proud of your… what do you call it? Friendship? Loyalty?” He sneered. “You think that makes you strong? It makes you weak. Because while you fight with swords and claws and magic, I have this.”
He raised a hand. And the Cauldron pulsed. You braced yourself for another strike. For another death-filled shockwave. But something moved behind the King. Amren. You saw it, the flicker of silver in her mercurial eyes. The otherness that had always lurked beneath her skin.
The King kept talking, as every villain does in books. At some point of your life you believed they wouldn't lose their time explaining their objectives and plans. A good distraction while you slaughtered soldiers around you and as Amren moved. You thought she would deactivate the Cauldron, like she said she was planning to, but the betrayal barely hit your guts as she threw herself into the Cauldron.
A sharp crack split the air. A wound in reality itself. Magic tore free, something old, raw, and endless surging from within that iron bowl. And the King of Hybern screamed. Amren’s true form rose from the Cauldron, wreathed in silver fire. No longer bound by the shape of a High Fae, no longer restrained by flesh and bone. She spread her wings. The King barely had time to react before she grasped him, her claws curling around his throat, and flung him like a discarded doll, right into the center of the battlefield.
The impact shook your ground. He still had one last hit from the Cauldron. And as he lay there, broken and struggling, he reached for its power once more. A final, desperate strike before Amren sucked all the energy from it. The Cauldron shuddered, and unleashed one last pulse of death. Prythian’s army screamed. The warriors fell in droves. Shields shattered. Magic flickered and failed.
But as the bolt of pure energy cut through the battlefield, focusing on the Prythian’s army. You saw how fast Eris moved, subtly, deliberately. A simple push was all it took from him. Just enough to send his father straight into the path of that deadly strike. And Beron Vanserra, High Lord of Autumn, was gone with a part of his army. Just like that.
You let out a slow breath, eyes meeting Eris’s across the battlefield. He gave you a polite nod and a knowing smile, running as he slowly felt the trembling sensation of the power of a High Lord filling him.
You arched a brow. “Okay,” you muttered to yourself. “I didn’t see that.”
As the battle raged on, the sky split with screams and steel. Blood soaked the earth, turning the battlefield into a graveyard for those foolish enough to stand against them.
Then you saw it the exact moment you remembered the captive girls the king was keeping. A flicker of movement, too deliberate, too familiar.
At the edge of the battlefield, Hybern’s soldiers dragged the two figures of your cousins forward, probably going to reach back to their King, who was trying to keep his ground while soldiers fought him on the battlefield. Nesta. Elain. Your heart stopped.
You turned immediately. Reaching for the small bond between you and the Inner Circle. "Mor."
Morrigan landed beside you, her golden hair wild from the wind as her braid was undoing itself, her sword slick with blood. "I see them."
"You need to get them out of here." Mor’s lips pressed into a thin line. "I mean it," you insisted. "Hybern has too many eyes on him. If he gets desperate, he could—"
"Kill them," Mor finished.
Her knuckles whitened around the hilt of her sword. Mor could move faster than any of you and was the least watched one between them. She was your best chance.
“Honestly I feel like I could sacrifice Nesta, but I think Feyre would be mad at me so…” You shrugged as you held your sword tighter, "Get in, winnow out. Straight to Velaris. Nuala and Cerridwen can watch over them," she ordered.
Mor hesitated for only a second. Then she nodded. Without another word, she vanished into the battlefield.
Nesta had never felt this helpless before. Not when her family lost everything, not when she had stared into the eyes of hunger and accepted the proposal of a cousin she never heard of to help, not even when Hybern’s soldiers had dragged her from her manor hours ago. Elain was trembling beside her, her hand clutching Nesta’s wrist like it was the only thing grounding her to reality while they were being dragged in that place of horrors and blood.
The King of Hybern was saying something. Shouting commands to his guards. She wasn’t listening. Because the air wasn't reaching her lungs, her blood wasn't getting to her hands, she almost felt like she could faint right there and then.
But suddenly, the air shifted. Even if she was just human, she still felt as power rummaged around her. A second later, golden power exploded through the running hill. Mor. Hybern’s soldiers barely had time to react before the Third in Command of the Night Court tore through them.
Nesta’s breath caught. Because Morrigan was a storm. She was blade and vengeance and deadly grace, cutting down three of Hybern’s guards before they even had time to scream.
"Nesta!" Mor’s voice was sharp. “I work with your cousin, I will take you and your sister to a safe place, please trust me!”
Before she could think, Mor’s arms were around her and Elain, and the world twisted, turning to wind and darkness. And then, sudden silence. No more battle screams, no command shouts, no more gut ripping. Just Elain's quiet crying as they saw the world around them. They felt the change in their skin as cold, crisp air reached it.
A safe city extendeda around them. They had made it. And right around the corner, Nesta held her sister's hand as another figure approached them, the blond one that brought them here nodded to the other female and disappeared — back to the battlefield, probably. The other figure kept getting closer, slowly, probably to not scare them. When she appeared in the light Nesta and Elain couldn't contain the sound of pure shock as they saw her. Feyre.
☆
You kept cutting your way trying to reach the king. You were going to lose the opportunity if you couldn't get close enough of him to cut his head off. After you killed another male from Hybern, you barely had time to catch your breath before a flash of golden hair caught your eye. Tamlin. Standing there, just beyond the chaos, trying to run away from battle. Running, as if he hadn’t caused all of this. Running, as if he hadn’t sold out Prythian to Hybern. Running, like a coward.
Something inside you snapped. Before you could even think, you growled, your power surging like a tidal wave, ready to crush him.
“Go.” Rhysand’s voice slid into your mind. “Go after him. I’ll handle the King.”
You didn’t need to be told twice. Tamlin had already started to run, but you were faster. You winnowed, cutting off his path, appearing in front of him before he could flee like the spineless worm he was. His green eyes widened.
"Don't," he panted. "You don’t understand—"
You punched him so hard in the face that he flew back, crashing into the dirt. "I don't understand?" Your voice was deadly quiet. "I don't understand what, Tamlin? That you sided with the very bastard who commanded the female that kidnapped and tortured Feyre? That you let him march into our lands hoping for a pity future where you would be a puppet High King? That you were too much of a coward to fight back?"
He coughed, spitting blood. Good. You walked toward him, slow, deliberate.
"You could have stopped this," you said, voice laced with ice. "You could have fought for Prythian. You could've told us before. But instead, you let your own ego destroy everything. Because you thought you were entitled to this. Entitled to Feyre. Because you thought your love gave you ownership."
Tamlin snarled, dragging himself up. "I did it for her!"
"For her?" You laughed, dark and cruel. "Then where the fuck were you when she was starving in Under the Mountain? Where were you when she was breaking apart in your manor?"
Tamlin launched himself at you, claws out. But you were faster. You sidestepped and slammed your elbow into his ribs. Hard. Something cracked.
He choked on the impact, stumbling back. You winnowed behind him and gripped his throat. Tamlin gasped. You dug your nails into his skin, watching as his eyes widened in pure terror.
"You don't deserve a quick death," you murmured. You pulled him closer, your lips brushing his ear. "You deserve to suffer," you whispered. "Like all the people you abandoned. Like all the people who begged you for help."
Then you slammed him into the ground. Tamlin howled as you broke his arm, twisting it with a sickening snap. You let him crawl, watching as he clutched his shattered limb, gasping.
"Come on, High Lord," you mocked, circling him like a predator. "Where's all that strength now?"
He tried to winnow. You ripped the air apart, blocking him.
"No," you said, a cold smile curling your lips. "You don't get to run this time."
His breaths came in ragged, panicked gasps. "Please—"
You grabbed him by the jaw, forcing him to look at you.
"Begging, Tamlin?" you mused. "How pathetic."
And then you sank your magic into him. It started as a slow burn. A tendril of power coiling into his veins. Tamlin screamed. You just watched as his muscles locked, as his skin heated, as you let him feel the pure agony of everything he had done.
"Does it hurt?" you asked softly.
He thrashed, trying to fight it, but you only tightened your grip.
"Not enough," you murmured. "Not yet."
You willed the magic to go deeper, to rot him from the inside out. Tamlin convulsed, his body shaking violently, his claws tearing at the dirt. He gasped your name, voice raw, broken. You smiled. With one final push of power, you snapped his spine. Tamlin went limp. His body crumpled into the dirt. You stepped back, breathing even, feeling nothing.
Then, you turned away with no second thought. And left him there to rot. As if he didn't have any importance. And he didn't, not anymore.
☆
Rhysand winnowed through the battlefield, dodging blades and blasts of magic, his only focus on the figure standing at the heart of the chaos. The King of Hybern. The bastard stood tall, watching the battle unfold with calculating indifference, gripping a massive black sword, its blade humming with dark magic — Cauldron-forged. The King noticed Rhys approaching and let out a low, amused chuckle.
"Ah, the infamous High Lord of Night," he drawled, turning to face him fully. "Come to beg for your lands? Your people? Or do you just enjoy groveling at the feet of tyrants?"
Rhys’ lips curled back. "You should know, you’ve been groveling at the feet of a dead female for the past fifty years. Amarantha's sister would be sad to see you lose so badly."
Hybern laughed an ugly sound. "And yet, my commander still broke you."
Rhys’ magic flared in response, sealing off the battlefield, creating a barrier of pure night around them, and trapping the King inside. Hybern’s grin faltered. Rhys stepped forward, voice low, deadly.
"For every comrade, every one of my friends that died in the first war," he said, his power thrumming with rage, "all of whom were slaughtered by your hand… I came to get my revenge."
Hybern lunged, swinging that cursed blade straight for his throat. Rhys sidestepped, moving with trained, practiced ease, and in a flurry of precise movements, he disarmed him. The sword clattered to the ground. Instead of striking, Rhys picked up the King's own weapon, turning it in his hands, feeling the power humming within it.
He pointed it at Hybern’s chest. "You're going to call off that battle."
Hybern sneered, blood-stained teeth flashing. "Or what? You can't kill me with that blade."
Rhysand’s smile was razor-sharp. "Oh, I know."
The King’s eyes widened in realization. "Wait—"
Rhys drove the blade into his side. Hybern screamed. The wound didn’t kill him. But the magic of the Cauldron was incomplete. It no longer made him untouchable. He could still feel pain. And Rhys wasn't done.
He ripped the blade free and slashed again. Hybern staggered, gasping. Rhysand took a slow, deliberate step forward.
"How does it feel to be helpless now?" he murmured, dragging the tip of the blade along Hybern’s chest, watching thin red lines bloom across his skin.
Hybern shuddered, clutching his wounds as they healed just fast enough to keep him alive. Rhysand smiled.
"I watched my friends die in horror many times," he said, slashing across his thigh.
Hybern cried out.
"And for the past fifty years, I saw innocents dying under Amarantha's reign. Under your command." Another strike, a deep cut along his ribs. "I heard them crying as they were slain," Rhys pressed on, his voice cold, merciless. A cut along Hybern’s arm. "I heard their final moments. Begging for their gods." Another strike. "Look what you turned me into." The King groaned in agony, body trembling. "Look what we've become."
"Enough," Hybern gasped.
Rhysand ignored him, swinging again. "All of the pain that I've been through—"
"Stop!"
A deep wound across his chest. "Haven't we suffered enough?"
"Stop!" Rhysand’s blade bit into his shoulder, slicing through flesh.
"Amarantha didn't stop when I begged her," Rhys said softly, stepping closer, watching as the King swayed, barely standing. "She told me to close my mind and enjoy."
"You—" Hybern choked.
Rhys drove the blade into his stomach. The King howled. "She said the world was a dark place for those who dream too much."
Hybern sputtered blood, wheezing. "Monster—"
Rhysand tilted his head, mockingly. "Weren't you the one who taught her that ruthlessness is mercy upon our kind?"
Hybern's knees buckled. "Alright," he croaked. "Please..."
Rhys paused. The King breathed raggedly, blood coating his mouth, a broken, mocking smile curling his lips.
"After everything you've done," Hybern wheezed, voice shaking. "How will you sleep at night, High Lord?"
Rhysand pretended to consider the question. And then he smiled. "Next to my mate."
The King’s expression cracked. And then Rhysand lifted the blade and, in one swift, brutal motion, he cut off the King’s head.
Silence rippled across the battlefield as the soldiers from Hybern dropped their swords as if waking up from a trance. The remaining Hybern generals saw it. Saw the King’s final promise before dying. And they began to retreat. They saw Tamlin's corpse, broken and discarded in the dirt. The soldiers, panicked, and frantic, fell to their knees. And they begged for mercy.
Rhysand stood at the center of the battlefield, Hybern's blood still fresh on his hands. His chest rose and fell steadily, but there was no relief in his expression. Only finality. He turned to the gathered High Lords, their faces painted with exhaustion and rage, the stench of war still thick in the air.
"The rest of Hybern’s army," Rhysand said, his voice carrying across the ruined land. "Do with them as you wish."
No one from the Night Court stayed to watch. They had no more business there.
☆
The battlefield was far behind them when Rhysand found you. His mate. His brilliant, talented mate.
You stood at the edge of a ravine, watching the horizon, the distant glow of the burning Hybern banners flickering in your eyes. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, you turned to him. You both knew. The weight of revenge. The emptiness it left behind. So when Rhysand stepped forward and silently took your hand, you let him.
You had won. But at what cost? You have paid more than enough for the past hundreds of years. This time, the debt of the consequences wouldn't be your value to pay.
Cassian was the first to break the silence when you returned to camp.
"The Night Court forces are already in the healers' tents," he said, his wings tucked close in exhaustion. "We suffered losses, but nothing like Hybern. Or a few other Courts." His hazel eyes flicked to Rhysand. "It was a victory."
A hollow one. Mor appeared next, her golden hair wild from battle, blood still streaking her armor. "Feyre’s sisters are safe." Relief washed through them. "They’re already being taken care of," she added, her voice gentler than before.
Rhysand gave a small, tired nod. And then Azriel approached. His face was carefully blank, but something in his shadows twisted, curling inwards.
Rhysand knew before Azriel even spoke. "We lost Amren." A breath. "She's gone."
The silence was deafening.
Mor staggered back a step, shaking her head. "No. No, she’s— she’s probably fine. Amren always makes it out."
But even she wasn't convinced. Rhysand swallowed. She had thrown herself into the Cauldron. Had given them the only chance to end it. Amren had known. And she had gone willingly.
"She knew what she was doing," Rhysand finally said.
None of them responded. Because this war had stolen too much already. And now, it had stolen Amren, too.
“One day after the other,” you said in a whisper, hair sticking to your forehead, blood and sweat mixing on your body “We live one day after the other now.”
Once I find the correct song all the rest comes easily
This is for the ones that asked for a happy ending 😛✌️
Summary: Prythian saw the way that Rhysand's mate fell into depression but tried her best to get better. They saw the way that Cassian's mate fell into depression and turned it into pure anger and self-destruction. But... what if Azriel's mate simply... doesn't care?
What Was I Made For? (Part. 1)
Maria (Part. 2)
Four Seasons (Part. 3)
Azriel never feared silence in his life. He thrived in it, in the solace of the shadows, in the weight of unspoken words. But the silence you left behind was unbearable. For two years, it echoed in his bones, carved itself into the walls of the room you once shared, pressed into the empty space in the bed where you once laid. And the letter, now creased and worn from how many times he had read it, reminded him of his failure.
"I want to heal. I need to understand what I was made for."
You had been slipping through his fingers like grains of sand, and he hadn’t even noticed. Hadn't seen the way you let life pass you by. Hadn’t realized that the quiet, passive way you moved through the world wasn’t peace, it was emptiness. And it was too late. You are gone.
For the first few months, rage had warred with guilt. He had failed you. As your mate, as the male who was supposed to know your soul. He had been so focused on loving you that he hadn't realized you hadn't yet learned how to love yourself.
Cassian and Rhys tried to help, but there were no words that could fix this. He trained until his muscles burned, until his body ached, but nothing numbed the feeling of your absence. His shadows whispered your name at night, searching for traces of you.
And then, one evening, as he sat on the roof of the House of Wind, staring at the stars, wishing he could listen to the same story over and over again about how each star ended where it was, something inside him shifted. The bond. A door he thought would remain locked forever cracked open.
His breath left him in a harsh exhale, his heart a hammering mess in his chest. The sensation was weak at first, as if you weren't sure you could bear to touch it. But it was there. You were back. And he was flying before he even realized it.
Honestly, you had prepared yourself for this moment. Prepared for the possibility that Azriel might not want you anymore. That you had been gone for too long, had hurt him too deeply.
But you weren't the same person who had left. you had spent two years chasing something — anything — that would make you feel alive. You hadn’t found the grand purpose you had longed for, hadn’t discovered a great passion hidden within yourself. But you had found yourself at peace in the small moments. In the way the ocean breeze felt against your skin while you were traveling, in the warmth of the sun after a cold night you spent outside, in the quiet companionship of strangers who didn’t know your past while you ate at small bakeries.
And somewhere along the way, you had realized something else. You loved Azriel. Not because of the bond, not because it was fate. But because, in all the world, Azriel was the one person who made you want to feel something. You spent so many years without worrying about it, and when Azriel entered your life, it felt like a necessity to understand his emotions and be someone worthy of him. You just didn't realize it at the time.
A gust of wind cut through the clearing, and you turned just as a shadow fell over you. Azriel landed with a force that sent leaves scattering around you. His wings flared wide, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, golden eyes burning with something you couldn’t quite name.
You took a breath. “Az—”
But you didn’t get the chance to finish. He crossed the space between them in two strides, pulling you into his arms, burying his face in your neck. His scent overwhelmed you, shadows curling around your wrists like they had missed you too.
“You came back,” he rasped. His voice was raw. “You came back.”
Your throat tightened. You wrapped your arms around him, holding on, letting yourself feel this moment fully.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
His grip tightened. “Don’t. Just—don’t.”
You pulled back enough to look at him, reaching up to touch his face, tracing the dark circles beneath his eyes, the tension in his jaw. “I should have told you what I was feeling. I should have let you in. At least once.”
Azriel’s gaze searched yours, his hands trembling slightly as they cupped your face. “I should have seen it,” he murmured. “I should have—”
You shook your head, pressing your forehead to his. “We can’t change the past.”
He exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before he looked at you again. “Are you staying?”
The question carried the weight of everything. You had been ready to tell him that it was okay if he didn’t want you anymore. That you would understand. But seeing him now, feeling him this way for the first time, it was unbearable to think of leaving again.
“Yes,” you breathed. “If you’ll have me.”
Azriel let out a broken laugh, the ghost of a smile touching his lips before he kissed you. It wasn’t soft. It was desperate, filled with two years of longing, of aching, of everything unsaid. You melted into him, letting yourself feel. For the first time in your life, you wanted to stay. And that was enough. For now, it had to be enough.
—
The River House was quiet when Azriel led you inside. He had barely spoken since you both left the clearing, as if afraid that if he broke the silence, you would disappear again. But his hand never left yours. He held on like he was grounding himself in the reality that you were here, real and warm beside him.
Rhys and Feyre had been in the sitting room when you arrived, their eyes widening at the sight of your form. Feyre had reached out, a silent question in her expression, but Rhys had just given a knowing nod and waved them along. They would talk later. For now, Azriel just needed to take you home.
When you finally reached your old house, the sight of it stole your breath. It was exactly as you had left it. You had thought, maybe, that he wouldn’t want to stay here anymore. That it would be too painful. But he hadn’t let it go. The flowers in the window boxes were still alive, the wards still strong. It was lived in, barely, but lived in all the same.
Azriel opened the door, stepping inside first. You followed hesitantly, your heart hammering as you took in the space that had once been yours. It smelled like him. Like shadows and cedar and something distinctly Azriel.
He turned to you, expression unreadable. “It’s yours if you still want it.”
You swallowed past the lump in your throat. “It's ours.”
His eyes shined, something flickering there, but he only nodded and led you inside.
You settled in the living room. Azriel sat on the couch first, tension coiled tight in his body. You hesitated for only a moment before curling up beside him, resting your head on his shoulder. The breath he let out was shaky, but his arm came around you, pulling you closer. And for a moment, you just sat there.
Finally, he broke the silence. “Tell me about it.”
You hummed softly. “About what?”
His fingers traced small patterns on your arm. “Everything.”
So you did. You told him about the places you had seen, the towns and cities and forests you had wandered through, places you studied so many times but never felt the necessity to see. About the mountains that had taken your breath away, the vast oceans that stretched endlessly before you.
“But,” you admitted after a pause, “even in the big things, I didn’t exactly find pleasure in them.”
Azriel tensed. “Then what did you find?”
You smiled softly, thinking of all the quiet moments you had collected. “The best part was the journey. The calm days. Picnics in wildflower fields. Reading books by a quiet river. Sitting under the stars and just… breathing.”
Azriel listened intently, hanging on to every word like they were precious. “You found peace in the small things.”
You nodded. “And in something else.” He waited. He always would. You exhaled shakily, tilting your head to look up at him. “I never really knew what home was. But I think… I think my home was always wherever you were.”
Azriel’s throat bobbed, his fingers tightening around yours. For the first time since you had returned, his walls cracked, his shadows retreating as he let you see him. The pain of your absence. The relief of your return. The love he had never stopped carrying.
He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You left to find yourself. And you still found your way back to me.”
You smiled, reaching up to brush his cheek. “I think I always would.”
Azriel closed his eyes for a moment, like he was drinking in the words. When he opened them, his golden gaze burned into yours.
“Tell me about it,” he murmured.
And you told him about the way you had thought of him every single day. About how, even when you were alone in a city where no one knew your name, you had never truly been alone, because the bond had been there, whispering, calling. You had bathed in the feeling of longing for him, let it settle deep in your bones, and realized that it was love. That it had always been love. Azriel listened in silence, his fingers tracing slow circles on your back, grounding himself in your presence.
Then, you turned the question on him. “What about you?” you asked softly.
Azriel hesitated, his jaw tightening. “I stayed at the River House,” he admitted. “Rhys wanted to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid.”
Your heart ached at the thought. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “I trained. I worked. I did everything I could to stop myself from searching for you.” He let out a breath. “And I failed. My shadows searched every night. I just… I needed to know you were alive.”
Your fingers caressed him. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Azriel turned fully to face you, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. “You needed to go.”
You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch. “But I needed to come back, too.”
His lips parted, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Are you staying home?”
It was the second time he had asked you that tonight. And this time, you had no doubts.
You smiled. “For as long as you’ll have me.”
Azriel’s breath hitched. And then he was kissing you. It was soft at first, tentative, as if he was afraid you might disappear again. But when you melted into him, when your hands tangled in his hair, he deepened it, poured two years of longing into the kiss.
You had spent so long trying to find what you were made for. And maybe you still didn’t know. But you knew this. You knew him. And that was enough.
—
The days blended into something soft, something real. You had always thought love had to be grand, had to be overwhelming to be true. But you were learning that love was in the quiet moments. In the warmth of a shared morning, in the soft hum of conversation, in the way Azriel reached for you absentmindedly, as if making sure you were still there.
Your house — your home — had begun to feel like one again.
—
“You’re terrible at this,” Azriel muttered, watching your struggle to chop vegetables evenly.
You scowled at him. “I was traveling for two years, Az, not training under a master chef.”
He smirked, stepping behind you and reaching around to guide your hands. His chest was solid against your back, his breath warm against your ear. “Like this,” he murmured, his hands covering yours as he helped your slice.
You swallowed, your fingers tightening around the knife. “Are you actually trying to teach me, or are you just enjoying this?”
Azriel’s chuckle was low. “Can’t it be both?”
Your cheeks warmed, but you didn’t pull away.
You cooked together most nights, finding comfort in the simple act of creating something. Some meals were disasters — like when you burned an entire tray of bread because you got distracted — but others were quiet successes.
It wasn’t about the food. It was about the time spent together, the way you fit into a rhythm neither had to think too hard about.
—
Azriel had told you the house was still yours, but you wanted to make it about the two of you again. You repainted walls, shifted furniture, filled empty spaces with small touches that made the house feel alive.
“Are you sure about this color?” Azriel asked, skeptical as he stared at the deep blue paint you had chosen for the study.
“Yes,” you said firmly, dipping your brush in the paint and dabbing a streak of blue onto his nose.
Azriel blinked, unmoving for a long moment. Then, slow as a predator, he dipped his fingers into the can and dragged a stripe of blue down your cheek.
Your eyes widened. “Azriel.”
He only smirked. “What? It suits you.”
The complete war that followed left you both covered in paint, breathless with laughter. But the room turned out perfect anyway.
—
The biggest change was the spare room. You had mentioned, once, that reading had been your solace during your time away. You hadn’t realized Azriel had listened so intently until he suggested turning the empty room into a library. The moment the last youlf was filled, you sighed in contentment, running your fingers along the spines of the books.
Azriel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Happy?”
You turned to him, beaming. “Very.”
His expression softened. “Good.”
You walked over, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face into his chest. “Thank you.”
Azriel kissed the top of your head, his hands tracing slow circles on your back. “You don’t have to thank me, love.”
You tilted your head up. “I do. You’ve given me a home.”
Azriel’s gaze glowed with something deep, something endless. “You were always my home.”
Your throat tightened, and you kissed him before you could cry.
—
Azriel knew he couldn’t just stop working for Rhysand, he was the Spymaster of the Night Court. But he also knew he couldn’t let work keep him from the life he was rebuilding with you. Couldn't let work keep him away from noticing the small things in you he had let pass years ago.
So, one evening, he found himself in Rhys’s study. “I need to lighten my workload,” he said bluntly.
Rhys blinked, setting down his glass of wine. “That’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear from you.”
Azriel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… I lost her once. I don't want to lose her again.”
Understanding flickered in Rhys’s violet eyes. “You won’t.”
Azriel looked away. “She’s still figuring herself out. I want to be here for that.”
Rhys studied him for a long moment before nodding. “We’ll make it work.”
Relief flooded Azriel’s chest.
Rhys smirked. “And here I thought you’d never take a damn break.”
Azriel huffed a quiet laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”
—
Life didn’t suddenly become perfect. There were still days where you struggled, where you felt like you were still learning how to exist. But you were healing. And you weren't alone. Azriel was there through it all, the small joys, the frustrating days, the laughter and the quiet moments in between. You had spent so much time lost. Now, you are finding your way back. Together.
—
To My Dearest,
I don’t know when you will read this. Maybe when you are young, curious, searching through drawers for secrets. Maybe when you are older, when the weight of the world feels a little too heavy. Maybe never at all.
But just in case — just in case you ever feel the way I once did, the way I spent most of my life feeling — I want you to know this: You can talk to me.
There is nothing shameful in feeling lost. In feeling like life moves around you, like you are watching it all from behind a glass. Like you are there but not present. I know that feeling well, my love. And I know how dangerous silence can be.
For so long, I thought I had to bear it alone. That it was something only I could fix. But I was wrong. I don’t know who decided that we should face our darkness alone, but they were wrong. We are not meant to heal in solitude. We have a family. And family is love.
I want you to learn that — truly learn that. Love is not something that has to be earned. Love isn't something you need to figure out. It is not something that disappears just because you don’t feel full all the time. You are loved because you exist. You are loved because you are you.
And if, one day, you wake up and feel that emptiness creeping in, know that I will be here. That you don’t have to pretend. That you don’t have to carry it alone.
I spent years trying to find what I was meant for. And maybe I still don’t have all the answers. Maybe I never will. But I know one thing with certainty. I was meant to love. At least that. And loving you is the easiest thing I have ever done.
Btw another thing I DESPISE in the original is how sjm made this fuck ass old people discuss like teenagers in high school topics that 1: was super heavy and 2: WASN'T THE MOMENT they were talking abt war and suddenly everyone had beef with each other and they had to throw it in their faces
Anyway, won't talk too much abt or I'll take 2000 words just here, enjoy 😝✌️
Warnings: Use of Y/N, ACOTAR rewrite, female main character, 2% book following the original book is a Frankenstein now, mentions of PTSD, death, more trauma, Tamlin??? idk he is mentioned that's horrible enough, fighting, blood, mentions of war, Rhysand 🙏🏻
Whispers of Secrets and Starlight - Masterlist
Chapter 11: As The World Caves In
You fought like a storm. The darkness slithered around your fingers, curling and snapping like a living thing as you winnowed between enemy soldiers, cutting them down before they even knew where you’d gone. Hybern thought they were prepared for the Night Court’s tricks. They had fought Rhysand’s forces before. They had strategies, countermeasures. But they hadn’t expected you. Between you participating in the planning and strategies or fighting alongside Rhysand, Hybern couldn't have prevented you.
Because as much as you fought with Illyrian precision and speed, your power was something else entirely. Shadows swallowed your form, stretching and shifting with every movement. When a Hybern general tried to cut you down, you became the darkness, slipping behind him before plunging your blade between his ribs. You moved like a wraith, your power flowing through your limbs like a second skin, an extension of your very being. And you weren’t alone in this battle.
From above, the Illyrians rained hell upon Hybern’s army, their wings slicing through the smoke-filled sky as they dove, blades flashing like streaks of silver lightning. Cassian led them with brutal efficiency, his siphons glowing a fierce, deadly red as he tore through their forces. Every time his sword struck, another enemy fell, their screams swallowed by the chaos of battle. Azriel was a shadow among shadows, a phantom slipping in and out of the fray. You watched as his dagger found the throat of a Hybern commander, quick and precise, before he disappeared again, unseen and unheard, a silent executioner.
But it wasn’t only the Illyrians proving their might. The Darkbringers of Hewn City fought like creatures of nightmares, their darkness not just a weapon but an entity of its own. They struck in coordinated movements, vanishing into the blackness before reappearing behind enemy lines, slitting throats and dragging bodies into the abyss of their power. One of them, a tall male with onyx-black eyes, cast a tendril of pure shadow that wrapped around a Hybern soldier’s neck, tightening, tightening—until the male collapsed lifelessly to the blood-soaked ground. One of the reasons why the Darkbringers were so useful was because of the little thought they put into killing people. They enjoyed it.
A female Illyrian fought nearby, her twin curved daggers dripping with red as she weaved between enemies with terrifying grace. She met your eyes for the briefest moment — a flicker of recognition, of mutual respect — before she melted back into the fray, her blades seeking more blood.
And Rhys watched you, his violet eyes gleaming with something dark and proud. He knew you were powerful. But this? This was the High Lord's power. His power. Even if yours burned a little dimmer, unclaimed by the Court's blessing, it still called to him in a way that made his blood sing. His mate. His equal.
With the intelligence gathered from the captured Spring and Hybern soldiers, you had already predicted their formations, their numbers, their weaknesses. Could easily find their generals. And one by one, you and Rhys tore through them, breaking their ranks, cutting down any hope they had left. A Hybern warlord, clad in thick steel armor, raised his blade and roared, trying to rally his men. You could see the desperation in his eyes, the flicker of doubt. Too late. You darted toward him before he could even register your movement, winnowing to his side. His sword swung down — an attempt to cleave you in two — but you dropped to the ground, sliding beneath the strike with inhuman speed.
Your own blade found the weak point beneath his ribs, slipping through the gaps in his armor. His breath hitched. His eyes widened. You twisted the dagger once before pulling it free, stepping back as he collapsed to his knees.
“Your mistake,” you murmured, voice quiet, “was thinking you stood a chance.”
The final wave of Hybern’s forces was already faltering, their formations breaking, soldiers hesitating. Some tried to run. Others dropped their weapons, trembling as they fell to their knees. Begging. Rhys landed beside you, his wings still spread wide, his hands coated in blood that was not his own. You met his gaze, breath steady, power still thrumming in your veins.
“No survivors,” you reminded him, voice cold.
Rhys’s lips curled. “Together, then?”
The darkness around him flared. Yours answered. And in one swift, unrelenting moment, you both unleashed your power. The remaining Hybern soldiers didn’t even have time to scream. One second they were there, and the next, mist. Blood, bone, flesh, reduced to nothing but a red mist staining the battlefield.
The silence that followed was deafening. You exhaled slowly, your magic settling back into you, the thrill of battle fading as the weight of what you’d done settled in.
Rhys reached for you, his bloodstained fingers brushing against yours. “You did well,” he murmured, voice low and reverent.
You turned your hand, lacing your fingers with his. “So did you.”
Behind you, the Illyrian forces cheered, the Darkbringers grinned in quiet satisfaction, and Tarquin watched — silent, calculating. The battle for Adriata was over.
And Hybern had just learned why they, and no one, should go to war with the Prythian and expect to survive.
Tarquin’s turquoise eyes flicked between you and Rhys, his expression carefully neutral, though the way he subtly narrowed his gaze at you didn’t go unnoticed.
Rhys, ever the picture of relaxed arrogance, only smirked. “We can speak after we’ve had a chance to clean up, Tarquin” he said smoothly.
Tarquin’s gaze lingered on you for a heartbeat longer before he gave a short nod. But you could feel the questions swirling in his mind.
You ignored them, turning instead to Cassian and Azriel. “Bring healers,” you told them. “Just in case. Once the wounded are stable, come back with Amren and Mor for a meeting with the High Lord.”
Cassian, still bloody and grinning from the fight, gave you an approving nod. Azriel merely inclined his head, shadows curling around him like a whisper of acknowledgment.
But Tarquin… Tarquin hesitated. His brows pinched, his lips parting as if he wanted to ask something but wasn’t sure if he should. But Rhys listened to it. His smirk widened, and he stepped closer to you, his arm sliding around your waist with deliberate ease. The blood still staining his fingers left faint marks on your armor.
“She gives commands,” Rhysand murmured, his violet eyes twinkling with amusement, “because she has every right to.”
Tarquin’s expression didn’t change, but you saw the way his fingers flexed at his sides.
Rhys chuckled under his breath, reading whatever thought had just crossed Tarquin’s mind, before tilting his head. “Two or three hours, then?”
Tarquin exhaled slowly, as if forcing himself to relax. “Fine.”
Rhys dipped his chin in a lazy nod before steering you away, his hand still firm on your waist. You didn’t look back, but you felt Tarquin’s gaze on you long after you were gone.
☆
Rhysand barely shut the door behind you before his hands were on your body, and you were on him. The battle had left its mark, not just in the blood on your skin but in the tension thrumming between you, in the raw need to ground yourselves in something solid, something real. The shower was quick, intense, and necessary. Water sluiced away the grime and sweat, but nothing could wash away the fire burning between you. And neither of you wanted it to.
By the time you stepped out, your breathing had steadied, but Rhys still looked at you like he wanted to drag you right back in.
Instead, you reached into his pocket realm, pulling out the garments you’d prepared. A dress, soft, flowing, a shade of blue so luminous it seemed to capture the very essence of the sea at Summer itself. The fabric shimmered like sunlight reflecting off the ocean, and the gold jewelry you set beside it was pale, almost white, delicate but undeniably regal. For Rhys, a suit. Still unmistakably Night Court in cut and style, but the usual black was softened by accents of deep blue and crisp white, as if the sea breeze had woven itself into the fabric.
Rhys arched a brow as you laid everything out, his violet eyes full of amusement. “You’re dressing me like a peacock,” he murmured, his voice warm with laughter.
You only smirked, slipping the dress over your shoulders. “We need to match the scenario, no? We are in Summer. Don’t expect me to dress like death itself under this wonderful sun, not when the sea is glowing behind us.”
Rhys let out a soft, knowing chuckle, shaking his head as he pulled the suit on without another word. No argument. No teasing remark. Just quiet obedience, as if he would have done anything you asked.
But before you could adjust the final piece of jewelry, he reached into his pocket realm and withdrew something small, something delicate. A tiara. Not an overwhelming crown, not something meant to dominate the room, but a piece designed for elegance. Slender white-gold filigree, woven with tiny, glimmering blue stones, like captured bits of the Summer sky at night.
“For the look,” Rhys murmured, stepping behind you to place it gently on your head.
You met his gaze in the mirror. Something unreadable passed through his expression, something softer than amusement, something deeper than admiration.
But he said nothing else.
And neither did you.
☆
The meeting was tense at first, the weight of battle still pressing on the room, but it shifted the moment Morrigan laid out the numbers.
“The exact count is difficult,” she admitted, fingers trailing over the paper before her. “Since Rhys and our dear friend here—” she nodded toward you, “—misted a considerable portion of Hybern’s forces. But our estimates are as follows.”
She listed the numbers with precision: the dead from Hybern, the fallen soldiers from Summer and Night, the wounded, the civilians affected. Every word was measured, calculated, the gravity of the loss clear.
Then, she pulled out another sheet and slid it across the table to Tarquin. “This is the sum we are prepared to contribute to the rebuilding efforts.”
Tarquin barely glanced at it before looking up, utterly stunned. His counselors exchanged incredulous glances, their own shock mirrored in his expression.
“Wait—wait,” he said, leaning forward as if to make sure he had heard correctly. “You’re offering to help with the aftermath? Are you offering any help at all?”
You inclined your head. “We’ve been preparing for Hybern’s attacks for a while now,” you admitted. “I wish it hadn’t been Adriata first, but our intention was always to stand against them. And, more than that—” you met his gaze evenly, “—it is our intention to be friends.”
Silence filled the room. Tarquin and his counselors sat speechless, processing what you had said. What you had done.
“…Why?” Tarquin finally asked, voice laced with genuine confusion.
Rhysand, seated beside you, leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. His violet eyes were calm, open in a way they rarely were in these kinds of meetings. “Because we would have helped any court in this situation.” His gaze flicked to Tarquin’s. “But especially you.” Tarquin frowned slightly, but Rhys went on. “You were the only High Lord who never looked down on me for what happened Under the Mountain.” His voice was quiet but firm. “The only one who never saw me as just Amarantha’s whore. And for that alone, you would have had our help.”
Tarquin’s expression shifted, the tension in his shoulders loosening ever so slightly.
Rhys sighed, running a hand through his dark suit. You took the opening, “The Night Court has spent too much time alone in Prythian,” you admitted. “We are done with that. We want allies. We want friends.”
Tarquin studied Rhysand for a long moment, then turned his gaze to you. You held it, unwavering. And, slowly, his lips parted, just slightly. Just enough for the first flicker of something new to appear in his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, it was hope.
The room was still heavy with silence when Amren, ever impatient, cut through it with her sharp voice.
“There is an alliance between Spring and Hybern.” She tapped a clawed finger against the table. “We need to consider the possibility that Tamlin knew about Adriata’s weak points in advance.”
Tarquin stiffened, his ocean-blue eyes darkening. “He could have,” he admitted after a moment. “Spring Court has had diplomatic dealings with Summer in the past. It wouldn’t have been difficult for Tamlin to retain information about our city’s defenses.”
Amren nodded once, sharp and decisive. “Then we have our answer.”
A cold weight settled in your stomach. Rhysand exhaled through his nose, his expression unreadable. He had suspected Tamlin’s involvement, but a possible confirmation still made his jaw tighten slightly.
Tarquin drummed his fingers against the table, deep in thought. Then he lifted his gaze, determination solidifying in his features.
“If what you all are saying is true, we need to call a High Lords meeting,” he said. “As soon as possible.”
Morrigan crossed her arms. “You think they’ll come?”
Tarquin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “If they don’t, they’ll regret it.”
Rhysand hummed in quiet agreement, tapping a finger against the polished wood of the table. The conversation was going exactly as planned. What you said before was true, none of you hoped Summer would be Hybern’s first attack, if you and Rhys were being truthful, both of you bet - and hoped - it would be Auremere, Autumn's capital. But you knew in advance one Court would be attacked, and none would've been warned. The fact you all got there so fast would be credited in Spring's information.
You needed real proof Hybern was a force to be feared. You needed proof Night Court had enough power to deal with the attack. And needed another High Lord to call in the meeting, if Rhysand did none of them would listen. But a young High Lord who just started to deal with his Court and is already fighting a war, while his only help is the terrifying Night Court who never helped before? All of the others would listen. To let the attack happen was a small sacrifice for a bigger picture.
“Then we send out the summons,” Tarquin said, his voice smooth but laced with steel. “And we prepare for a meeting, wherever that may be.”
Tarquin’s counselors still looked wary. Their gazes flickered between Rhys, you, and the offer of aid Morrigan had placed before them.
“You’re asking us to trust you,” one of them, a stern-faced male with silver streaks in his dark hair, finally said. “To trust that the Night Court, which has spent centuries hidden away from the rest of Prythian, now suddenly wants to play the part of an ally.”
Rhysand chuckled under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “No,” he corrected. “I’m asking you to see the reason. Hybern doesn’t care if you’re Summer, or Night, or Day. They only care about conquest. And unless we stand together, unless we truly ally against them, they will burn their way through this continent, city by city.”
You leaned forward slightly, your eyes catching the light like a predator’s. “You saw what happened today. You saw what they were willing to do to your home. That was just the beginning. But we can stop this.”
A heavy silence settled over the room. Tarquin’s fingers curled into fists atop the table. His counselors exchanged glances, their expressions uncertain.
And then Tarquin exhaled slowly and met Rhysand’s gaze. “You speak of alliances,” he said carefully. “But alliances are built on trust. And trust must be earned.”
Rhys inclined his head. “Then let us earn it.”
Tarquin studied him for a long moment, then turned his attention to you.
“And you?” he asked. “You were human, fought against Amarantha as if it was nothing more than a game. You disappeared from Spring with your cousin and suddenly showed up acting as a High Lord for Night. Was this all a plan? What power do you have inside the Court?”
You met his gaze evenly. “I have been fighting a war long before Hybern set foot on your shores,” you said. “I've experienced grief, and fear, and sadness after leaving my home for so long. When Tamlin started acting weird because of whatever promises Hybern made to him I ran back to the place where I belong. Rhysand had kept his promise and helped me and Feyre. We have spent months preparing for this, gathering intelligence, strengthening our forces, identifying Hybern’s weaknesses.”
Rhysand’s lips curved slightly as he glanced at you. “She has been by my side through all of it,” he murmured. “Strategizing. Now fighting. And winning.” His violet eyes gleamed with something proud and dangerous. “And when this war is over, and Night Court celebrates the victory, it will be because of her as much as it will be because of me.”
The weight of his words settled in the room. Tarquin’s turquoise gaze flickered between you and Rhys, something thoughtful, perhaps even calculating, shifting behind his expression.
After a long moment, he nodded once. “Very well,” he said. “We will consider your offer.”
It was not a confirmation, not yet. But it was a start. And in this war, a start was enough.
☆
It took a few weeks for a place and day to be decided. In the end, every High Lord invited, which didn't include Tamlin, who was starting to distance himself and his Court from Prythian, agreed on Vivereos, a city in the Dawn Court, which contained an ancient palace by a lake, surrounded by pillars of sunstone. The location was chosen because it is considered sacred ground, making it an appropriate place for the gathering of all seven High Lords to discuss the war.
The golden halls of the Dawn Court glowed with the light of the setting sun, casting long shadows across the polished marble floors. The meeting had yet to begin, but already, tension buzzed in the air like a storm on the horizon.
Rhysand stood at your side, exuding his usual aura of casual arrogance, though you knew him well enough to see the careful calculation in his violet eyes. Across the grand chamber, Helion Spell-Cleaver lounged in his chair, the sheer opulence of his golden robes an intentional contrast to the severe war discussions ahead.
"You look well-rested," Rhys drawled as he approached the High Lord of Day, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Helion arched a brow, swirling the goblet of wine in his hand. "I am well-rested. Unlike you, it seems." His amber eyes flicked over Rhys, then to you, something knowing in his gaze. "You and your Second-in-Command have been busy, haven't you?"
You tilted your head slightly. "Planning for war tends to have that effect. But I'm not the second in command, contrary to popular belief and… gossip."
Helion laughed, rich and smooth as honey. "Of course, apologies for my mistake. And yet, somehow, you both still manage to look impossibly beautiful together. It's infuriating, really."
Rhys chuckled, shaking his head. "You're just upset we beat you here, Helion."
Helion sighed dramatically, taking a sip of his wine. "Yes, well, some of us prefer to enjoy our time rather than winnow from one end of Prythian to the other without so much as a moment to breathe." He lifted his goblet slightly. "But tell me, Rhysand, do you think the others will listen to you? Or will they let their centuries-old grudges outweigh their survival?"
Rhys’s smirk faded slightly, his eyes turning sharp. "That remains to be seen."
Before Helion could respond, a flash of white and blue caught your attention near the entrance.
Vivianne of the Winter Court entered, her silver-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, her bright blue eyes scanning the room before they landed on a familiar figure. Morrigan. In an instant, Mor was moving, crossing the chamber with easy grace before pulling Vivianne into a tight embrace.
"It’s been too long," Mor murmured, squeezing her friend.
Vivianne laughed softly, pulling back just enough to look at her. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."
Mor scoffed. "Forget about you? Never."
You watched as the two of them fell into an easy conversation, the warmth between them a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere of the gathering.
Kallias, the High Lord of Winter, approached with a measured pace, his expression cool as frost. His piercing blue eyes landed on Rhys, and though he inclined his head in polite acknowledgment, the tension between them was unmistakable.
"Rhysand," Kallias greeted, his voice smooth but distant.
Rhys inclined his head in return. "Kallias. I appreciate you coming."
Kallias's gaze flickered to you briefly before returning to Rhys. "War demands unity. And as much as I might enjoy the cold silence of the North, even I cannot ignore what is coming."
Rhys's lips twitched. "Pragmatic as ever."
Kallias didn’t respond, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. Mor and Vivianne rejoined the conversation then, their laughter softening the edges of the tension.
Vivianne glanced between you and Rhys, curiosity and something akin to admiration in her expression. "You two certainly made an impression at Adriata. From what I heard."
Rhys let out a soft chuckle, his arm brushing yours in a silent gesture of acknowledgment. "That was the idea."
Before Vivianne could respond, a chime echoed through the chamber, signaling the start of the meeting.
The time for alliances, for war, for Prythian’s future, had arrived.
The last rays of sunlight streamed through the towering windows of the Dawn Court’s grand meeting hall, casting golden light across the shining lake that centered the place. It was massive, filled on top of shimmering quartz, its surface smooth enough to reflect the faces of the High Lords who now took their seats.
You stood beside Rhysand as he pulled out your chair, his violet eyes flicking to yours in silent reassurance. You had prepared for this. Every argument, every possible resistance, you were ready. But still, as the room filled with the most powerful Fae in existence, a weight settled in your chest.
Helion lounged in his chair, golden robes draped over one shoulder, his amber eyes glittering with amusement as he observed the others. Tarquin sat stiffly, his ocean-blue gaze wary yet resolute. Kallias was composed as ever, his cool expression betraying none of his thoughts, though Vivianne sat beside him, her presence a quiet comfort.
And then there was Beron. The High Lord of Autumn leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his sharp features twisted in distaste. Beside him, his sons were absent, Eris the only member of his court granted a seat at this gathering. His amber eyes burned with unreadable emotion as they flicked between Rhysand and Helion.
Thesan, the High Lord of Dawn, presided over the meeting, his elegant hands folded before him. “We all know why we are here.” His gaze swept over the room. “Hybern has silently but sure, declared war, and none of us can ignore it any longer.”
No one spoke. You forced yourself to breathe steadily, to hold your ground.
Rhys was the one to break the silence. “We’re not here to settle old grievances,” he said smoothly, his voice calm, unwavering. “We’re here because Hybern does not discriminate. We know how the king plays his ward and he will not care which Court you rule. He will not care who your ancestors warred against centuries ago. He will only care that you are in his way.”
A muscle ticked in Beron’s jaw. “Bold words, coming from you.”
Rhys only smiled. “I’ve always been bold.”
Helion let out a low chuckle, but Tarquin cut in, voice firm. “If we are to stand a chance against Hybern, for the same to not happen to your courts as it happened in mine, we need to share our resources. Information. Soldiers. Otherwise, we will all fall.”
Kallias’s cold blue eyes flickered. “And what, exactly, are you proposing?”
You met his gaze. “An alliance.” The word hung heavy in the air. “A real one. Not just a ceasefire, not just words on parchment. A true alliance.”
Beron scoffed. “And who, precisely, would lead such an alliance? You, Rhysand?”
Rhys didn’t flinch. “We’re not here to discuss who has the biggest boner, Beron.”
A few of the High Lords stifled their amusement, but Beron only sneered.
You leaned forward, holding Beron’s gaze. “We’re here because our people are going to die. Because this war has already started, and if we don’t fight together, there won’t be courts left to rule.”
Silence.
Then, slowly, Thesan nodded. “Let us speak plainly, then.” His golden eyes darkened. “How do we win this war?”
Helion was the one to break the silence, drumming his fingers against the quartz table. “Let’s start with what we know,” he said, tilting his head toward you and Rhysand. “You’ve been preparing for this war for a while now, haven’t you?”
Rhys inclined his head. “Yes.”
Beron sneered. “How fortunate for you. And yet, this all started in Spring. Right before the half-breed got there, and now that she is with Night suddenly they have the upper hand. How bizarre.”
All eyes turned to you. You met Beron’s gaze without flinching. “No.” The single word echoed in the vast chamber. Beron’s lips curled, but you went on before he could interrupt. “I won't let you sit there and make assumptions like that of me. I lost every single piece of family I had because of the lengths Hybern can get into manipulating people and making them believe to have a power they don't. I almost lost my cousin because of what Tamlin would do to make her a puppet and make all of you believe his claim is right as he has the Cursebreaker on his side.”
“And why, pray tell, the Queenslayer is here but the Cursebreaker is not? When both of you reside in Rhysand's Court?” Beron's smile was weak, but was there. Bastard.
“My Court too, may I tell you. And she's not here because she is not a pawn, but I am a player. The fact that I flee from that suffocating place is not a conversation we should focus on now. But the fact that we ran away and because of that, and only that, we were able to realize what was happening there is the reason why we have the upper hand” you breathe calmly, settling back at your chair. “If the Lady of Spring was granted the possibility of thinking before, Tamlin’s plan wouldn’t have worked. And maybe we wouldn't be having this conversation because we would be kneeling to Tamlin's reign on Prythian.”
A ripple of understanding passed through the room. Even those least inclined to side with Night Court fell silent. Vivianne let out a quiet breath, shaking her head. Tarquin muttered something under his breath, while Helion simply looked at you with something akin to admiration. Even Kallias’s icy expression softened slightly. Beron said nothing.
Helion, ever the one to latch onto the heart of a conversation, leaned forward, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “And where, then, is this Cursebreaker?”
You leaned back in your chair, unfazed. “Training.” Helion lifted a brow. You smirked slightly. “We’re seeing if she has any power as a High Fae and if she does, how to train it. But for now, she’s focused on reading and writing.”
Thesan gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. “A worthy pursuit.”
Beron scoffed. “So she’s useless.”
You didn’t so much as blink. “She is learning. Sometimes you should try it.”
Rhysand smiled faintly, but there was steel beneath it. “And just that is more than Tamlin ever allowed her.” The weight of those words settled over the room.
Kallias sighed, his voice quiet but firm. “Enough of Spring. Let’s return to what matters. How do we win this war?”
And just like that, the conversation shifted, but the understanding remained. The High Lords had seen the truth of Spring Court. Of Tamlin’s choices. And not a single one of them had defended him.
Cassian leaned forward, resting his forearms on the smaller chair he was granted, his hazel eyes sharp with intensity. “We strike first.”
The room went utterly still.
Azriel, shadows curling around his shoulders like living things, spoke next. “The soldiers who invaded our territory provided valuable intelligence before they were dealt with.” His voice was quiet, calm, but every High Lord felt the weight of it. “Hybern’s army is moving. Not just toward us, but toward Spring. They have Tamlin on their side. They expect to march straight through his lands unchallenged to later deal with each Court, building their way up to the north.”
Cassian’s wings twitched as he continued. “If we wait for them to set up camp, to dig in and entrench their position, this war will drag on for months, maybe years, just like the first one. But if we meet them before they reach Spring's landmark, while they’re still moving…” He smiled, slow and deadly. “We can cut them down before they even have a chance to fortify.”
Silence.
Kallias, his fingers still pressed together in careful thought, finally asked, “And you’re certain of this intelligence?”
Azriel merely nodded. That was enough to answer.
Helion exhaled, running a hand through his golden curls. “You’ve had spies in Hybern’s forces this whole time?”
Rhysand’s smile was almost lazy. “You didn’t?”
Beron scowled. “And what of the Cauldron? What of their magic? We were asked if the temple that contained our part of the Cauldron was robbed and it was. How do we deal with that?”
You answered before Cassian could. “Amren is working on that.”
A flicker of something like unease passed through the room. Even Tarquin, who had warmed slightly to your court, stiffened at the name.
Morrigan, ever the perfect mediator, offered a smooth smile. “With the information we’ve gathered, and the fact we protected our piece, even if Hybern is able to use the power partially, we believe we can disable the Cauldron long enough to give us an advantage.”
Beron scoffed. “And if you can’t?”
Cassian’s wings flared slightly. “Then we fight the way Night Court always have.”
The war general’s words rang in the silence, brutal in their simplicity.
Rhysand's voice was quiet, but no less firm. “Night Court is ready for this war. Our armies are trained, our plans are set. We know where Hybern’s forces will be, and we know when to strike.” His cold, calculating gaze swept over the room. “Do you?”
Not a single High Lord answered.
You let the silence stretch for a long moment before leaning back in your chair. “Does anyone have a plan to add to ours?”
More silence. But this time, it was tinged with something else. Understanding. Because for all their power, for all their titles, only Night Court had been paying attention. Only you had truly prepared for this war. And not a single one of them had anything to say about it.
☆
The cool night air greeted you as you stepped outside, Rhysand at your side. The meeting had been long and tense, but ultimately, it had gone as well as it could have. Now, all that was left was returning home.
Before Rhys could winnow you both away, Kallias called out. "Rhysand."
Rhys stopped, glancing over his shoulder as the High Lord of Winter approached. Vivianne was right behind him, her sharp eyes flicking between the two of you.
Kallias stopped a few feet away, his face unreadable. Then, quietly, he asked, "Back Under the Mountain… the children who were killed in Winter." His voice was steady, but something beneath it wavered. "A Daemati was responsible." His gaze locked onto Rhys. "For a long time, I was told it was you."
The words hung in the night, heavy and cold as a snowfall. Rhysand’s entire body went rigid beside you. You felt it instantly, the way something dark and painful curled at the edges of his mind, the way his hand twitched at his side. He didn’t even need to say it.
Before he could react, you reached for him, lacing your fingers through his. A silent message: ‘I’m here. I see you.’
Rhys blinked once, as if grounding himself. Then, slowly, he exhaled.
"It wasn’t me," he said, voice quiet but firm. "That was a lie spread by Tamlin."
Kallias stiffened. Even Vivianne’s expression darkened.
Rhysand continued, his tone controlled but edged with something raw. "There was another Daemati under Amarantha’s rule. She ordered them to do it, and I was locked in my room while it happened. I had no say. I had no control over many things. All I could do during that time was…" His throat bobbed, and his grip on your hand tightened. "I did what I could. I erased memories from her spies when I could get away with it. I hid people when I had the chance. But I couldn’t stop all of it. All of that was a game but after a while, I started to realize how far I was going and I couldn't go back anymore." The Inner Circle lowered their heads as they heard what their High Lord — and family — was telling, pieces of story not even they heard “After some time, it was just easier to pretend I was what everyone said about me. And I thought one day she might grant me the freedom to see my family again. All of you had at least someone from your Court with you. I had no one.”
Silence. Kallias’s face was unreadable.
Then, after a long moment, he exhaled. "I believed that lie for too long," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. His ocean-blue eyes met Rhysand’s, something like regret flickering there. "I should have doubted it before now. Should have looked deeper. Should have known. I lost myself in anger and couldn't question it."
Rhys shook his head, though the tension in his jaw hadn’t fully eased. "It wasn’t safe to question it. And you didn't had a reason to."
Kallias hesitated. Then he said, "I’m sorry—for what happened to you there."
The words settled between them, raw and unguarded.
You stepped in then, your voice even but pointed. "If every High Lord had the courage to step up the way you did during those times, maybe Feyre and I wouldn’t have needed to sacrifice ourselves at all."
Kallias flinched slightly.
Vivianne, however, let out a small huff of amusement. "But then we wouldn’t have you here, having this conversation with us." She stepped closer, slipping her arm through Kallias’s in a way that grounded him. Then she met your gaze, then Rhysand’s. "You two will run the Night Court better than any High Lord before you," she said, eyes twinkling with something warmer now. "Better than any in history."
And with that, she turned, leading Kallias away, leaving you and Rhys alone beneath the stars. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Rhys turned to you fully, his thumb brushing lightly over your fingers. "You always know exactly what to say," he murmured.
You huffed a soft laugh. "That’s because I know you."
Rhysand tilted his head, violet eyes warm despite the exhaustion. "And yet, every time I think I can’t possibly love you more, you prove me wrong."
Your breath caught for half a second, and before you could respond, he leaned in, pressing the lightest, most reverent kiss to your forehead.
Sooo... Who could guess I am a big hater of how SJM made all of Rhysand's effort to change his Court, useless? 😁😁😁😁
Here we also dive a tiny bit into the past of miss gurl let's hug her collectively
Warnings: Use of Y/N, ACOTAR rewrite, female main character, 2% book following I'm destroying the original story atp, mentions of PTSD, mommy issues, daddy issues, lots of trauma, mentions of war, Rhysand 😚
Whispers of Secrets and Starlight - Masterlist
Chapter 10: Cold
A few weeks had passed when the Night Court finally sprang their trap. Azriel’s network had been flawless, and Lucien’s deception had worked perfectly. Tamlin’s forces, along with a significant number of Hybern’s soldiers, had walked straight into the ambush.
The battle had been quick. The Illyrians overpowered them with precision, and before Hybern even realized what was happening, their troops were bound in magic-dampening chains, kneeling before the Night Court’s generals.
Tamlin’s soldiers had cracked easily. Cowards, the lot of them. They’d spilled everything they knew. From Hybern’s plans to their next movements, even details about where the rest of Hybern’s forces were hiding. Hybern’s soldiers, however, had been harder to break. They were loyal. But not unbreakable.
You were still absorbing the news when Rhys brought you to the interrogation chambers. You expected Azriel to be inside, coaxing the truth out of them in his cold, merciless way. The way the rumors had been tailored for him around the Continent. But instead, you were met with a sight that startled you: Azriel standing in the corner, silent, unmoving, while two other spies worked in his place.
You frowned as you stepped closer to Rhys. “Azriel isn’t doing it?”
Rhys crossed his arms, his violet eyes scanning the room. “No. I didn’t want him to.”
You glanced back at the spymaster. He was listening, his shadows curling around him like a second skin, but he wasn’t the one delivering the pain.
Rhys sighed. “Azriel has done more than enough in his life. The things my father made him do…” His jaw clenched. “He doesn’t need to relive those memories. So, many decades ago, he trained a small group of trusted individuals to handle the worst of it. They are mostly from the Hewncity, they like what they do. Azriel only steps in when he wants to. Mostly when it’s personal.”
You blinked, processing that. “So, all this time… I thought Azriel was still the one—”
“He listens,” Rhys cut in. “He gathers the information, watches through the shadows. But he doesn’t have to be the one with the blade in his hand anymore. Unless he chooses to. We decided to let this information out for… you know, reputation and the likes of it. It's easier to fear only one person and not expect more.”
Your throat tightened. The idea of Azriel being forced into that life again, forced to become the weapon Rhysand's father had trained him to be… You were grateful. Grateful Rhys had made sure he never had to relive that unless he wanted to.
Rhys must have noticed the shift in your expression because he reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. “Come,” he murmured, “let’s get some air.”
☆
He winnowed you to a quiet clearing in the forest, far from the war camps, far from the screams echoing in the underground chambers. A picnic had already been set up. Rhys must have planned this beforehand.
He sprawled onto the blanket, arms behind his head, watching you as you settled beside him. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The sounds of the forest surrounded you, birds chirping, leaves rustling in the breeze.
Then, softly, you asked, “What other changes have you made?”
Rhys turned his head, his violet eyes locking onto yours. “You mean besides making sure I don't become my father?”
You nodded. “You’ve been High Lord centuries, Rhys. And I know you’ve changed things, especially reading all the reports we've been receiving the past months. But I want to hear it from you.”
His gaze softened. He reached for your hand again, threading his fingers through yours. “Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll tell you.”
As the evening sky stretched into twilight, the peaceful sounds of the forest surrounding you and Rhys settled into a comfortable rhythm. Rhys' eyes stayed on you as you relaxed beside him, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.
“I’ve been High Lord for over three centuries, and in all that time, I’ve tried to push for changes that matter. The end of wing clipping was one of the first steps, but it wasn’t easy. Some of the old males that used to do the clippings are still alive, so it's harder to convince the newer generation that they're wrong. Some still hold onto that hateful tradition, the belief that clipping female wings makes them.more obedient. But I’m hunting them down. Slowly, but surely, those who do it for pride are being removed from positions of power.”
You squeezed his hand in acknowledgment, and he continued, his voice steady, thoughtful. “As for the warriors... I've made it clear that every male and female has a choice. No one is required to fight if they don’t want to. Of course, most of the males still take pride in their warrior status, but the decision is theirs. And now the females have the same freedom.” His gaze softened as he looked at you. “It's important for everyone to know that their worth isn’t tied to what others expect them to be. You’ve seen it with Feyre. She didn’t have to fight, but she chose to. I want everyone to have the same choice. Even if that means changing centuries of tradition.”
You nodded, appreciating the way he spoke with such conviction and care. “I’ve seen that in action already,” you said softly. “I've received letters from the commander of the female division. The fact that she's able to learn and decide for herself… it’s really different from how things were before.”
Rhys smiled, leaning back on his elbows, stretching his legs out in front of him. “And there’s still more to come. Every war camp is getting more investment, more resources, but they have to follow the rules. If they don’t, they lose it. This is how we’ll ensure we keep some semblance of order in place when everything is so chaotic. Plus, we’ve been working on mapping fatherless and motherless children. Cassian’s past doesn't need to be repeated, most of those kids don't have the same strength or luck. We can’t let them grow up without guidance, without structure. The future depends on how we raise these kids.”
His words were a weight, a reminder of the trials and tribulations he’d faced over the centuries and the legacy he was trying to build for the future. You could feel the love and hope in his tone as he spoke of the children.
“And what about the Court of Nightmares?” you asked, the mention of it bringing a slight frown to his face. You’d notice the changes there based on how polite Keir tried to be in his reports, the subtle shift in how things were being run.
“That’s a more complicated matter,” Rhys said quietly. “The Court of Nightmares... it’s still a dark place, but it’s not the nightmare it once was. Yes, there are still terrible people there, but there are also many good ones, merchants, artisans, people who have nothing to do with the cruelty of the court’s history. Those people are protected, but the ones who still live in the shadows, pulling the strings of violence, they know the rules. They lock their games inside the mountain and leave everyone else out of it. Let them play their games as long as they stay there. We play along, obviously. They know we are not the cruel crazy people they see there, but at this point I think they just enjoy the show. They think they are degrading me but the whole act turned out fun for me too.” His jaw tightened as he spoke, but his voice was calm. “The important part is that we’ve made it clear. If someone crosses the line, it’s dealt with. There’s no tolerance for cruelty against innocents anymore.”
You thought for a moment before speaking again. “Velaris, though... it’s completely different. When did you open it for the rest of the Court?”
Rhys' smile returned, more fond now. “Velaris is a city that represents everything we’re working toward. Open, free, thriving. It’s only open for the Night Court citizens right now, but we’re slowly working to integrate it with the rest of Prythian one day. We trade with every city, every faction, bringing in the resources we need and giving out what they want. It’s not perfect yet, but it’s a step in the right direction.”
You could see the pride in his eyes when he spoke of the city. “There’s still a lot to do, of course,” he continued, “but I’ve tried to do my best. To change things where I can. It will take time, but I believe we’ll get there. And it helps to have you by my side. To know that you’ll be here with me as I keep pushing forward. And also, a few Lords were getting mad at me for not having a wife and ensuring heirs. I guess that's a problem I can solve in a few years too.”
You breathed out a laugh but didn't deny him. You met his gaze, the sincerity in his voice settling deep within you. The weight of his words, the burden he carried for centuries, was something you understood now more than ever. You reached out, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead as your fingers lingered on his skin.
“You’ve done more than enough, Rhys. And I’m here, always,” you whispered softly, your heart swelling with a pride that mirrored his own.
Rhys’ eyes softened as he stared at you, a smile curving on his lips. “I know. And that’s what keeps me going.”
The sun had set, casting long shadows over the blanket as the quiet of the forest embraced the two of you in peaceful contentment. You leaned into his side, letting the stillness of the moment wash over you, grateful for the changes that were being made, for the future that was being shaped, and for the love that had flourished amidst the chaos.
Rhys’ expression softened as he looked at you, his violet eyes searching yours with a mixture of curiosity and concern. The two of you had been sitting in silence for a while, the peacefulness of the moment lulling both of you into a comfortable quiet. But then he spoke, his voice gentle and earnest.
"Tell me about your childhood," he asked. "What was it like for you, before all of this?"
For a moment, you hesitated, the memories rising like a tide, bringing with them a heaviness you didn’t always like to face. But Rhys’ steady gaze gave you a sense of safety, a quiet encouragement to speak your truth.
You let out a breath, looking at the few stars above, feeling their stillness against the turbulence inside. "It was... hard," you said finally, your voice low. "My mother... she was a very dictatorial person. She had this vision of who I was supposed to be, who I had to become. Sometimes, it bordered on cruelty."
Rhys’ brow furrowed, but he said nothing, just letting you continue.
"She hated that I was half-blood," you said, the words bitter in your mouth. "She made sure I knew that every single day. It wasn’t just that I wasn’t pure fae, it was like she couldn’t stand the reminder of what I was. My father’s blood in me was something she despised, and she would say terrible things... about how she wished my father had never made her pregnant, that I was a burden she didn’t want, that I was ‘the mistake’ she’d never planned for."
You swallowed thickly, pushing down the emotions that tried to rise. Rhys was still listening intently, his expression both pained and supportive, urging you to go on.
"She tried to 'fix' me," you said softly, the word ‘fix’ carrying all the coldness it had been intended with. "She wanted me to be perfect for whatever purpose she saw fit. Training me in everything. Music, art, history, fighting, hunting, speaking… everything. I had to be the best at all of it, at everything. She wanted me to be some sort of weapon. A perfect, molded piece to be used for war, politics, balls, anywhere I could be useful... but never to be anything for myself. She wanted me to disappear into the shadows of existence, to never be seen for who I truly was. She never wanted me to be just a half-blood, just an accessory to whatever plan the world had for me. No… she prepared me to not be overpowered but, at the same time, not grab the spotlight."
You fell silent, the weight of the memories threatening to choke you. Rhys reached for your hand, his grip firm but gentle, the touch grounding. His voice was steady when he spoke again.
"You had to carry all of... all of those expectations and cruelties?" he asked softly, his voice filled with disbelief, as though he couldn't quite imagine the depth of what you’d endured.
You nodded slowly, the ache in your chest growing heavier as the words spilled out, as if they had been waiting to be spoken for far too long.
"I was never allowed to be myself. I had to be everything for someone else, never for me. I was trained to be a tool, something to be used in whatever way would serve her... and when I wasn’t perfect, when I didn’t meet the impossible standards she set, she’d remind me of how worthless I was. A mistake. A half-blood." You shook your head, the frustration from years of it building in your chest. "I never knew who I was meant to be, only what I was supposed to do."
Rhys was quiet for a moment, the weight of your words settling between the two of you. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet but firm, tinged with an anger you knew he held for anyone who had treated you that way.
"That’s not who you are," he said, his tone resolute. "You are not a tool. You are not a weapon for someone else’s cause. You're more than all of that. You always have been."
You met his eyes, feeling his sincerity wash over you like a balm. A small part of you, a part that had long tried to be buried, wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that there was more to you than what you'd been trained to be.
"Sometimes I don’t know who I am," you whispered. "Not really."
Rhys’ expression softened, and he leaned closer, brushing a lock of hair away from your face. "Then let me help you find out," he said, his voice gentle but insistent. "You don’t have to be anything for anyone anymore. You can be whatever you choose, whoever you want to be. I’ll help you figure that out, one step at a time."
The sincerity in his voice struck deep. For the first time, the idea of being more than what had been drilled into you began to feel possible, like a faint but steady light in the darkness.
"I’ve seen what you’re capable of," he continued. "Not because you were molded into it, but because you are already so much more than what anyone has ever told you. You are strong. You are smart. You have a heart that is bigger than most. A human heart."
You held his gaze, the walls around your heart finally beginning to crack, just a little. For the first time, it didn’t feel like you had to hide, or be perfect, or be something you weren’t.
"I just want you to be happy," Rhys said, his voice soft now, as he placed his hand on yours. "And I want you to know that you don’t have to be anything for anyone ever again. You only need to be you."
You squeezed his hand, feeling the weight of his words, the warmth of his promise. You could feel the quiet relief spreading through you as the weight of your past began to shift, if only just a little.
"I’ll try," you said softly, the first glimmer of hope beginning to take root.
Rhys smiled, his gaze never leaving yours, his fingers brushing over your knuckles in a tender gesture. "That’s all I ask. You don’t have to have it all figured out. But I’m here, and I always will be."
In that moment, with the stars above and the night stretching around you, the weight of your past seemed a little less heavy. Maybe, just maybe, you could start to carve out a future that was all your own.
As the words about your mother lingered in the air, the complexity of your feelings weighed heavily on you. You exhaled softly, a faint sadness in your eyes, as you looked at Rhys. "She was cruel, yes. But at the same time... I think she always wanted what was best for me, in her own twisted way. She pushed me hard, sometimes in ways that made me feel small, but I know she believed it was for my own good. She wanted me to be perfect, to be everything, so the others wouldn't have a reason to put me down because of my blood. In a strange, broken way, she cared for me."
Rhys' gaze softened, his expression understanding. "I can relate," he said quietly, the pain in his voice evident. "My father... he was cruel too. But in the end, he thought he was doing what was best for me. It didn’t excuse the way he treated me, but it made me understand, in a weird way, why he did what he did."
You nodded, the sorrow mingling with a strange sense of understanding. "I grieved for her, you know? Despite everything. I loved her, even if she was everything I feared and resented. Losing her... it was hard."
Rhys reached out, his hand gently brushing against your cheek. "I understand. It’s complicated, but that’s what family is, isn’t it? It’s love and pain all wrapped up together."
A sudden thought made you smile, and you leaned in closer to him, brushing your lips against his cheek softly. You wanted to show him, in your own way, that everything he had done, everything he was, meant something to you. "One kiss," you whispered softly, as your lips brushed against his cheek. "For every little thing you’ve changed in me. For every way you’ve made me feel seen."
His eyes softened, and he let you continue, not speaking but understanding your intent. You kissed his forehead, your lips lingering there a moment longer. "For every way you’ve made me feel heard, even when I was lost in my own pain."
You trailed a kiss to his lips, gentle at first, a simple brush of affection. "For making me believe I could have a future," you whispered against his lips, before moving down to his neck, pressing another soft kiss there. "For making me feel safe when the world has always felt so dangerous."
Your hands reached to his chest, brushing against the fabric of his clothes before planting a kiss over his heart. "For showing me that I can trust again, that I don’t have to hide who I am." You moved to his ear next, your lips tracing its edge. "For being patient with me, and showing me that my heart has worth."
Finally, your lips touched his hand, your kiss delicate and full of admiration. "For everything you’ve done for this world, for your people, for the ones you love. For proving that it’s never too late to change and to fix things."
Rhys watched you with a soft smile, his eyes dark with emotion. And then, as if drawn by the same desire, he began to kiss you back, his lips pressing gently against every part of your body that he could reach. He kissed your cheek, your forehead, your lips, your neck, and every place where he had witnessed the strength of your spirit, places where you had shown him who you really were, free from expectations and from the past.
His voice was low, almost a growl, as he whispered against your skin. "One kiss for every part of you that refuses to let the world break you. For every time you chose to be yourself, no matter the pain."
The warmth of his touch, the softness of his words, and the tenderness of his kisses filled you with an overwhelming sense of connection, like something deep inside of you was finally being healed.
Eventually, the two of you broke apart, both needing to breathe, though you remained close. Rhys chuckled softly, his fingers running through your hair as he looked down at you. "You know," he said, his voice filled with affection, "we’ve spent so much time kissing that we’ve forgotten about food."
You laughed, a sound that felt foreign and free coming from you. "I suppose so," you said with a teasing smile. "But I think I could go without it for a while."
Rhys shook his head with a smirk, pulling the food toward you both. You sat back, letting the laughter linger between you before the conversation shifted to more mundane matters. But even as you ate, you were keenly aware of the intimacy that had passed between you.
And as you sat together, sharing a meal, there was one unspoken rule you both knew you had to honor. Neither of you passed food to the other, there was no accidental sharing that might ignite the bond between you too soon. You both knew that the moment would come when you were ready to accept it, to claim it fully, but not yet.
For now, it was enough to simply be in each other's presence, to share small, beautiful moments that built a foundation for something even deeper. And that, for the time being, was all you needed.
☆
Cassian had returned from Illyria a few days ago, vibrating with excitement, even if the situation wasn't the best. Rhys had told you Cassian always came back from the camps with his energy renowned. The moment he stepped into the training ring where you and Rhys were lounging, his sharp gaze landed on you. He walked with his usual swagger, but there was something else in his expression, a certain hint of curiosity.
"So," he drawled, arms crossed over his chest. "I hear you’ve been trained. Ever fought before?"
You raised a brow, amused. "I have."
Cassian smirked. "Then I think it’s time for a test."
Rhys chuckled beside you. "Cassian, I don’t think she needs to prove—"
But Cassian ignored him, already stretching out his arms, rolling his shoulders. "Come on, sweetheart. I just wanna see where you're at. We’ll keep it simple. Just me and you."
You stood, stretching a little, rolling out your wrists. "Fine."
Azriel, who had been quietly observing, leaned against the railing of the training ring, his shadows curling around him. "This should be interesting."
Cassian grinned, twirling a practice sword between his fingers before tossing one your way. You caught it easily, spinning it once in your grip.
"Alright," Cassian said. "Come at me."
You tilted your head. "Are you sure?"
Rhys let out a low laugh, recognizing the glint in your eye, but Cassian only grinned wider. "Give me your best shot."
You didn’t hesitate. You surged forward with speed that Cassian hadn’t expected, forcing him to block at the last second. The force of your strike sent him back a step, and his grin faltered slightly. He adjusted, attacking with a quick sequence of slashes that you dodged with practiced ease, deflecting each one with a sharp clang of metal against metal.
Rhys and Azriel watched intently as you fought, their amusement turning into intrigue. Cassian grunted as you landed a hit against his ribs, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to prove a point. He barely had time to react before you twisted away and struck again, forcing him on the defensive.
"Alright," he muttered, shaking out his hand. "Maybe I underestimated you a little."
You smirked. "You think?"
Azriel finally spoke. "What if we made this more interesting?"
Cassian looked at him, then at Rhys. "You want in?"
Rhys grinned, standing. "Why not?"
And just like that, the game changed. Now it was Cassian, Rhysand, and Azriel against you. Rhys had barely raised a hand before you attacked. You moved fast, too fast to what they were used to. You feinted toward Cassian before shifting at the last second, sweeping Azriel’s legs from under him. He caught himself with his wings, barely avoiding a full fall. Cassian lunged, but you anticipated it, twisting under his arm and elbowing him in the ribs before blocking Rhys’s incoming strike with the flat of your blade.
"Mother above," Cassian muttered, rubbing his side.
You danced between them effortlessly, your fighting style sharp, efficient, and familiar.
"She’s almost fighting like an Illyrian," Azriel noted, breathing slightly heavier than usual as he dodged another hit. His eyes narrowed. "Where did you learn that?"
You deflected Cassian’s sword and flipped back to create some space. "My mother trained me," you said simply.
Rhys shot a look at Cassian. "It makes sense. She wanted her to be prepared for anything. And since Illyrians are known as the best warriors, why not use their techniques?"
Cassian exhaled, rolling out his shoulders. "Alright. But there’s one thing we haven’t checked yet."
You raised a brow. "And that is?"
Cassian suddenly lunged forward again, this time using his wings to gain extra speed. You barely managed to sidestep, but then Azriel was behind you, and Rhys cut off your escape.
Pinned. Or at least, that’s what they thought.
At the last second, you dropped low, sweeping your leg out and taking Rhys’s feet from under him. He grunted as he hit the ground, and before Cassian or Azriel could react, you winnowed behind them, kicking Cassian square in the back before grabbing Azriel’s wrist and twisting it behind him, forcing him to yield.
Silence. And Rhys groaned from the ground. Cassian turned, rubbing his spine, while Azriel simply let out a long breath, clearly impressed.
"You have got to be kidding me," Cassian muttered.
Rhys, still flat on his back, just laughed. "I think we just got our asses handed to us."
Azriel gave a small nod. "Definitely Illyrian training."
Cassian narrowed his eyes at you, then let out a low, appreciative whistle. "I’d love to know who exactly trained you because I need to hire them for the camps."
You sheathed your sword and smirked. "You’d have to raise them from the dead for that."
Cassian shook his head, but a grin spread across his face. "Alright, alright. I admit it. You’re terrifying."
Rhys finally sat up, rubbing the back of his head. "That was unexpectedly humbling."
You grinned, offering him a hand. "Don’t worry, High Lord. I’ll go easy on you next time."
Cassian laughed. "Oh, I like her."
Azriel just gave you a long, considering look before murmuring, "I think we all do.
You stretched your shoulders, rolling out your wrists as you met Cassian’s gaze. He was still catching his breath from the last fight, but there was a glint of excitement in his eyes.
"Another round?" he asked, tilting his head.
You smirked. "Unless you’re scared."
Cassian let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, I like you even more every second." He cracked his neck, stepping back into position. "Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what else you’ve got."
Azriel and Rhys exchanged glances before shrugging and taking their places beside him. Three against one. Again. You lunged first.
Cassian blocked your initial attack, but you moved too fast for him to counter, slipping under his defenses and landing a sharp elbow to his ribs before twisting away from Azriel’s incoming strike.
As you moved, you spoke. "My mother had an estate near the Illyrian Steppes," you said, ducking under Rhysand’s outstretched hand. "She used to help females who ran away from the war camps."
Cassian grunted as he barely dodged your next hit. "Your mother?"
"She was cruel," you admitted, spinning away from Azriel’s shadows. "But she wasn’t evil. She saw what was happening to the females, and she decided to help them."
Rhys aimed a kick at you, but you sidestepped effortlessly. "And how does that tie into you knowing how to fight like this?"
"There was a male," you said, stepping into Cassian’s space and sweeping your arm up to block his next attack. "One of the few who actually helped those females escape. My mother made a deal with him, he would train me, and in return, she would continue helping those who fled."
Cassian’s brow furrowed as he adjusted his stance. "So he taught you the Illyrian way?"
"Not exactly." You ducked under Azriel’s punch, spinning behind him. "He taught me how to beat Illyrians."
That made them all pause for a fraction of a second. You took advantage of that hesitation. You winnowed behind Cassian, kicking the back of his knee to force him down before using his shoulder to launch yourself up and over Rhysand, landing lightly on the balls of your feet.
Cassian cursed. "What do you mean ‘beat Illyrians’?"
You smirked. "You fight full force, power, brute strength, reinforced defenses." You dodged Azriel’s blade with ease, twisting around to block Rhys’s next move. "But I’m smaller. Slimmer. That means there’s less of me to hit."
Rhys narrowed his eyes. "So instead of matching an Illyrian in force, you use speed?"
"Speed, angles, redirection," you clarified, sidestepping Cassian again. "I don’t hit where you’re strongest, I find your openings and hit where you’re weakest."
Azriel suddenly changed tactics, dropping his stance to try and grab you from below, but you saw it coming. You twisted mid-air, using his shoulders as leverage to flip behind him, landing softly.
"That male trained me to exploit Illyrian weaknesses," you continued, parrying Rhys’s strike. "Your wings, too big to move quickly in tight spaces. Your center of gravity, higher because of your muscle mass. Your attacks, strong, but predictable. Illyrians fight like battering rams."
Cassian grunted, rubbing his ribs. "And you fight like a fucking dagger."
You grinned. "Exactly."
Azriel, to your surprise, let out a quiet chuckle. "No wonder we can’t pin you down."
Rhys shook his head, amusement in his violet eyes. "I think Cassian just found his worst nightmare."
Cassian groaned. "Remind me to never underestimate you again."
You smirked, adjusting your stance. "Don’t worry. I’ll remind you every time I knock you on your ass.”
You barely had time to recover before launching into another round, dodging Cassian’s relentless strikes as you explained further.
"Illyrians are powerful, but after learning your ways it becomes predictable," you continued, parrying Azriel’s blade before flipping over Rhys’s sweeping kick. "Your wings are an advantage in the sky, but on the ground, they slow you down. If someone knows how to use that against you—" You feinted left before slipping behind Cassian and jabbing at the soft spot near the base of his wing. He hissed and stumbled forward.
"Shit," Cassian muttered, shaking it off. "That’s a dirty move."
"You should teach it to your soldiers," you countered, stepping back. "Better they learn it from each other than from an enemy on the battlefield."
Azriel, observing, nodded in approval. "What else?"
You dodged a punch from Rhys and continued, "Illyrians tend to overcommit to an attack. You strike with force, assuming your opponent will buckle, but if they evade too fast, your momentum leaves you wide open. Instead of lunging full force, feint more often, leave room to recover if you miss."
Cassian frowned. "We usually don’t miss."
"You usually don’t fight someone like me," you shot back with a grin. "And you probably won't for a while. But someone will figure this out one day. Better to be prepared."
Cassian smirked, clearly impressed. "I’ll make sure the war camps hear about this."
Rhysand was about to respond when a voice echoed across the training ground.
"RHYS! CASSIAN! AZRIEL!" All four of you turned as Morrigan sprinted toward you, her golden hair wild, her face twisted with urgency. "Hybern attacked Adriata" she shouted. "Tarquin is begging for help”
For a single heartbeat, everything was silent.
Then Rhysand was moving. "Get the others," he ordered. "We leave as soon as possible.”
☆
The moment you arrived in Adriata, the scent of blood and smoke filled your senses. What should have been a thriving city of shining white stone and flowing canals was in ruins. Buildings collapsed, homes burned, bodies — Summer Court soldiers, civilians, and Hybern’s invaders — littered the streets. The sea raged against the shore, as if mourning the destruction.
Azriel barely took a second before vanishing into the shadows, his siphons glimmering as he gathered intelligence. Rhys turned to you, his violet eyes dark with fury.
“Assess the battlefield,” he ordered. “Tell me where we hit first.”
You scanned the chaos before you, breaking it down into patterns of movement, weaknesses in the enemy’s formation. Your mother could be as cruel as she wanted, as restraining as she could, but she always taught you how to find your enemies weakest points.
“Hybern spread their forces too thin trying to claim multiple areas at once,” you noted, pointing to a key road where a large group of soldiers were forcing civilians into a corralled area. "They're using that plaza as a control point. If we take it, we cut them off from their strongest foothold."
Rhys nodded, already barking orders. “Darkbringers! Secure the plaza and eliminate all Hybern forces. I want no prisoners. The rest of you, clear the civilians and get them to safety!”
A low murmur rippled through the ranks, Night Court wasn’t known for aiding other courts. But when Rhysand’s power flared, swallowing the battlefield in darkness, the hesitation vanished. The army surged forward, weapons drawn.
You turned to another front where Hybern’s forces were moving toward the palace. “Az, I need your spies to take out the commanders. Without orders, their soldiers will fall into chaos. They are killing machines, but they don't use their brains as their own.”
A flicker of shadow, and he was gone. Then you saw Tarquin, standing at the city’s edge, trident in hand, watching your forces winnow in. His face was wary, unreadable.
But then he heard Rhys’s voice booming over the battlefield. "Take Hybern down. Protect the civilians. Leave no survivors among their ranks."
Tarquin’s surprise was brief. Then, with a roar, he raised his weapon, and the sea itself answered. A wave crashed into the docks, swallowing Hybern’s reinforcements whole. Just then the battle truly began.
You darted forward, slicing through Hybern soldiers as the fight spread. You moved through the fray like a ghost, reading the battle as if it were a book laid open before you. Hybern’s forces fought with brute force, but they were slow. Sloppy. You took down a general with a precise strike to his exposed side, then winnowed just as an arrow flew past where your head had been.
A soldier lunged at you, sword raised, only to be blasted into oblivion by a dark tendril of power. You turned to see Rhys hovering above, his wings spread wide, darkness writhing around him as he cut through enemy ranks like a god of death.
Not far away, Azriel emerged from the shadows, blood dripping from his blades, his expression unreadable as the enemy commanders fell.
Then Cassian’s forces arrived, Illyrian wings blotting out the sun. The tide of battle shifted. And Hybern was about to regret ever setting foot in Adriata.
Welcome to part 2 of Whispers of Secrets and Starlight 🥳🥳🥳
I was praying for times I could use this song
Btw if anyone is wondering, idk why but this is what I imagine the daily outfits our future high lady wears: all of this or this other too, and a lot of other kpop outfits actually, the concepts are soooo good
Also... my bff who lives with me helped me write the smut, I'm too shy to do everything by myself so if you feel the writing is a bit off it probably wasn't just me in the document lol
Warnings: Use of Y/N, ACOTAR rewrite, female main character, Tamlin knows how to do politics 😔, 10% book following and it's gonna get worse, mentions of SA, PTSD, smut so... beware minors, mentions of war, Rhysand 🤤
Whispers of Secrets and Starlight - Masterlist
Chapter 9: Heart On The Window
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its glow casting flickering golden light across the maps and reports strewn across your desk. A cup of untouched tea sat beside them, long gone cold. You didn’t even notice when Rhysand stepped into your study until his voice curled around you.
"You’re working too hard, darling."
Your lips twitched, but you didn’t look up from the report in your hands. "Pot, meet kettle."
Rhysand let out a soft huff of laughter as he crossed the room. The moment he reached you, he leaned against your desk, one hand braced beside your papers, the other offering a sealed letter.
Your brows rose as you took it. "What’s this?"
"News from Cassian."
That caught your full attention.
You set the report down and broke the seal, eyes scanning the contents. Your heart thrummed as you read. Rhys watched you carefully, his own report still in hand.
"The first female Illyrian battalion," you murmured. "That’s… that’s never been done before."
"One of the many changes I’ve been making these past centuries," Rhysand said softly.
You lifted your gaze to his, and for a moment, all you could do was look at him. This High Lord who had spent centuries fighting against deep-seated traditions, against Illyrian warlords who would rather see their females clipped than ever give them a sword — or freedom. A male who had been changing Prythian long before anyone had even noticed.
"You’re making history," you said, voice quiet.
A shadow of a smile ghosted over his lips. "We’re making history. They only accepted after Cassian told them a female would be commanding their moves. You."
The words settled deep in your chest but before you could say more, you glanced down at the rest of the letter. Cassian had intensified the training of the Illyrians, preparing them for war, making sure they were ready for what was to come.
"Az is extending his spy network, I don't know if you already read his report today" you murmured. "He's been trying to find more information about Hybern’s allies. Do we know if they’ve been securing more partnerships in the last few years?"
Rhysand’s jaw tightened. "Not officially. But Amren believes they will be showing themselves soon."
You sighed, setting the letter down. "Lucien said Tamlin has a map of the Cauldron’s pieces," you reminded him. "And now we know that the temples marked on it have been robbed recently. Hybern is gathering the pieces."
"I know, Amren told me you both figured it out two days ago."
You swallowed, looking back at him. "She thinks we won’t have to worry, though. The temple in our territory is being heavily guarded now, and I warned Helion. I mean, you technically warned Helion. The Day Court is prepared in case they are attacked too."
Rhysand nodded. "That’s the one thing keeping her from completely losing her mind over this. She's been surprisingly calm, judging the situation."
A smirk tugged at your lips. "And you?"
He hummed. "I suppose it helps me sleep at night."
"You don’t sleep."
A slow, wicked smile curved his mouth. "Maybe I would, if someone warmed my bed more often."
Your breath caught. But before he could push his advantage, you rolled your eyes and turned back to the reports.
"We still don’t know how far Tamlin is willing to go with all this," you said, attempting to steer the conversation back on track.
Rhysand let out a mocking sigh, but he nodded. "Lucien’s been doing what he can from within," he said, "but Tamlin is wary of him. He won’t let him get close to the real plans."
Your nails tapped against the desk. "If Lucien can’t get close enough, then we need another plan."
Rhysand leaned in, his voice a velvet promise. "Don’t worry, darling. I already have one."
You narrowed your eyes. "Do I even want to know?"
His grin was pure trouble. "You’ll find out soon enough if we need to use it. If not, I won't stress you with it."
You sighed. "You're impossible."
"And yet, you adore me." You did. Gods help you, you did.
Rhysand leaned back on the desk, rolling his shoulders, exhaustion from war planning still evident in the sharp lines of his face. But when he looked at you, his violet eyes softened, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"And how is Feyre's reading coming along?" he asked, the shift in topic intentional. He knew you needed a break from discussing battle strategies, and nothing made you more at peace than talking about your cousin’s progress.
You smiled, stepping closer to him. “She’s doing so well. You’d be proud of her.” A hint of pride laced your voice as you continued. “She’s becoming more confident, and even asks me to sit with her while she reads out loud. She still struggles sometimes, but she doesn’t hesitate to ask for help anymore. And she already thanked the priestess who's been guiding her more times than Iris can tell her it's not needed.”
Rhys hummed in satisfaction. “She also reached out to me, asking to restart her physical training.”
Your brows lifted in surprise. “Really?”
He nodded, reaching for your hand, tracing lazy circles against your palm. “I set up one of our trainers to work with her. She’s determined.”
You exhaled, warmth filling your chest. “That’s all I ever wanted for her, so she will feel strong again.”
Rhysand tugged you forward, his arms wrapping around your waist as you instinctively circled yours around his neck. He let out a pleased sigh, nuzzling your temple.
“You’re happy she’s trusting you,” you whispered.
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “Of course, I am. I need your family to like me, don’t I? Especially if we pretend to get married.”
The way he said 'pretend’ made your stomach flutter. Your cheeks burned as you averted your gaze, and Rhys, ever the predator, caught the reaction immediately.
A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “What’s that look for?” You tried to pull away, but his grip tightened just enough to keep you there. His voice was softer this time, almost unsure. “Do you want to marry me?”
Your breath hitched. “Rhys.”
“I mean it,” he murmured. “Do you want to officially be my High Lady one day?”
You stared at him, at the sincerity in his expression, at the slight vulnerability peeking through his usual confidence. Your heart clenched, and you wondered how long he’d been holding onto that question, too afraid to ask.
“Of course, you insane male,” you whispered, brushing your lips against his. “It’s been a process to love you, but every day, I feel like I’m falling even more.”
Rhys let out a shaky breath before sealing his lips over yours. The kiss was slow, reverent as if he were committing this moment to memory. But then his hands skimmed down your back, tugging at the hem of your shirt.
You pulled away just enough to chuckle. “See? This is exactly why I asked for separate studies.” But you didn't made a move to stop him from taking your shirt off.
Rhys grinned, voice husky. “Are you complaining?”
You leaned in, lips grazing his ear. “If you prove to me that you’re my good boy,” you purred, “I might be willing to warm your bed for a while.”
A growl rumbled in his chest as he swiftly lifted you onto the desk, pushing aside the endless war papers without a second thought. “Oh, darling,” he murmured, kissing down your throat, hands already roaming. “You’ll never have to ask twice.”
And Mother above, did he prove himself.
War papers sprawled across the polished wooden surface, their edges curling slightly as if mocking the chaos they represented. Yet, amidst the tension of impending battles and political strife, you and Rhysand found yourselves locked in a different kind of conflict, one of desire, power, and unspoken promises.
Rhysand stood tall, his broad shoulders filling the space as he leaned over you, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was both tender and voracious. It was a kiss that spoke of reverence, of a man committing every detail of the moment to memory. But as his hands slid down your back, his fingers catching on the top that holds your breasts, the tenderness gave way to something wilder. He tugged the fabric upward, a silent demand that left no room for misinterpretation.
You knew Rhysand’s tendencies, his inability to keep his hands — or his lips — to himself when you were near. It was a game you both have been playing for a while, a dance of power and submission that neither was willing to abandon.
A primal growl rumbled in his chest, deep and resonant. With deliberate slowness, Rhysand dipped his head, his mouth closing over your breast. His tongue swirled lazily, a hungry exploration that made you arch into him, his breath hitching in your chest. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he suckled, his teeth scratching tour skin in a way that only heightened the pleasure. It was a sensation that was both tender and rough, a perfect blend of his duality, the gentle lover and the dominant High Lord.
“Rhys,” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair as you tilted your head back, exposing your neck to his roaming lips. His name was a plea, a surrender to the sensations overwhelming you.
He hummed against your skin, a vibration that sent shivers down your spine, before pulling away just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes were dark with desire, his pupils dilated as he drank in the sight of you. “You taste like heaven everytime I try you again,” he murmured, his voice thick with longing.
But he wasn’t done yet.
With a wicked grin, he slid lower, his lips and tongue mapping every inch of you again, committing it to memory. His breath was hot and eager as he buried his face between your thighs, his hands spreading your legs wider to grant him better access. You were wet, your arousal evident, and he wasted no time in devouring you with a ferocity that left you trembling and gasping for breath.
His tongue was relentless, tracing patterns that made you squirm and moan. He lapped at you eagerly, his teeth scratching your sensitive skin in a way that only added to the pleasure. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open as he explored every inch of you again, his mouth a tempest of sensation.
“Rhysand,” you cried out, voice breaking as your climax built, threatening to consume you. Your fingers dug into the desk, nails scraping against the wood as you fought to anchor herself to reality. The wood almost cracked under the force you were holding it.
He growled against you, a sound of satisfaction and possession, before pulling away just enough to look up at your eyes. His lips were glistening, your essence coating them, and the sight was enough to send a fresh wave of desire crashing over you. “Not yet,” he murmured, his voice a command. “I’m not done with you.”
You shivered at his words, your body aching for release, but you nodded, trusting him implicitly. This was your dance, after all, a delicate balance of power and surrender.
With a smirk, he rose to his knees, his eyes never leaving yours as he unbuckled his belt. His pants fell to the floor, revealing his erection, thick and throbbing, a testament to his desire for you. He didn’t rush, taking his time to savor the moment, to let your anticipation build.
“You’re mine,” he stated, his voice a low rumble that sent a thrill through you. It wasn’t a question, but a declaration, a reminder of the rummaging bond between you.
“Yours,” you breathed, voice soft but unwavering. You were his, and in that moment, you wanted nothing more than to be claimed by him again.
He leaned over you, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as he positioned himself at your entrance. His eyes locked with yours, he thrust forward, filling you in one slow, deliberate motion. You gasped, nails digging into the wood as you adjusted to his size, your body welcoming him with a tightness that made him groan.
“So fucking perfect,” he muttered, his voice strained as he began to move, his hips snapping in a rhythm that was both urgent and controlled. The desk creaked beneath you, the papers long forgotten as you become lost in the moment.
Your legs wrapped around his waist, your thighs rasping on his jacked as you met his thrusts, your body moving in sync with his. The power exchange was palpable, his dominance evident in every stroke, yet you were no passive participant. You were his equal, your desire matching his own as you surrendered to the pleasure he wrought.
“Harder,” you asked — never demanded, your voice breathless as you tilted your hips, seeking deeper penetration. You wanted nothing more than to carve your nails in his back, hold him closer to you, but you held yourself back. In the future, you promised yourself.
He obliged, his thrusts becoming more forceful, the desk groaning under the pressure of your passion. His hands gripped your hips, bruising in their intensity, as he pounded into you, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
“You like that, don’t you?” he growled, his lips brushing your ear as he nipped at your lobe. “My good girl, taking my cock like you were made for it.”
“Yes,” you moaned, your head falling back as you surrendered to the pleasure. “Because I was made for you, Rhys. Always for you.”
His thrusts quickened, his control slipping as he neared the edge. “Come for me,” he commanded, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Let me feel you fall apart around me.”
Your climax hit you like a wave, crashing over you with an intensity that left you breathless. You cried out, your walls clenching around him as you shattered, body trembling with the force of your release.
He followed moments later, his growl of satisfaction filling the room as he spilled himself deep within you. His body stilled, his forehead resting against yours as you both struggled to catch your breath.
For a long moment, you remained like that, hearts pounding in unison, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Then, with a soft chuckle, Rhysand pulled back, his lips brushing yours in a tender kiss.
“I believe I’ve proven myself,” he murmured, his voice laced with satisfaction.
You smiled, your fingers tracing the lines of his face as you leaned into him. “You have,” you agreed, tone playful. “Though I suppose I’ll have to keep testing you, just to be sure.”
He grinned, a wicked glint in his eyes. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, darling.”
And as you leaned into each other, the world outside — with its wars and worries — faded into insignificance. In that moment, there was only you, your desire, and the unspoken promise of more to come.
He took himself out of your warmth and winnowed both of you to his bathroom, where the bath started to fill itself under his silent command.
☆
The warm water calmed over both of you as steam curled around the marble walls. Rhys sat between your legs, his back resting against your chest, his wings slightly spread as he let you run a washcloth gently over his shoulders. His head leaned back against your collarbone, eyes closed, breathing deep.
You knew he wasn’t just relaxing, he was listening. Feeling. Memorizing every little touch, every caress, every drop of water sliding between you both. Your fingers traced soft circles on his arms before dipping lower, washing away the sweat and heat from earlier. You were always cautious during those moments, always careful with what you said and did.
Because you knew. You knew how Amarantha had broken him in ways no one else could see. How she had forced him into submission, twisted pleasure into something sickening. How, even now, the wrong words — hell, sometimes even the wrong tone — could bring back the shadows of those fifty years under her claws.
He never hid anything from you. When you started experimenting with your bodies, he had laid his boundaries out, not because he was ashamed or scared, but because he trusted you. And so you were careful every time. Not cautious in a way that made him feel fragile, but careful in a way that let him know he was safe.
Your hands drifted up to his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “You were perfect,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple.
His lips quirked up. “I always am.”
You let out a soft laugh, rubbing circles into his chest. “I mean it.”
His breath hitched slightly, as if he hadn’t expected the words. As if, even after all this time, he still didn’t know what to do with your gentle appreciation for all of his effort into your pleasure.
So you continued, voice low, steady. “You’re always so good to me, Rhys. Always so careful, even when you don’t have to be.”
One of his hands came up to cover yours, gripping it tightly against his chest. Your other hand dipped into the water, trailing down his spine. No scratches. No harsh touches. Just warmth. Just you.
When you reached for the soap, Rhys shifted slightly, making room as you lathered it between your hands and ran it along his skin. But when you started to reach for his neck, he stilled. You knew why.
There had been a time — just a few months ago — when he would scrub his own skin raw after being with Amarantha. When he had tried to erase every last trace of her, even if it meant bruising himself in the process. And so now, every time you bathed together, you made sure to leave your scent on him somehow. To remind him it was you touching him. Only you. For the rest of your lives, if he wanted.
So instead of washing the soap away completely, you leaned down, kissing the spot down his ear. Your scent lingered there, mixing with his own.
“You're mine,” you whispered. Not as a claim. But as a reassurance.
Rhys exhaled, tension melting from his body as he turned in your arms, cupping your face with wet hands.
His forehead pressed against yours. “Yours,” he murmured back.
He kissed you then, slow, deep, and reverent. As if you were something sacred. And when he pulled you tighter against him, when his wings curled protectively around your back, you knew this wasn’t just about washing away the past.
This was about building something new. Something better. Something that could be yours.
As the bathwater cooled and the steam in the room began to fade, Rhys pressed one last lingering kiss to your shoulder before exhaling a slow, steady breath.
You both moved in unspoken sync, toweling off, dressing in soft nightclothes, the weight of the day and the amount of hours laying down war plans slowly pressing down on your limbs. But just as you turned to head for your own chambers, Rhys caught your wrist.
“Stay with me tonight,” he murmured.
You blinked up at him, searching his face. He had been the one to ask for separate rooms in the first place, not because he didn’t want you near, but because of his nightmares. He hadn’t wanted to wake you up in the middle of the night — even if sometimes he couldn't control his emotions from slipping through the bond —, hadn’t wanted to steal any of your attention away from Feyre when she was still adjusting to Velaris, to being free from Tamlin, to her new life.
You swallowed, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand. “Are you sure?”
Rhys hesitated. Just for a moment. Then he nodded. “The nightmares haven’t really stopped,” he admitted, voice quiet. “But…” His fingers tightened slightly around yours. “When you’re with me, I—” He exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair. “I always feel calmer. And sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night, all I want is to know that you’re here. That you’re safe. That you’re with me.”
Your chest ached at the raw honesty in his voice. So you stepped closer, reaching up to cradle his jaw in your hands. “Of course, Rhys,” you whispered. “I’ll always be with you.”
Something flickered in his eyes, something deep and reverent and yours. He kissed you, soft and slow, before taking your hand and leading you to his bed. And as you curled up together beneath the covers, as his arms wrapped securely around you, as he buried his face against your neck and breathed you in, you knew. Tonight, if the nightmares came, he wouldn’t have to face them alone.
☆
The next morning, you made your way to Feyre’s room, knocking lightly before stepping inside. She was already seated at her desk, a broad smile lighting up her face as she eagerly gestured for you to come closer.
“Look at this,” she said, practically buzzing with excitement. She slid a sheet of parchment across the desk, her calligraphy significantly neater than it had been before. “It’s getting better, right?”
You picked up the paper, tilting your head as you examined her careful strokes. The improvement was obvious, her letters were more even, her spacing more consistent. You looked back at her and grinned. “It’s amazing, Feyre. I’m so proud of you.”
A pleased blush dusted her cheeks. “Thanks. I actually enjoy it now, learning how to read and write. And not just that, I'm getting better at learning how to use my fae senses, how to listen to my instincts, to my body. It feels… good.”
Your chest swelled with pride. She had come so far from the girl who had once flinched at every single loud sound or every bright light. Now, she was embracing it. Embracing herself.
Before you could say more, a knock sounded at the door. A servant entered, holding out a sealed letter. “A letter from the Spring Court,” they said, before bowing and leaving.
Feyre turned the letter over in her hands, fingers running over the seal. “It’s from Lucien,” she murmured before breaking the seal and making an effort to read the first words. You couldn't contain your smile seeing her focused face. “You read it. It’s about the war, you’ll understand it better.”
You nodded, unfolding the delicate parchment that smelled too much like flowers. Lucien’s handwriting was precise but rushed, as if he’d been careful yet eager to write this.
Things are progressing. One of the warlords — curiously one of Beron’s youngest sons — has been particularly talkative, and I’ve managed to pry a lot of information out of him — he also let slip that Beron has been called to participate in the planning but didn't agree to it (yet). He’s been boasting about Tamlin’s plans to allow Hybern’s forces to use the Spring Court as a staging ground. It’s worse than we thought. Hybern isn’t just moving forces into Spring. They’re planning to use it as a funnel to invade Summer and Autumn next — if Beron doesn't agree. But here’s the interesting part: Tamlin is still keeping secrets from Hybern. He’s hesitant about giving them full access to the wards through the Wall, and I think I can use that. I’ve been planting doubt, making it seem like Hybern might betray him. He’s starting to trust me again, which means I’m getting closer to seeing what else he’s hiding.
Your grip on the letter tightened. Tamlin. That spineless, arrogant coward. Even after everything, he was still helping Hybern. You kept reading.
We’ve also been feeding him false information about the Night Court’s movements. He thinks they have mapped out a move to retrieve you from Night, and he’s been working with Hybern to prepare an extraction plan. But the map he has is the one Azriel altered. When the time comes, they’ll be walking straight into their own ambush. If this works, we’ll cripple their forces before the war even begins.
A sharp smile tugged at your lips. Good. Everything was going according to the plan.You were about to hand the letter back to Feyre when you caught the last few lines.
Tell your cousin I hope she’s doing well. I know this must be difficult for her, but she’s strong. She always has been. And I miss our talks. I miss you. When I come back I'll teach you how to make that tea we were talking about last week. Yours truly, Lucien V.
Your brows lifted slightly as you glanced at Feyre, who was trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t eagerly waiting to hear the contents of the letter.
You cleared your throat, folding the parchment. “The war news is good. Lucien’s getting Tamlin to trust him again, and they’re feeding him false plans to lure Hybern’s forces into a trap.”
Feyre exhaled in relief. “That’s great.”
You hesitated, watching her carefully. “And… Lucien wrote something else. Something personal to you. I'm sorry that I glanced at it for too long.”
Feyre’s face immediately turned red. “Oh?”
“He misses you.” You smirked, handing her the letter. “Wanna talk about it?”
She swallowed, fingers tightening on the parchment as she read his words. Then she sighed, rubbing a hand over her face.
“My feelings for Lucien are… complicated,” she admitted. “I’m not certain about anything, but I think I like him. A lot.” She bit her lip, eyes flicking down to the letter again. “He’s been really sweet. And he's been so patient with me. He never pushes, never expects anything. Never make fun of the words I get wrong or my bad calligraphy. And never complains about how much time it takes me to answer his letters when his comes in less than a few hours. He just… listens. He makes me feel safe.”
Your heart warmed at her confession. “I’m happy for you,” you said softly. Then, with a mock-serious expression, you added, “But if he ever says or does anything to hurt you, I will personally send him to the same hell I’m sending Ianthe and Tamlin to.”
Feyre snorted, shaking her head. “Duly noted. I'll tell him that in the next letter. And for the first time in a long time, you saw hope glimmer in her eyes. And felt it growing in your heart.
Sooo as someone who's job is literally analyse politics, I have a lot to say about Feyre being named High Lady in the universe Sarah built for acotar, but this is not the moment so I will let you guys guess what I think about it based on what I changed here
Also, Feyre deserves a waaay better desenvolviment here, so I was thinking about a bonus chapter for her in the future? Bc here is gonna seem rushed since I'll focus a lot more on Rhys
Warnings: Use of Y/N, ACOTAR rewrite, female main character, Tamlin shouldn't have the possibility of a redemption arc if we are going to destroy his life, 10% book following idc anymore, mentions of PTSD, mentions of war, Rhysand 🤭
Whispers of Secrets and Starlight- Masterlist
Chapter 8: Wild Card
Lucien was pacing outside Feyre's room when you and Rhysand stepped out. His golden eye flicked between the two of you, already sensing something had shifted, that the world had just tilted under his feet.
"What's going on?" His voice was tight, suspicious. His gaze lingered on Rhysand like he was about to tear him apart, but there was something soft in his eyes when they darted back to the closed door behind you.
You exchanged a glance with Rhysand, who arched a brow as if saying “Well? Go on, little mouse.
You turned back to Lucien, heart hammering. “We're leaving."
Lucien's whole body went still. "And Feyre?"
Your throat tightened. "She's coming with us. She called out the bargain."
Lucien's chest rose and fell once sharply. His amber eye flicked between the two of you again, calculating. Then—
"I'm going with you."
Rhysand's smirk flickered, surprised, but not displeased. "You don't trust me, fox boy?"
Lucien shot him a venomous glare but didn't rise to the bait. "I don't trust anyone with her right now."
Your heart squeezed. Rhysand's violet eyes softened, just a fraction. "Fair enough."
He opened the door again and Feyre was waiting, the second she saw you again she ran and hugged you, clinging to you as if you were her anchor. Without another word, Rhysand's shadows wrapped around you all and the world disappeared in front of your eyes.
☆
The House of Wind was a breath of cool, crisp freedom the second you stepped onto the balcony. Feyre stumbled forward, clutching the stone railing, her whole body shuddering in relief. You could feel it, the way the weight of Spring had been crushing her. How it lifted the moment she set foot on this land.
Her breath came out in one long, shaking exhale. "I feel like I can breathe," she whispered, like she hadn't realized until now that she hadn't been able to before.
Lucien's face crumpled. He crossed the space between them in two long strides and wrapped her in his arms so, so gently. Like he was afraid she might shatter. Feyre froze, stiff in his embrace. But then Lucien's arms squeezed a little tighter, and a single broken sob tore from his throat and Feyre melted.
Her arms came up around him, clutching the back of his tunic. She buried her face in his shoulder and for the first time in months, she let herself cry. Lucien just held her, rocking her slowly with tears silently sliding down his own face. It was so tender — so heartbreakingly pure — you had to look away.
Rhysand was already watching you. His violet eyes glinting in the dim light, that barely-restrained ache carved into every line of his perfect face. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, like he was physically holding himself back. And for some reason you broke first.
You crossed the space between you and threw yourself into his arms. Rhysand's breath caught in surprise. And then his arms crushed you against him. Your face buried in the crook of his neck, his scent — salt and cedar and night sky — wrapping around you like a balm. His wings curled around you both, shielding you from the rest of the world. You spent the whole time in Spring trying to convince yourself that the feeling crushing you down wasn't because you missed him. But seeing him in front of you crumbled those walls faster than you expected.
"You did so well," he murmured, voice rough against your ear. "You saved her."
You squeezed your eyes shut, biting down the sob climbing your throat. "I was going to kill him."
Rhysand's arms tightened around you, "I know."
"I still want to." You admitted, almost ashamed of your lack of control.
"I know." His fingers slid into your hair, holding you closer. "But I'm so proud of you."
And fuck, you melted into him. You didn't even realize the world had gone completely silent until the first petal brushed against your cheek. You blinked and pulled back just enough to look around and find… Flower petals? Dozens of them floating through the air, glowing softly like the moonlight.
Lucien and Feyre had already separated, both of them watching the petals with wide, confused eyes. They looked at you for answers but you were more confused than them. Rhysand's brows knit together. He held out a hand, catching one of the blossoms in his palm. His violet eyes flicked to the wind, as if looking for some memory and then widened. He knew what they were.
"What are these?" you asked, heart thudding.
"This flower..." He looked at it with curiosity "It only grows here, in our territory. But they're used in the High Lord ceremony when Prythian accepts a ruler for the Night Court.”
“And why are they here?” Lucien asked, you noticed the hand on Feyre's back but decided it wasn't the moment.
“That is the weird part, because they only bloom when the power shifts to another High Lord. " You blinked at him, still not understanding. Until Lucien's sharp intake of breath echoed through the air.
"Oh," he breathed, his golden eye flicking back to you. "Oh, so that's why you were able to command Tamlin back there."
Feyre's head snapped between the two of you, utterly lost. You wish you could be in the same situation if the wind wasn't singing to you, calling you and your magic to bloom.
"What? What does that mean?" Feyre touched your hand, but something in the contact made her hand tingle, so she took her back and it was glowing.
Lucien glanced at Rhysand and you, like he couldn't quite believe it himself. But Rhysand was still looking at you, his eyes shining with something that made your heart ache. Love. Admiration. Devotion. He stepped closer, cupping your face between his hands, and whispered, almost as if he was grounding himself in the situation.
"The power of the High Lords isn't given by blood." Your breath caught. "It's given by the land to those who deserve it" Your heart started to pound. "Prythian chooses who commands its courts."
The petals began to swirl faster around you in a soft, shimmering cyclone.
"And apparently..." Rhysand's thumb traced your cheekbone, a slow, reverent touch "It chose you too."
Your knees buckled. Rhysand caught you. Held you up. Like you had done multiple times to him Under the Mountain when Amarantha got too close or his nightmares became real.
His lips brushed against your forehead, soft and steady. Yours.
"A High Lady," he murmured, and you glowed with his knowledge. Like you'd been a star all along, just waiting for someone to see you.
☆
Your heart was still racing in your chest when Rhysand led you through the winding hallways of the House of Wind, his hand firmly pressed against the small of your back, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go.
You were glowing. Actually glowing. The petals were still gently swirling around you, fading little by little, but you could feel something different inside yourself, something anchoring you to the land in a way you'd never felt before.
Feyre and Lucien had been whisked away by Nuala and Cerridwen, both still too stunned to even question it. But you... You knew exactly what had happened. You just couldn't quite believe it.
Rhysand opened the door to a large, spacious bedroom — his bedroom — without even needing to touch the handle. You stepped inside and immediately froze.
Because there were... Clothes. Racks of them. Drawers stuffed with fabrics. Dresses, tunics, trousers, jackets, in every color imaginable, though most of them were shades of black, navy, and deep purples. It looked like a whole damn wardrobe had been prepared for you.
You slowly turned to face him, narrowing your eyes. "Were you... preparing for me?"
Rhysand's violet eyes glinted like the utterly shameless male he is. "Not even a little bit."
Your mouth opened—
His smirk curved higher. "All of my houses are ready to receive you, darling." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, looking every bit the smug bastard you'd missed so much. "Clothes. Perfumes. Books. Even your own shelf in the library. But—" His eyes flicked over you, a glint of sadness "If you'd prefer your own room... I can arrange that too."
You should have smacked him. You should have rolled your eyes and told him to go to hell. Instead, you kissed him.
His breath caught, just for a second, before his arms crushed you against him, one hand tangling in your hair, the other gripping your waist like he might never let go again. The kiss was desperate, months of tension, of stolen thoughts and almost-encounters, snapping between you like lightning. You could taste the night on his tongue — stars and shadows and him. But when his hand slid down to your hip, fingers brushing the buttons of your dress.
You gasped and pushed him back by the chest. "Whoa, sir." You were breathless, dizzy, but grinning. "We have more pressing matters right now."
Rhysand's eyes glinted, like he was already making a mental list of exactly how he'd ruin you the second those matters were handled. But he only stepped back and bowed his head.
"As you wish, High Lady." A shiver ran down your spine at the title.
“I could get used to this” with one last kiss you turned to the endless clothes he prepared.
You picked out a black set from his endless collection. A long-sleeved crop top that clung to every curve, with a subtle shimmer woven into the fabric, and loose black pants cinched with silver chains around your hips. The whole outfit was comfortable, but you didn't miss the way Rhysand's eyes darkened when he turned around and saw you.
His hands twitched — just slightly.
"And I could get used to this," he murmured, voice low.
You opened your mouth to snap something back, when a loud, furious pounding rattled the door of the house.
"RHYSAND, OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW!"
“Cassian.” Rhysand whispered into your mind.
You could practically feel the panic radiating from the other side of the wood — a thick, frantic wave of power.
Rhysand sighed dramatically. "Apparently, you're going to meet your family sooner than expected."
Your heart stuttered. Your family. You could get used to this too.
Rhys flicked his fingers, and the door swung open with a rush of night-kissed wind. Cassian and another Illyrian you recognized as Azriel — from the time he worked as the last High Lord's spy — practically fell into the room, weapons half-drawn, both of them wide-eyed and tense.
Another two females were right behind them, scanning the room like they were ready to tear the whole place apart.
But the second Cassian's hazel eyes landed on you he froze. All of them did. Because the petals were still there. Still softly glowing, swirling gently around you like a celestial storm.
"Mother above," the blond one whispered.
Azriel's shadows curled tighter around him — his scarred hand gripping the hilt of Truth-Teller like he wasn't quite sure if he needed to defend you or protect Rhysand.
And then there was Amren. You remember her from countless nights your mother had meetings with her after she was freed from the Prison. Her silver eyes narrowed when looking at you, and she smirked when she remembered who you were.
"Well, well, well," she purred. "Look who finally decided to claim her throne."
But before anyone could say another word, Lucien and Feyre appeared at the top of the stairs, both in fresh, comfortable Night Court clothes. Feyre looked like she'd been crying again, but there was already more color in her cheeks. Lucien stayed close behind her, his golden eye flicking between all the powerful beings in the room.
"What's happening?" Feyre asked, her voice small, uncertain.
Rhysand's violet eyes glinted, flicking between you and the petals still swirling through the air. He stepped forward and slid a hand down the small of your back. You shivered.
"What's happening, Feyre," he said silkily "Is that Prythian has chosen its very first High Lady."
A beat of stunned silence.
Then—
"What the fuck?" Cassian barked.
The silence stretched long and thick after Lucien's resigned sigh. Everyone still seemed too stunned to process what had just been said — except Amren, who stood there smirking like she'd been waiting centuries for this exact moment. Her silver eyes narrowed on you. And that smirk curved higher.
"And," she purred, voice sharp as a knife. "I remember you, girl"
A shiver crawled down your spine. You did too. Countless nights spent hidden behind the heavy velvet curtains of your mother's office, listening as she met with the small, terrifying female who had only been recently freed from the Prison.
They'd always spoken in low, urgent voices, sometimes too quiet for you to hear. But you'd felt Amren's ancient, lethal power even back then. You'd never forgotten those silver eyes, or the way they'd flicked toward your hiding spot, as if she'd known you were there the whole time.
"You were only a little mouse back then, who didn't know how to control your powers or your fae form" Amren murmured, tilting her head. "Seems you've grown into something far more... interesting."
Rhysand's hand slid lower down your back, warm and grounding, but you could feel the tension thrumming beneath his touch.
"Sit down, all of you" he said smoothly, guiding you toward the large, plush chair at the head of the room.
He sat first, sprawling in the high-backed chair like a lazy, arrogant cat, and then, with a flick of his fingers, he pulled you into the armchair. As if it was the most natural thing in the world. But you didn't even hesitate before settling against him, one leg casually draped over his thighs. His arm slid around your waist, fingers pressing into your hip, while his other hand rested on the arm of the chair.
The whole room went dead silent. Cassian's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, looking like he was about to blurt out “what the actual fuck”, but Azriel's scarred hand shot out, clamping over his mouth before he could say a word.
Amren's smirk only sharpened. Mor's golden eyes sparkled with barely-contained delight. Lucien looked entirely unsurprised, just a little bit pissed. And Feyre was still staring at you like she couldn't quite wrap her head around what was happening, but it was already better than the emotionless state she was trapped in Spring Court.
Rhysand's fingers lazily traced circles on your hip as he began to explain. “The power of the High Lords was never truly about bloodlines. The land itself always chose its rulers, based on worth, or destiny, or value, maybe even luck, is not set in birth.”
"Kallias, for example, isn't his father's firstborn," you murmured, picking up right where Rhysand left off. "Tarquin was chosen over his uncle. Rhysand's father was the first High Lord in his family. And it was supposed to be Keir leading the Night Court at the time, not him."
Rhysand's lips curved — almost like he couldn't help himself — at how seamlessly you fell into rhythm beside him.
You glanced at him. "You were saying?"
His violet eyes flicked down to your mouth, hunger flashing beneath the amusement, before he turned back to the others.
"It seems," he drawled, "Prythian has deemed her worthy. Probably after the sacrifice made in Under the Mountain.”
Amren's silver eyes flicked between the two of you — that knowing, ancient smile never fading. "That's not the whole story." Every head snapped toward her.
Rhysand's fingers stilled on your waist. "You've known about this," he said slowly.
"Not the whole scenario," Amren admitted, inspecting her nails. "But I did meet with your mother some time before she died."
Your heart clenched. "My mother?"
Amren's silver eyes cut toward you, sharp and gleaming. "Miss Enira started to feel the power growing in you very early on. She knew what you'd become long before anyone else did. She didn’t tell me the whole story but she was worried at the time."
Your stomach dropped. You had always suspected your mother knew more than she'd ever told you, about who you were, about the strange, flickering power you'd felt under your skin since you were a child. But she'd never said a word.
"Why—" Your voice caught. "Why didn't she tell me?"
Amren's mouth curved in that small, dangerous smile. "Perhaps she was waiting for the right moment."
Rhysand's fingers tightened slightly on your waist, but his touch stayed soft. That's what gave you the courage to ask something that had been gnawing at your chest for so long. "What was she doing in that carriage with Rhysand's mother and sister?"
The question hung heavy in the air. Amren's silver eyes flicked back to you, like she was weighing whether or not to tell you. "She was going to propose a marriage alliance."
Your heart stopped. "What?"
Rhysand went utterly still beneath you, as if even he hadn't known.
Amren's smirk sharpened. "If you'd ever come into your power, Enira planned to betroth you to Rhysand, to unite the future High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court, even before the title became yours."
Rhysand's hand clenched on your waist. And your mind went blank. You stared at Amren, heart pounding in your chest. "My mother was going to... marry me off? Without telling me?"
Amren only shrugged. "You would have been High Lady anyway. She was just making sure you wouldn't be killed in a power war. Your mother and Rhysand's mother were friends, and they felt the power growing in Rhys, but felt it in you too. It would be easier to have both of you ruling than make you fight for the position.”
You opened your mouth. Shut it again. Then turned to look at Rhysand. Who was blinking at Amren like he'd just been slapped.
"Your mother was there?"
"You didn't know?" You arched a dark brow.
Rhysand's jaw tightened, but you could see the flicker of pain behind his eyes. "No. My father said there was just the crew and a few soldiers traveling with them."
A long silence stretched through the room. Until Feyre's small, trembling voice broke it. "You—" She swallowed hard. "You said a carriage accident killed your family? What... what exactly happened?"
You froze. Your heart squeezing painfully at the question.
Even after all these years, the memories were still raw — still carved into the deepest parts of you. Rhysand's fingers pressed against your waist, like he could feel the way your heart had started racing. His violet eyes flicked to you, silently asking if you wanted to keep it a secret.
You gave the smallest shake. You couldn't speak. But it was his story too to tell. Rhysand's hand slowly slid into yours, fingers threading through your own, and squeezed.
Then he leaned forward slightly in his chair, his voice low and lethal as he finally began.
"It was supposed to be a simple meeting, my father said," he said softly. "My mother, my sister, and someone else were traveling to meet my father, they didn't go flying because of their guest.” His thumb traced over the back of your hand, steady, soothing, even as something dark flickered beneath the surface of his voice. "But someone... tipped off Tamlin's father." Lucien's sharp inhale was barely audible. "He always despised my father," Rhysand continued. "Despised the Night Court. He wanted an excuse to provoke a war, to weaken the rival courts that went against him during the war." His violet eyes glittered with cold fire. "And what better excuse than a blood feud?”
Your chest ached, because you'd heard the story before. You'd pieced it together in fragments over the centuries, whispered rumors and half-truths. But you'd never heard it like this. Never from him.
"They slaughtered the entire escort," Rhysand said quietly. "No warning. No mercy." His voice never wavered — but the hand in yours tightened like a vice. "They dragged my mother's body back to the Spring Court, as a message. They left my sister where she fell. But took her wings with them."
A cold shiver raced down your spine. You remembered. You remembered the day they'd found the wreckage and when a few guards took you to the place of the accident to recognize the body, you felt the scent of blood heavy in the air. You remembered your mother's body, cold and still in the back of the carriage. Your hands tugging at her dress, begging her to wake up. You were barely a hundred years old at the time, still a child for fae years.
Rhysand's voice stayed low — dangerously calm — but his power thrummed under every word. "My father wanted revenge. He planned to slaughter Tamlin's entire family in return, his wife, children, everyone he could find in the manor." Lucien flinched, his golden eye flicking toward the floor. "But I made him promise to spare the youngest son." Rhysand's gaze locked onto Feyre, and something cold passed between them. "I thought Tamlin was innocent."
You squeezed his hand — your heart aching at the quiet pain beneath those words. He'd also been so young back then, barely a hundred years older than you. Still clinging to the naive belief that mercy could break the cycle of violence. "I begged him to let Tamlin live," Rhysand murmured. "And in return... he became my enemy."
A heavy silence settled over the room —
Until Amren's soft, cutting voice broke it. "He betrayed you the second he got the chance.”
Rhysand's jaw clenched, but he didn't deny it. “He was the one who killed my father. From his back. Not just stupid but also a coward."
Cassian was seething pacing back and forth by the window, wings tucked tight to his back. Morrigan looked like she wanted to tear someone's throat out. And Azriel just stood perfectly still, shadows curling tighter around him, watching.
"But you—" Feyre's voice cracked. "You still would have let me marry him?"
Your throat closed up. Because you could hear the hurt behind her words. Rhysand glanced at you — letting you choose whether to answer. You leaned forward slowly, meeting Feyre's wide, shattered eyes.
"I would have let you marry anyone," you said softly. "If it made you happy."
Her eyes filled with tears. You saw the exact moment her heart cracked open what Tamlin had made her close during the last three months. When she realized everything you'd done, everything you'd sacrificed, was never out of resentment. Only love. For her.
A small, broken sound slipped from her throat. And before you could move, she was in your arms. You held on tight.
Burying your face in her hair as she whispered, "I'm so sorry."
"You have nothing to apologize for."
Rhysand's hand brushed over your spine, warm and steady. The bond between you thrummed softly, a low, golden thread weaving tighter around your heart. You could feel him there. Holding you both together. Even Amren's sharp, smirking mouth softened. Cassian's broad shoulders slumped. And Morrigan's eyes shone with something like sadness and understanding.
Rhysand's fingers tightened on your waist again. Like he was holding himself back from pulling you closer.
Cassian, never one to let a heavy moment linger, suddenly snorted. "Okay, great family reunion and all, but can someone please explain why Rhys is acting like this whole High Lady situation is totally normal? I mean, why are you so chill about this? Your power just got divided in half, shouldn't you be at least a little bit worried?"
Rhysand's smirk flicked back into place, lazy and smug as ever.
"Why would I be worried?" He glanced up at you, eyes glinting “Let's start with the fact that my power wasn’t divided in half. She just received more to herself. And, there's nothing for me to fear when she's my mate? She would be High Lady anyway, at least in title.” The whole room went deathly quiet. “Good to know Prythian agrees with me.”
Even Mor looked genuinely surprised for once. Azriel's shadows curled tighter around him, his hazel eyes going wide. Cassian's jaw dropped and his wings snapped open, nearly knocking over a lamp. Lucien's golden eye whirred as it locked onto you. And Feyre just whispered, "What the fuck?”
Rhysand only smirked. His thumb stroking lazy, burning circles over your hip. "It seems," he murmured silkily "Prythian made its ways long before either of us met."
Cassian looked back and forth between you two — Then groaned dramatically. "Of course she's your mate. That's just perfect. Now we have to deal with two of you."
Mor's cackle turned into a full-body wheezing fit. Azriel just kept blinking, like he genuinely couldn't process what was happening.
The room spun to you.
Mate.
High Lady.
Rhysand's mate.
Night Court's High Lady.
You didn't know whether to laugh, scream, or kiss him senseless.
But first, there was still one last truth hanging heavy in the air. One last secret waiting to be unearthed.
You glanced back at Amren, heart hammering in your chest.
"You said my mother knew I'd be High Lady." A pause. "And that she was waiting for the right moment."
Amren's silver eyes gleamed. "Yes."
You took a slow breath — "What... what was she waiting for?"
Amren's smirk sharpened —
And when she spoke, her words were soft. "For him to find you first, I guess."
Your heart stopped. And Rhysand's fingers curled possessively around you. Like he'd known the answer all along.
Mor was practically bubbling with happiness, her golden eyes bright as she all but vibrated in her seat, the exact opposite of Azriel, who sat perfectly still in his corner, shadows curled around his wings. Cassian leaned forward on the couch, arms slung lazily over his knees, but the wicked grin plastered on his face was crumbling down when he saw Mor's eyes looking at him as if she had won something.
"You knew about the bond this whole time?" he asked Mor, like the betrayal physically wounded him.
Mor just grinned wider, eyes flicking between you and Rhysand, a downright wicked glint in them. "Of course I knew. It was the first thing Rhys told me when he came back."
Cassian let out an indignant squawk. Azriel didn’t say a word, but the way his shadows curled a little tighter around him was answer enough.
"You told Mor before you told us?" Cassian pressed, gesturing wildly between him and Azriel.
"I wasn't going to tell anyone, if that makes you feel better," Rhysand said, voice utterly unbothered.
Mor only smirked. "He was very shocked and needed his favorite cousin to listen to him crying."
Cassian looked downright offended, his wings ruffling behind him. "Unbelievable."
"I figured it out too," Azriel muttered.
Everyone blinked at him. Even Rhysand.
"You did not," Cassian snapped.
Azriel's shadows shifted like they were smirking for him. "I did."
"When?" Azriel's hazel eyes flicked to you, calm, observant.
"The night Rhysand kept telling the stories of a crazy half-blood that kissed him in front of Amarantha." Your face flamed.
Cassian barked a laugh. "That was flirting! That doesn't mean anything!"
Azriel just raised a brow. "You don't speak of flirting the way Rhysand did, as if she was carrying his life in those moments unless there's something there."
Cassian's mouth opened and closed.Then he slowly leaned back on the couch, brow furrowing. "...Shit. Maybe you're right. Okay, I'm stupid, you guys can say that."
Mor laughed brightly, clapping her hands once. "Look at that! The Spymaster knows a thing or two about flirting after all."
Azriel shot her a flat look. You had to bite your lip to keep from smiling. It was... surreal, sitting here with all of them. Like you'd somehow stumbled into a family gathering you didn't even know you belonged to.
Your gaze flicked toward Feyre. But she was still watching Rhysand, eyes soft and shining. Thankful. It made something ache deep in your chest. You'd been running for so long. Hiding from yourself. Surviving for others. And now... Now you had people again.
"I suppose we should officially introduce ourselves," Mor said, beaming as if she'd been waiting for this moment. "I'm Morrigan. Rhysand's cousin, fourth in command, but I suppose I'm going back to third in command again if she is gonna be High Lady. Oh, and I'm also the one who's going to make sure you don't get too bored around here."
You blinked. Fourth in command. You glanced at Rhysand, raising a brow. He just gave you that lazy, smug grin, the one that said he'd been waiting for you to figure out what he was doing for you in his Court. Your Court.
Mor smirked, clearly reading the look on your face. "Don't worry, girl. You'll get used to him eventually."
Cassian snorted. "I'm Cassian. General Commander of the Night Court's armies, and the prettiest one here."
"And that's Azriel. Spymaster, shadowsinger, master of brooding, protector of the walls in parties and the reason your secrets are never really safe."
Azriel just inclined his head, calm, composed, like he hadn't just been thrown under the carpet. You couldn't help but smile. Because somehow, even with centuries of blood and war weighing on all of them, they still felt like family.
Lucien shifted in his chair, clearing his throat. "You already know who I am."
Mor's grin sharpened. "Oh, we know plenty about you, Lucien Vanserra."
Lucien's amber eye narrowed, but you caught the flicker of amusement buried beneath the suspicion.
Then everyone was looking at you. Waiting. Your throat tightened. You hadn't spoken your full story aloud in centuries. But Rhysand's thumb brushed over your knuckles, grounding you.
So you took a slow breath and began. "My name is Y/N Archeron," you said softly. "I was born half-blood. My mother, Enira, was... powerful in the Night Court, royalty like. My father was a human, I never knew his name. Only that his last name was Archeron." Feyre gave you a smile. Centuries of bloodline separated you but you were family. "My mother died... in the attack on the carriage." Your voice wavered, but you forced yourself to keep going. "I spent the next three centuries running. Hiding. Running to the continent. I thought... if I kept moving, maybe the grief wouldn't catch up." You swallowed hard. "But then I found Feyre, Nesta, and Elain. I hid as a human to help them." Your gaze flicked to Feyre. Her blue-gray eyes shining with quiet understanding. "And I would do it all over again if it meant keeping them safe. And you guys know the whole shitshow with Amarantha."
The room was utterly silent when you finished. Until Cassian muttered, "Shit, Rhys. She's already a better High Lady than you."
Rhysand's laugh rumbled through your chest, low and wicked. "I know."
Mor's grin practically split her face. "Oh, I am going to have so much fun with you."
You looked at Feyre, encouraging her. She cleaned her throat to get attention. “My name is Feyre Archeron. Hm… there's not much to tell, I barely lived in comparison to you. But my family lost everything when I was thirteen, so I started hunting to get money. I killed the wolf, Tamlin got me, and the whole thing with Amarantha happened. I died. I'm alive because of the High Lords… and that's it, I guess.
Even Azriel's shadows seemed to soften. “We're going to make sure you feel welcomed here, so you can live the rest of your life happily” She only gave him a soft smile.
Lucien cleared his throat then, but there was something softer in his gaze when he looked at you now.
"I hate to ruin the mood," he said carefully, "But I... I think I can trust you all. From what little I know of you."
Everyone sobered in an instant. Lucien's amber eye flicked toward Feyre, then back to Rhysand.
"Ianthe is working with Hybern." A heavy silence settled over the room. "And I think Tamlin is going to help them."
The floor seemed to drop out beneath you. Mor's breath caught, her hands clenching in her lap.
Rhysand's fingers went utterly still against your skin. But his power flickered like a midnight storm brewing beneath the surface.
"Are you certain?" Azriel asked quietly.
Lucien's throat bobbed. "Not certain. Not yet." His amber eye flicked to Feyre. And his voice was barely above a whisper when he added, "But I think... I think that's why he locked her up." Feyre went pale. “He was talking to Ianthe about how important it was to marry the Cursebreaker, so when the right time came, he would have the right to be the ruler. I just didn't understand of what.”
You couldn't stop the low growl that slipped from your throat. Your power stirring like it wanted to burn the Spring Court to the ground. Rhysand's thumb traced lazy circles over your knuckles, but his violet eyes were hard as steel.
"Thank you for telling us," he said softly.
Lucien nodded, looking more exhausted than you'd ever seen him. "I just want her safe."
Your heart was aching at the shattered look in Feyre's eyes. "We'll protect her," you said quietly.
All of them nodded. Even Azriel. Even Cassian. Even Mor. A family. Yours. At last.
“At least this one we are sure we're going to win.” Cassian mumbled suddenly. “What? We have a double threat here. Big advantage.” He said at Azriel's judgmental eyes.
AHA all I wrote is finishing guys 😭😭😭 I'll probably take longer to post now so forgive me
Aaaand how are we feeling about Feyre and Lucien? I have a few plans for them 🫦🫦🫦
Also, when i finished this chapter I was like DAMN this took a curve i wasn't exactly planning, so the song choice didn't matched the vibe of it... these songs are very important for my storytelling okay?
Warnings: Use of Y/N, ACOTAR rewrite, female main character, we are at 30% book following, we killed Amarantha but got Ianthe 🤢, a tiny little bit of longing, mentions of PTSD, mentions of SA, mentions of violence and abuse, just a tiny bit of Rhysie boo 😔👎
Whispers of Secrets and Starlight - Masterlist
Chapter 7: Tear
Alis had to physically step out of the way when you paced back and forth in your room for the twentieth time that morning.
"And then that fucking whore of Ianthe had the audacity to suggest red roses in the bouquet. Red roses! As if she doesn't know Feyre can't even handle seeing the color red!"
Alis clicked her tongue, folding one of your silk nightgowns with the calm of someone who definitely heard worse from you before. "And what did you suggest, then?"
You stopped mid-step, spinning to her with a scowl. "Not having the fucking wedding at all would be a good start. Or lilies. I like lilies."
Alis snorted, not even bothering to hide it anymore.
"But nooo," you went on, throwing your hands in the air, your voice dripping with your Night Court accent — not that you bothered hiding it anymore, everyone in Prythian knew exactly who you were, what you've done and where you are from. "Everything needs to be perfect, everything needs to be white, and pure, and fucking suffocating because Ianthe wants her little doll dressed up for the slaughter. And that fucking—"
Alis raised a brow. "Language."
You slammed your hands on the vanity table. "—Fucking dogshit Tamlin is doing absolutely nothing! That girl wakes up in the middle of the night, screaming, vomiting her guts out, and the bastard just keeps pretending he's asleep like the little coward whoreson he is."
Alis carefully stacked the folded gown, giving you the same unimpressed look she'd given you since you got in Spring Court for the first trailing mud through the kitchen in the manor. "It's not like you're helping either."
You snapped your head at her. "Excuse me?"
Alis crossed her arms, the corner of her mouth twitching. "You reject every idea Ianthe gives—"
"Because they're shit ideas."
"—You barge into Tamlin and Feyre's room every night like a banshee—"
"She's dying in there, Alis! And that shit piece of fuck pretends he can't hear it!"
Alis tilted her head. "And you think scaring Feyre up even more by screaming at him helps?" You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Okay, maybe she had a point.
Alis took advantage of your silence. "And let's not forget—" she gestured at your figure, pacing around the room in a deep violet dress, with black embroidery swirling down your puffy sleeves and neckline — your neckline that dipped just a little too low for Spring Court tastes, "—you insist on not wearing Spring Court attire."
You gaped at her, clutching your chest dramatically. "That's what this is about? You're siding with the nun there because of my dress code? I'm wearing a dress! It's not like I'm walking around naked!"
"Not yet." Your jaw dropped.
Alis smirked. You pointed a finger at her, pacing again. "I'm wearing this because these are the only damn colors that don't make me feel like I'm being suffocated. These are my homecourt colors, okay? I'm not gonna prance around in pastel fucking pinks while that devotional fucking whore bitch is out there planning a wedding that's more hers than Feyre's! I'm not the one losing my mind here, actually, they are the madman! You know what—"
You spun on your heels, marching straight for the closet, throwing open the doors.
"I'm wearing black every fucking day from now on. I'm wearing feathers and beads, and all the fucking Night Court slutty sparkles I can find, and if anyone has a problem with that, they can shove a whole bouquet of lilies up their—"
"Alright, enough." Alis clapped her hands once, sharp. You blinked at her. "You done?"
Your chest was heaving, the claws under your nails itching to break out, not that you'd let them, not after everything. Alis just gave you that same calm, deadpan look.
"You finished your tantrum, or should I bring some faerie wine so you can cry on the floor too?"
You glared at her. "You're lucky I love you."
Alis grinned. "I know."
You groaned, rubbing your hands down your face. "This whole place is driving me insane."
"I can see that." You flopped down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
For a moment, there was silence, the only sound the distant birdsong outside, the warm Spring breeze sneaking through the window.
Alis walked over, smoothing down your skirt — your purple skirt, embroidered with Night Court stars. "You always fought best when you didn't pretend to be something you're not."
You peeked at her through your fingers. "I don't even know who I am anymore."
Alis squeezed your knee. "You know exactly what you are, girl. You're too stubborn to be anything but yourself."
Her voice softened, full of the warmth you had always associated with home since you got here, you always thought Velaris would gain a lot of love if she ever decided to leave Spring.
"And they know it too, and are scared of it. That's why they keep trying to put you in a box."
You swallowed hard. A knock sounded at the door.
When you opened it, there was a package waiting on the floor, wrapped in black silk and tied with a single violet ribbon. No note. But you felt the brush of him — of Rhysand — against your mind the second your fingers touched the fabric.
“Just in case you wanted to piss them off a little more, little mouse.”
Your grin was wicked.
Alis sighed. "Pray to the Mother, child. You're going to burn this whole Court down."
You looked at the box, then back at her. And smiled. "That's the plan.”
☆
Alis was still nagging in that calm, irritating voice of hers.
"I'm just saying you should think a little bit before provoking Tamlin that way. You know the tithe—"
You whirled around so fast your skirt flared, your chest already heaving again. "Think? Think?! I need to think?!”
"Yes," Alis said, folding her arms like the smug little damn saint she was.
“I'm actually thinking a lot right now, Alis! I'm thinking about how I'm gonna rip off that stupid motherfucker's head and shove it down on Ianthe's a—"
A knock interrupted you. Sharp, quick. When you yanked the door open, already ready to start yelling at whoever it was, you saw him. Lucien stood there, pale as death. Your breath caught.
He looked like he hadn't slept in days. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was disheveled, and there was this haunted, broken look on his face — one you hadn't seen since Under the Mountain. Alis took one glance at him, muttered something about folding linens, and slipped away. You barely noticed.
"Lucien," you whispered, stepping aside to let him in.
He didn't even wait for you to close the door before he started pacing, running a shaking hand through his red hair. "I can't—I can't watch it anymore."
Your heart squeezed. "Feyre?"
He nodded, swallowing hard. "I—I miss her, you know?" His voice cracked, and your chest ached. "The girl that... that played cards with me by the fire. The girl that gossiped about Tamlin behind his back."
You blinked, surprised. "You two gossiped?"
Lucien let out a hollow, bitter laugh. "Every night. She used to tell me all the things she would do if she were High Lady, how she'd put you in charge of teaching the other females how to curse properly."
Your throat tightened. You remembered that girl too, the girl who smiled, who fought back, who was brave and sharp and full of fire. The girl who was gone. Trapped under cheap jewelry and stupid dresses.
Lucien's voice dropped to a whisper. "Even... even Under the Mountain... When she cried, I— I got to console her. I felt like I was helping somehow." His golden eye flicked to yours, shining. "But now... Now she just smiles and says she's fine."
You clenched your fists so hard your nails bit into your palms. Because you knew what kind of smile he was talking about. You'd seen it on your own face every time someone asked how you were after your mother died. The smile of the broken, she used to call it. The smile Tamlin was forcing onto Feyre's face every day.
Lucien's hands were shaking. "I tried to talk to him," he muttered, pacing again. "I tried to tell him we should postpone the wedding. Give her time to... to actually want it."
Your heart stopped. "And?"
Lucien's face twisted in something like shame. And when you reached out to pat his back, he winced.
The sound that left you was pure snarling fury. "Lucien." Your voice was deathly soft. "What happened?"
He didn't answer, just shrugged off his coat with jerky, angry movements, unbuttoning his shirt and turning his back to you. Your stomach dropped. Three long, red gashes marred the copper skin of his back, deep and still healing. Claw marks.
You barely realized you were shaking until Lucien glanced at you over his shoulder.
"He said—" Lucien's voice broke. He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. "He said: So you think she doesn't want to marry me? Why do you think she did all of that Under the Mountain for?"
Your blood turned to ice. You could already hear Tamlin's smug, lazy drawl echoing in your head. As if Feyre's sacrifice had been about him.
Lucien's jaw clenched, his hands fists at his sides. "I told him she did it because she has a good heart. Because she wanted to save everyone." His golden eye flicked to yours. "And then he—"
He didn't need to finish. Your vision blurred red. You turned away from him, pacing, your nails digging into your palms so hard your claws were already starting to push through.
"That shithead son of a bitch, I swear that I'll get him while he sleeps and I will—
Lucien just sank into the edge of your bed, running both hands down his face. "I hate him," he whispered, voice ragged. "I hate what he's doing to her. What he's making me… making us watch."
You froze. Then slowly, carefully, you walked over to him, pressing a cool, steady hand to his shoulder. Lucien flinched at first, as if the sensation you emanated was one too close to Tamlin's powerful one. But when he glanced up at you, you saw it there, in his lone golden eye. The same thing you saw every time you looked in the mirror lately. Rage.
You leaned in close, your voice a whisper against his ear. "I'm going to kill him one day."
Lucien's breath caught. His head snapped toward you, mouth half-open, like he'd expected you to be joking. You weren't. Not this time. Not after what he did to Feyre. Not after what he did to Lucien, the only one who ever fucking tried to help everyone around him.
Lucien's breath shuddered out. "I'm with you."
You squeezed his shoulder once.Then turned, marching straight to your closet. Alis had been right about one thing. You fought best when you didn't pretend to be something you weren't. And you weren't Spring Court. Could never be.
You grabbed the black velvet dress Rhysand had sent you weeks ago, throwing it over your head. It was simple, but its long sleeves clung to your arms, the plunging neckline showed exactly what you wanted to show. And its color was a bright, burning fuck you to everything this Court was trying to force down your throat. It was a funeral dress, and you were going to kill a High Lord.
Lucien watched you from the bed, his mouth slightly open. "What are you doing?"
You smoothed your skirts, adjusting the sheer panels that slashed down your thighs. "I'm going to the tithe." You flashed him a smile. Sharp. Predatory. "Someone needs to remind that fucked up bastard who he's dealing with.”
☆
The throne room was packed with fae of all shapes and sizes crowding the stone floor, some standing, others kneeling before the dais where Tamlin sat on that fucking oversized ugly throne of his. Feyre was perched on a little chair beside him — small, pale, a ghost in blue silk. Her spine was rigid, her face blank.
You felt something coil tight in your chest at the sight of her. Lucien's hand wrapped around your wrist before you could step inside. "You shouldn't be here," he hissed. "Tamlin prohibited you from participating in the tithe."
You wrenched free. "Let's see if he has the balls to shove me out of the room himself, then."
Lucien muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “stubborn danger eating girl”, but he followed you in anyway.
Tamlin's green eyes snapped to you the moment you stepped into view. They narrowed, but he said nothing. You smiled sweetly. Good. Because if he was waiting for you to bow or beg he'd be waiting a long fucking time.
You leaned against one of the marble columns lining the room, arms crossed, letting the flow of the tithe wash over you as you waited for the perfect moment to strike. One by one, the lesser fae came forward. And one by one, Tamlin robbed them blind.
It was the trembling water-wraith kneeling before him that finally snapped the last thread of your patience.
"I—I have no gold this month, my lord," she said, voice soft and lilting. "But if you give me more time—"
Tamlin's hand curled around the arm of his throne, claws slipping free. "You have no more time."
Your heart started pounding. Feyre didn't blink. Didn't move.
Tamlin's lips pulled back from his teeth. "You owe the Spring Court. Or you can pay with your life."
You launched off the column before you even realized what you were doing.
"Won't you pay to Feyre Cursebreaker for saving your life?"
The room froze. Every single pair of eyes snapped to you as you crossed the room, including Tamlin's. Lucien cursed under his breath as he followed you.
Feyre... Feyre blinked. It was the first reaction you'd seen from her all day.
Tamlin's head slowly turned in your direction, that low, dangerous growl rattling in his throat. "This is not your place."
"Maybe not." You strode forward, voice ringing through the room. "But if you're taking money from your own people when they have nothing left, then someone needs to say something to you."
Tamlin's eyes flashed. He stood, towering, golden, every inch the predator he wanted everyone to believe he was. "I am the High Lord of this Court," he snarled. "You are nothing here. You don't get to decide—"
"The tithe is going to be postponed," you snapped.
Gasps echoed through the room. Tamlin's power pressed down on you. Heavy. Suffocating. He used his High Lord voice — the one that made every fae bow, made every creature in this Court obey without question.
“Stay quiet and go back to your room, Y/N. And apologize to your High Lord for causing such shameful scene”
Your knees buckled. For a heartbeat, you almost... Almost apologized. Almost submitted. But something —
Something deep beneath your skin snapped. Not your own power. But the land itself. The earth beneath your feet. The air around you. It recoiled from him. It whispered to you. No.
You straightened and the pressure on your chest vanished. Tamlin's eyes widened.
"Postpone the tithe," you said again and the room seemed to listen. The walls seemed to breathe with your voice. The fae who'd been kneeling before Tamlin scrambled back, eyes wide. Lucien's mouth hung slightly open behind you, his golden eye flicking between you and Tamlin like he'd just realized he'd been serving the wrong master this entire time. Tamlin's nostrils flared.
"You dare—"
"I very much dare," you cut in, stepping closer. Your heart was hammering but you refused to let him see it. "You're a shitty High Lord, Tamlin. The first thing you do after the curse is lifted is take from your people instead of helping them rebuild?"
His claws sliced through the air. But they stopped halfway. You saw it happen. The way the command lodged in his throat. The way his own magic refused to move against you. The way the ground beneath your feet seemed to hum in approval.
The air was electric, like the entire room was holding its breath. Even Feyre's deadened eyes flicked to you. You leaned in close, voice dropping to a whisper only he could hear.
"I'm going to kill you. Did you hear me?" His breath caught. Your smile sharpened, dark and cold. "I'm gonna do it the same way I did to her." Tamlin staggered back. You bared your teeth. "Let me remind you what actually killed Amarantha, Tamlin. It wasn't Feyre's bravery. It wasn't me or my magic." Your voice was a knife, low and cutting. "It was her crown. And her belief that there was no one more powerful than her. It made her blind to the truth."
His green eyes flashed. "You can't—"
"I can. And I will if you give me the chance" You turned your back on him, your skirts sweeping behind you. "Feyre is indeed the Cursebreaker, since you like to remind everyone of that." You glanced over your shoulder. "But it would do you good to remember that I'm Y/N Queenslayer for a reason."
Tamlin's mouth opened… But no sound came out. He couldn't speak. Because you hadn't given him permission. The whole room was staring now.
“Go home, and take what you gave to him back. The tithe is cancelled for today.” Than you walked straight to Feyre, took her cold, limp hand in yours and led her out of that throne room like a goddamned queen escorting another.
Lucien fell into step beside you, still gaping.
The moment the doors off the throne room shut behind you, Feyre's breath caught. Like something had finally cracked open in her chest.
"You—" Lucien started, then shook his head, hair wild. "What the hell was that?"
You didn't look at him. You kept your arm steady around Feyre's trembling shoulders. "I don't know," you muttered.
But your heart was still pounding. Still buzzing with whatever the fuck had just happened. Whatever it was —
It had nothing to do with only you. It was the land itself. It was Prythian. It was the Night Court. As if the land was waiting. Watching. Finally starting to claim what had always been its own. What has been running away from it for the past hundreds of years.
☆
You dragged Feyre to her room — not forcefully, not harshly — but with a determination she hadn't seen from anyone in months. Her hand trembled in yours the whole way.
“You stay here, scream if Tamlin or that stupid nun show up in the corridor.” You told Lucien before you closed the door behind you, leading her to the bed.
She just stood there, her arms hanging limp at her sides, eyes glassy, her breathing shallow. You crouched before her, placing your hands gently on her knees.
"Feyre." No response. "Feyre, look at me."
Her eyes snapped to yours, wide, hollow... afraid. Your heart clenched.
"You're safe now. You're with me," you whispered.
A small, broken sound escaped from the back of her throat, like she didn't quite believe you. You squeezed her knees, grounding her.
"Talk to me, Fey." Her breathing hitched.
For a long moment, she didn't say anything. Then—
"I'm not sure I want to marry him." The confession came out in a hoarse whisper, as if the words had been rotting inside her for months.
Your heart stopped. Feyre's lip trembled. Her eyes filled with tears she hadn't allowed herself to shed.
"I'm not even sure I even love him."
The broken whisper nearly gutted you. Your hands clenched on her knees, nails biting into the fabric of her dress.
"He told me... that I fought for this. That I should be grateful for his protection. For his love." Her voice cracked. "Even when I didn't want to—"
She broke off, shaking her head. Your stomach plummeted. Your blood turned to ice.
"He made you?" you whispered, voice barely more than a growl.
Feyre's breath caught, her whole body going still. Like she hadn't even meant to say it out loud. Her silence was enough.
You felt something dark stir beneath your skin, something that tasted like blood and death and vengeance.
But Feyre —
Sweet, broken Feyre —
Just kept talking.
"As soon as the curse was broken and we came back... everything changed." Her voice was shaking, barely holding back sobs. "It wasn't... it wasn't always like that. Before Under the Mountain, he was... gentle. But even then, if I didn't want to do something, like walking in the manor, painting or talking to him, he would always find a way to convince me. But it wasn’t this aggressive."
Your nails bit deeper into her knees. It grounded her, reminded her you were there.
"He would say—" Feyre choked on a sob. "He would say things like... 'You're soon to be my wife, you should get used to it.' Or... 'You fought Amarantha for this, didn't you?'"
Her whole body crumpled. Like the weight of those words had finally broken her down. As if she just realized how bad and wrong her situation actually was. Your vision blurred with red. You wanted to rip him apart, claw by claw, bone by bone.
But then—
"I told Ianthe." The name made your stomach turn.
Your breath caught. "What?"
Feyre's face twisted with shame, her tears spilling freely now. "I told her... once. After… one of those nights. She said it was my duty as Lady of Spring. That one day, I'd understand his reasons."
Your mind went blank. You were going to slaughter them both. You were going to burn this entire fucking Court to the ground.
Feyre's hands clenched in the sheets beneath her, her whole body shaking. "I didn't tell you because..." Her voice cracked again. "Because I knew you'd kill him. And I didn't want more blood on your hands. Not because of me."
The words sliced through your heart, sharp, cruel. More blood on your hands. More death. As if she'd ever had to ask you to kill for her. As if you wouldn't have gladly bathed in Tamlin's blood if it meant she'd be free.
You rose to your feet. Seething. You turned for the door. Ready to tear him apart with your bare hands, but the moment your hand touched the knob every window, every door slammed shut.
Magic hummed through the walls. Feyre gasped behind you, her breathing turning shallow, panicked. Not again. Not the cells. Not Under the Mountain. You spun back around just as she pressed herself against the headboard, clutching the sheets like they'd keep her anchored.
Her chest was heaving. Her eyes were wild, wide. Panic blooming in every line of her body.
"Feyre." You knelt before her again, grabbing her wrists. "You're not alone in this. You weren't there and you aren't here"
She couldn't even look at you. Couldn't hear you through the storm raging in her mind. So you leaned closer.Your heart hammering against your ribs. And whispered:
"You have a way out."
Her breath caught. Her eyes flicked to yours — glazed, terrified.
"He can't stop you if you call out the bargain," you murmured, voice shaking with how true you knew those words to be. "All you have to do is say the words."
Her lips parted. But no sound came out. Come on, Feyre. Come on, sister. You squeezed her wrists harder.
"You know who's been watching. Who's been waiting."
Her breathing hitched. You clenched your jaw and reached deep into yourself, deeper than ever before, until you found that fragile little thread in the back of your mind. The one you'd refused to touch for months scared you would run to him if you felt the other side of the bond. Rhysand.
You sent a thought down the bond — frantic, desperate. Get ready. For a long, horrible moment, nothing happened. Then a soft, dark pulse answered back. Waiting. Always waiting for your command. Feyre's panic was rising, choking her, drowning her.
You grabbed her face between your hands, forcing her to look at you. "Say it, Feyre."
Her eyes locked onto yours. And for one breathless second, she knew. She saw exactly what you were offering her. Exactly what you were about to do.
Her lip trembled and a small voice came out, "I don't want to stay." The world seemed to shift around you. Her voice broke on the last word "I don't want to stay in the Spring Court anymore."
A gust of wind exploded through the room, darkness flooding in like a storm, and when the shadows cleared Rhysand was leaning casually against the wall. Dressed in all black, wings not in sight, violet eyes glinting with wicked amusement.
"Hello, darling."
Your heart lurched in your chest.
He looked at you. At both of you. And for a moment, the mask slipped just enough for you to see it, the relief. The fury. The sheer hatred radiated off him in waves as his gaze flicked to Feyre and saw how pale and sacred she was. His eyes narrowed at the faint bruises on her wrists. His smile sharpened.
Thinking yk FOR THE FAR FAAAAR future, do we want smut or can I do it like, with not so many details (not gonna leave you hanging just not very descriptive)
Also, I'm curious about how I'm gonna approach the rest of this 😔
Again, I've been writing this for WEEEKS but just now I started to build it in order and unite a scene with another, so don't be shocked I'm writing this fast (bc I'm not, it was already done hihi
Warnings: Use of Y/N, ACOTAR rewrite, female main character, Tamlin is not even here, we are at 20% book following, chatacter death, Amarantha still alive for a while, a tiny little bit of gore (not very detailed, but It's for the greater good), Rhysaaand 😝
Whispers of Secrets and Starlight - Masterlist
Chapter 6: The Chase
You couldn't sleep. The air in the cell was too heavy, thick with damp stone and fear and the promise of tomorrow.
You sat against the wall, knees tucked close to your chest, staring at the crack of faint torchlight beneath the door. Days had passed since the last ball — since Rhysand had kissed you senseless in some dark corridor, his body pressing yours against the cold stone, hands mapping every curve through your dress while the Court was distracting themselves with something else.
You could still feel the phantom imprint of his fingers on your waist. The ghost of his breath against your lips.
You didn't know what hurt more — the ache on your feet from staying so long on those shoes or the ache blooming deep in your chest. Would you ever feel him like that again? Would you ever see the way his violet eyes darkened when you whispered something in his ear — or hear the little growl that always slipped from him when you pressed your body against his under the guise of another dance?
You squeezed your eyes shut. If you let yourself think about tomorrow — about what would happen if Feyre and you failed — you'd start crying. And if you started crying, you didn't think you'd ever stop.
A soft rustle broke the silence. You opened your eyes to see Feyre sitting up across the cell, wrapped in that new blanket Rhysand got you days ago. Her face was pale in the dim light, hollowed out with exhaustion. But her blue-grey eyes were clear when they met yours.
"Can't sleep?” she whispered. You shook your head.
Feyre crawled across the cold stone floor, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself as she settled by your side, separated by some metal bars. She leaned her head to your side, inviting you to do the same, just like she used to back in that little cottage, when winter winds howled through the cracks in the walls and neither of you knew if there'd be enough money for the next day.
"I can't believe we're still alive," she murmured.
You huffed a laugh — soft, breathless. "I can't believe we've survived this long without killing each other."
Feyre's mouth curved. Silence stretched between you, it felt heavy, but not uncomfortable. You both clung to the warmth of each other.
After a long while, Feyre shifted against you. "You... you and Rhysand..."
Your stomach flipped, heat rushing to your cheeks. "What about us?"
Feyre's nose scrunched. "I see the way he looks at you."
You couldn't help it, a small, smug smile tugged at your lips. "And how about the way I look at him?"
Feyre made a disgusted little noise in the back of her throat. "Like you want to climb into his lap and never leave."
You laughed, covering your face with your hands — because she wasn't entirely wrong. "Gods, you have no idea."
Feyre peeked at you through your fingers, horrified. "You're actually enjoying this."
You bit your lip — heart pounding — as your mind flicked through every stolen moment you'd shared with him. "You weren't there the first time he kissed me away from people's eyes," you whispered, voice barely audible. "It was after that first ball... in one of the corridors when he was taking me back to change. He pushed me against the wall, I don't even remember what we talked, but suddenly there were hands in my hair, lips on my neck—"
"STOP." Feyre clapped her hands over her ears.
You grinned. "Or last week... when he dragged me onto that balcony, away from everyone, and made me sit on his lap the whole time—"
"I will literally throw myself into the Wyrm pit." You chuckled — but the sound died in your throat as the memories crashed into you.
His mouth on yours — hot and slow and desperate. His hands sliding up your thighs beneath the slit of one of those dresses he made you wear, his breath ragged against your ear as he murmured how dangerous this was, how much he hated you for making him want you this much.
You'd never been touched like that before — not in centuries. Not since the last time you'd let someone see who you truly were. And Rhys... He didn't even know the half of it.
You swallowed hard, staring at the wall across from you. "I don't know what I'm going to do if I never get to be with him again."
It was the first time you'd admitted it out loud — how deep he'd carved himself into you without even trying.
Feyre's face softened. "You... you really care about him."
You blinked fast — trying to chase away the burn behind your eyes. "I don't know what I feel. I just... When he is with me, I feel like I can breathe again. We don't even need to do anything, just him holding my hand, or being next to me… I don't know."
Feyre was quiet for a long time. Then she muttered, "That's disgusting."
You snorted, swiping at your eyes. "When I was your age, I thought the same thing."
Feyre stiffened slightly against the wall.
You felt her head lift, those sharp eyes narrowing in the dark. "Wait... how old are you?”
Your face dropped. You should've known she'd figure it out eventually with the little hints you'd let slip, the way you always seemed to know more about Prythian than you should.
You tried to play it off, shrugging casually. "Try to guess."
Feyre's brows furrowed. "Nesta always said you were twenty-eight... but if you're half-fae—" Her eyes widened. "Is it a lot?"
You bit your lip. "Depends on what you consider a lot."
Feyre squinted at you, trying to do the math. "Two hundred and something?"
You smirked. "Double it."
Her jaw actually dropped. "Four hundred—?"
"Four hundred and forty-six," you interrupted quietly.
The silence that followed was absolute. You could practically hear the gears turning in Feyre's head — all those years you'd spent playing the older cousin, the human distant family friend, when there were generations of Archerons between the two of you, and you were hiding the truth in plain sight.
Finally, she croaked, "That's… you look like you are less than thirty”
“Well, that's like thirties for faeries, so I think your guess is good?" You grinned. "Something like that."
Feyre's mouth opened, then closed. She stared at you for a long moment— And then both of you burst out laughing. You clung to each other, giggling uncontrollably into the quiet dark. It was half hysteria, half exhaustion, but it felt good. It felt like home.
When the laughter finally faded, Feyre wiped at her eyes. "All this time... you were always there. You could be free in your fae form but you were closed like a normal human, always looking out for me."
Your throat ached. "I'd do it a thousand times again."
Feyre's fingers curled around yours — small and warm. "I love you."
You blinked fast, squeezing her hand tight. "I love you too."
The silence stretched — softer this time. Eventually, Feyre whispered, "I'm scared I can't figure out the riddle."
You glanced down at her — at the fear flickering beneath her tired eyes. "It's okay."
"No, it's not." Her voice cracked. "If the last trial is worse than the others and I can't figure it out... we'll lose."
You shifted closer, pressing your forehead to hers. "We haven't lost yet."
Tears slipped down her cheeks — but she nodded. You held her until she fell asleep against your shoulder, both of you wrapped in the same thin hope, clinging to each other like you could keep the whole world from falling apart with just your hands.
Tomorrow would come. But tonight —
Tonight, you would just be two sisters, huddled together in the dark. Waiting for the dawn.
☆
The third trial began like a death sentence. Seven faeries on their knees, one from each court. Bound. Trembling. Innocent. You felt Feyre's panic like a blade against your ribs, slicing deeper with every heartbeat as Amarantha drew out the rules.
"Kill them." She showed you the blade. “This is your last challenge, half-breed.” You couldn't even feel the panic of her finding out.
Feyre was begging before the words even fully left the bitch's mouth, with her voice raw, hands clutching against the arms of the Attor that held her away. "Please, there has to be another way."
But there wasn't. Not unless she solved the riddle. Amarantha smirked, that twisted pointed crown glinting atop her head as she leaned forward on her throne.
"Would you like to hear the riddle again, girl? Since your little human brain seems so... lacking?"
Feyre's face crumpled. You could see the panic rising, feel it crashing through her mind. And something in your chest snapped.
Without thinking, you reached through the guards and grabbed her face. "Hey. Look at me."
Her wide, glassy eyes locked on yours. You squeezed her softly — steady, warm. The way you'd done a thousand times before, in that little cottage, when the world was cold and unfair and neither of you had anything but each other.
"Remember what I always told you, when you were growing up?" you whispered. Feyre's brow furrowed, breath hitching. "That... when all of your sisters were married off and we were left alone…" You brushed a kiss over her forehead, voice breaking. "You and I could do whatever we wanted to. Trust me just this one more time. I would do this for you a million times again."
Her lip wobbled. But then her brows knitted deeper, like something was tugging at the edges of her memory. Because that's not what you used to say. Feyre's eyes flicked over your face, searching, flickering, remembering.
“When all of your sisters are married off and we are left alone, I swear, Feyre, we will do whatever we desire.”
Your heart stopped. The room tilted, every breath turning sharp and electric. The Attor takes you away and shoves the blade in your hand. The first fae on the line started crying desperately. Feyre's eyes widened, her mouth parting as the pieces clicked into place.
"I can bind two souls or shatter them apart
A weapon, a blessing, a cage for the heart
I bloom in silence, yet scream when denied
What am I, when truth cannot hide?"
Feyre's desire to survive and save Tamlin was a weapon against the curse. Your desire to defy fate and save Rhysand was a blessing given by the Cauldron. And Amarantha's twisted desire for power was a cage for the numerous hearts that tried to be free.
"The answer... the answer is desire." Feyre said suddenly, looking at Amarantha’s face while shock ripped through her.
And then it all happened in a heartbeat. The curse physically shattered as the magic ripped through the air like a silent scream.
For one precious second, everything paused.
Feyre turned to you, her face breaking into something wild and disbelieving and happy. She was going to run to you. You could see it happening, her feet stepping forward, arms outstretched, eyes shining with the promise of survival. But then Amarantha moved. It was like watching the world crack open in slow motion.
The High Queen lunged from her throne, her shadow swallowing Feyre whole. And before you could even scream there was a sickening snap. Feyre crumpled to the ground lifeless. Blood pooling beneath her golden-brown hair. The scream that ripped from your throat didn't sound like it belonged to you.
It sounded ancient — something buried so deep in your bones that you'd forgotten it existed. The sound of your true self waking up after three hundred years you spent running away from your truth. Amarantha was saying something — laughing, gloating — but you couldn't hear her. You couldn't hear anything over the pounding of your own blood in your head. Over the roar rising inside you.
All you could see was Feyre's body on the floor, the little girl you'd sworn to protect, the only piece of your heart you'd ever let yourself keep. Dead. And something inside you broke open. Power surged through you, burning ancient and terrible. You felt your bones stretching, your heart splintering wide, and felt the world tilt as three hundred years of buried magic snapped its leash. You hadn't just been hiding your power all these centuries. It had been growing. And now nothing was holding it back.
You barely registered your own body shifting — your nails sharpening into claws, your vision sharpening to pure, predatory focus. Your skin shimmered with the deep, starless darkness of the Night Court.
But it was the wings that made the room fall silent. Not the delicate, membranous wings of lesser faeries. These were something close to Illyrian wings. Dark and curved and lethal. Amarantha's smile faltered.
"What are you?" she whispered.
You smiled, sharp and slow and full of teeth. "Your nightmare."
And then you were moving.
You hit her like a storm — shadows exploding from your hands, slashing through the air. You were everywhere at once, a whisper of black mist, a flicker of claws, a blur of ancient power that had been asleep for far too long. Amarantha screamed, clawing at the shadows ripping into her flesh. But you were faster. You fell on top of her on the stars that took to her false throne. A throne that tried to resemble the grandness of the one in the Hewncity, your home.
You took the spiked crown that fell from her head, you looked at her desperate eyes while she tried to free herself from the magic that tied her body to the ground. You saw her eyes begging for a quick death. But when Feyre begged she didn't listen. So you grabbed a handful of her hair and wrenched her head against her own crown — pushing it until it reached her skull.
For Lucien, who lost his eye years ago when trying to bargain, you slammed her face down onto the jagged metal.
For your cousin, your sister in your heart, who had endured too much of her games, you slammed her again holding for a few seconds.
For every faerie who had died under this mountain, the crown reshaped and grasped her skull.
For Rhysand, who had bled and suffered in silence to keep everyone in his home alive and secure, you slammed her head against the steps of the stair.
For your best friend and your mom, who died three hundred years ago because of the consequences of a war none of them participated in and the broken ego of stupid males who were lured by Amarantha, you clawed her neck and ripped it open.
For you, the girl who had buried herself in grief for hundreds of years and forgotten how it felt to be free, you threw her severed head on the other side of the room.
By the time you finally stopped — gasping, shaking, hands slick with her blood — Amarantha's body was nothing but a broken, mangled heap. The mountain was silent. No one dared move. No one dared breathe.
Except for Rhysand. He got closer behind her body, staring at you like he'd never seen anything so beautiful and so terrible in his entire life. And through the bond snapping wide open between your souls, through the shock and the awe and the soul-deep ache all you felt from him was pride and relief.
You staggered back from Amarantha's corpse, chest heaving, power still crackling in your blood. You slowly came down from that beast form to your normal fae body. But all you felt was our heart breaking.
Your heart was breaking—
Because Feyre was still dead. You dropped to your knees beside her, shaking hands brushing over her hair, her cold cheeks.
All you could see was her. Your cousin. Your little shadow. Your sister in every way that mattered. Lying there on the ground, her neck bent at a horrible angle. Eyes wide open. Empty.
No.
No, no, no—
Someone was screaming. It took you too long to realize the sound was coming from your own throat. You were shaking. Gasping.
The world was still spinning from the aftermath of your magic — that ancient, night-court darkness you'd unleashed on Amarantha. But it hadn't been enough. You'd ripped that bitch apart, you'd smashed her skull into her own crown, separated her head from her body. And it still hadn't been enough. Feyre was dead.
A hand touched your shoulder, tentative, cautious. Lucien. His face was pale beneath the blood and dirt, that ruined eye flicking between you and Feyre's body.
"We... we have to—"
"No." The word was a snarl, ripped from your throat — sharper than any blade.
His hand jerked back like you'd burned him. You couldn't look away from her.
You couldn't breathe around the crushing weight in your chest. "Please," you whispered. "Please, don't leave me."
And then Rhysand was there, dropping to his knees on your side. His face was pale, his hands shaking, but his fingers closed around yours.
He squeezed.
"We're going to fix this," he whispered. "We're going to fix this, little mouse, I promise."
You clung to him, sobbing into his chest as the other High Lords began to rise.
And through the glowing bond between your souls, through the grief and the pain and the blood still drying on your hands — you felt his voice echo deep inside you.
"You're free now."
"There must be something—" The voice was deep, rough — Tamlin.
You didn't even glance at him. But the others — the High Lords — were already looking at each other, their faces pale and drawn. You saw it in their eyes before any of them spoke. Hope. Desperation. Relief. The quiet knowledge of what could be done, but only if they all agreed.
Your heart lurched. "Please do it."
Tamlin looked at you as if it was the first time, horrified by the way you looked.
"Do it." You snarled again, turning to look at all of them. You felt Rhysand's body go rigid by the desperation in your voice. If they didn't agree you know he would invade all of their minds and make them do it for you.
"She's one of us now. She saved our lives. And I will not let her die." They hesitated. Of course, they did. Because this wasn't done. This shouldn't be done. A mortal girl — a human — Turned into High Fae.
But you saw it, the flicker of guilt in Tamlin's eyes. The grief on Lucien's face. The exhaustion in Rhysand's. He was the first to step forward.
He knelt by Feyre's side, fingers brushing her cold hand, so gentle it made something in your chest crack wide open. A curl of midnight power whispered from his fingertips, sinking into her still body.
Then Helion.
Then Kallias.
Then Thesan.
One by one, the High Lords approached, each of them pressing the smallest seed of their power into her heart. You watched as it shimmered beneath her skin, tiny fragments of power blooming in her veins. Still not enough. Not enough.
You surged forward, barely aware of your own movements, until you were crouched at her other side, your hands framing her face. "Come back." Your voice was barely a breath, ragged and breaking. "You hear me, Feyre? You come back to me. Like when we were hunting, you remember? I would let you go away from me but you had to come back."
Your magic flickered — that old, buried night-court darkness rising in your blood. Ancient and feral. You'd hidden it for so long. Buried it so deep you'd almost forgotten it was there.
But now you called it — letting it pool in your palms, letting it pour into her along with the power of the High Lords. "You can't leave me."*
A crack — so faint you almost missed it — echoed through the bond between you and Rhysand. And then—
Her chest rose. A shallow, broken breath. A choked sob wrenched from your throat. Her eyelids fluttered, just barely.
"Feyre?" Another breath. A little stronger this time. Her fingers twitched beneath yours.
And then those blue-gray eyes opened, glazed and unfocused, but alive. You collapsed against her, sobbing into her hair.
Her voice was barely more than a whisper, broken and slurred. "We did it... right?"
You choked on a laugh, half-hysterical, half-sobbing, pressing your forehead against hers.
"Yeah." Your voice cracked. "We did."
Her eyes flicked to yours. But she smiled. And something inside you, something that had been broken for three hundred years, finally, finally began to heal.
☆
You didn't know how long you stayed like that, clinging to her hand, listening to the fragile rise and fall of her breathing. It was Lucien who finally peeled you away, murmuring something about needing to rest, needing to clean up.
You barely remembered the room they brought you to. You barely remembered stripping off your blood-soaked clothes or scrubbing yourself raw in the cracked marble basin. You scrubbed at your hands until your skin was raw. The copper scent of her blood wouldn't leave, no matter how hard you tried. It was under your nails, buried deep in the creases of your palms. Amarantha's blood. Your own blood. The weight of every life you'd taken in your years alive.
You'd killed her. You'd ripped her apart with your bare hands. And you hadn't regretted a single second of it. But now… now the rage had burned itself out, leaving only the cold, hollow ache beneath. Your claws were gone. Your wings were gone. You looked like yourself again, only... brighter. Sharper.
Your reflection in the basin flickered, catching on the faint, shimmering glow beneath your skin. Still hald-blooded, but fae. After years of hiding. After years of pretending… You didn't have to pretend anymore. You were free.
A knock sounded at the door. You flinched, heart leaping to your throat, but when the faerie servant stepped in, she carried only a small bundle of clothes.
"I thought you might want to change," she murmured.
She laid the garments on the bed and slipped out without another word. For a long moment, you just stood there, staring at the two dresses neatly folded side by side.
One was soft green — light, airy, stitched with delicate gold thread. Spring Court.
The other was midnight black — simple and elegant, with glimmers of silver at the cuffs. Night Court.
You swallowed hard. You didn't even realize you'd reached for the black one until it was already slipping over your skin, the cool fabric clinging to your still-damp body like a second shadow. It fit perfectly.
☆
Feyre was still sleeping when you found her. Lucien sat by her bedside, his russet eye flicking to you the second you entered.
He looked like hell — bruised, filthy, still healing. But the way he looked at Feyre… You'd never seen so much relief on his face. In the years you shared together as friends when you were running away from your court you never saw him so focused on someone else.
He didn't say a word as you crossed the room, pressing a soft kiss to her brow. Her breathing was steady. Alive.
"We did it, right?” Her voice was barely more than a breath at the moment.
Your throat closed.
"Yeah," you whispered. "We did."
Lucien's eye stayed locked on you the whole time.
"You can go, let the stress run out," he murmured. "I'll watch her."
The mating bond was pulling, taut, and relentless now that it was recognized, it was dragging at something deep in your soul. He was waiting for you. So you thanked Lucien and followed that golden thread.
☆
The balcony was half-shattered from the years of poor use, marble cracked, the railing crumbled, but Rhysand stood at the edge like he barely noticed. He was in full High Lord regalia after the meeting, black, silver, night-dark suit. But his wings were out, spread wide behind him, catching the cold breeze. You didn't think he'd ever looked more beautiful.
His head turned the second you stepped through the archway, those violet eyes locking onto you, tracing every inch of you in that black dress.
The bond sang between you, sharp and bright and undeniable now.
You knew.
He knew.
And both knew that the other knew too.
But neither of you said it. Not yet. Instead, he smiled, soft and tired, the kind of smile that felt like slipping into warm water after too many frozen nights. "You clean up nicely."
You huffed a quiet laugh, coming to stand beside him at the edge. "You don't."
He chuckled under his breath, low and rough. But then his gaze swept over the broken landscape, the ruins of what the time Under the Mountain did to the outside world stretching out beneath the night sky.
"Are you going to fly home?" you asked softly.
You glanced at his wings, those beautiful, powerful wings he'd kept hidden for so long.
"I would." He exhaled slowly. "If I wasn't so damn anxious to see my family again."
Your heart squeezed — because fuck— you wanted to go with him. You wanted to see Velaris again. You wanted to stand on Sidra's shores and feel the sun on your face one more time. You wanted to walk through the Moonstone Palace and watch him light every corner with his power. You wanted to go home.
But...
"I can't leave Feyre." His face softened. You stared out at the wreckage, hands curling over the crumbling ledge. "There's still so much to teach her. So many people to help. I need to make sure she is making the right decisions for herself."
Rhys nodded, like he'd already known you'd say that. And of course he had, he, better than anyone, understood the necessity of sacrificing your own happiness to protect the ones you love.
He was quiet for a long moment, then reached out slowly, brushing his fingers over yours on the stone. "I trust you."
Your breath caught. "You do?"
"I always have." He turned fully toward you then — dark and regal and endlessly patient, even when the bond between you was screaming to be claimed. "Take whatever time you need."
Your chest ached, because you could feel the weight of those words. The choice he was giving you.
The choice he'd always give you. "And if I don't come?" you whispered.
His mouth curved, soft and secretive. "Then I'll call in that bargain your cousin made and drag you back home."
Your breath caught a laugh, and his side of the bond thrummed at the sound of it. But there was no malice in his voice. Only warmth. Only hope. You didn't even realize you'd moved until his hand was sliding up your cheek, until his thumb was brushing the corner of your mouth.
You leaned into him, into the quiet strength of him, and let your eyes flutter shut as he dipped his head. This kiss was slower. Softer. Like a promise whispered between two souls who had already waited too long. You felt him shudder against you, felt the way his fingers clenched in your hair, the faint tremor in his wings as they curved around you.
He pulled away first, pressing his forehead to yours. "Come home to me."
Your throat closed around the words that tried to rise “I will.” You whispered, touching your nose to his, breathing the same air as him.
But not yet. Not yet.
Instead, you pressed one last kiss to his mouth, lingering, aching, and whispered “I can't wait to fall in love with you.”
He smiled at you with so much hope you could barely handle it. “I already did” was the last thing he said before vanishing in his shadows.
And the whole time you stayed in Feyre’s bedroom, the whole time you watched her heal and pack her few things to go back to Spring Court, you felt that bond pulsing steadily in your chest. Waiting for him. Calling you home.
Plss talk to me guys 😭😭 I love reading and answering comments, it's literally the joy of publishing here 🫶🏻
Also, I don't know why but there are people I can't tag (someone help 😭😭
Warnings: Use of Y/N, ACOTAR rewrite, female main character, Tamlin is getting worse, not 100% book following, a bigger level of degradation (not on the good side), Amarantha still alive 🤢, a tiny little bit of gore (the wyrm yk?), Rhysand 🔥
Whispers of Secrets and Starlight - Masterlist
Chapter 5: To Ashes and Blood
Amarantha leaned lazily against her throne, a smile that made your stomach turn curving her blood-red lips. The crowd around her murmured, the scent of sweat and fear thick in the air.
You stood shoulder to shoulder with Feyre, shackles releasing the grip in your wrists, your heart a steady drum in your chest. You could feel him nearby. Rhysand was still lounging at Amarantha’s side like he couldn’t care less about any of this, but now he was way more free, further away from here. His violet eyes flicked to you once—just once—before returning to the show. A silent reminder. He was watching.
Amarantha tapped a long, curved nail against her throne. "Before we begin..." Her voice slithered through the room, echoing off the stone walls. "There is one little detail to attend to." She smiled—all teeth and venom. "The riddle. I will say it once, and later you can ask anyone to repeat it, if you want. I heard once that the more you repeat it makes less sense, so feel free to do it.” The Attor laughed at the side of the room, as amused as her. “Ready?”
"I can bind two souls or shatter them apart
I am a weapon, a blessing, a cage for the heart
I bloom in silence, yet scream when denied
What am I, when truth cannot hide?”
Feyre's breath caught beside you. Of course. The riddle. The cursed loophole that could end this nightmare without a drop of blood spilled. You knew the answer. You knew the moment she'd spoken it. But Amarantha's eyes flicked to you—like she could see right inside your head.
"I see that little brain of yours turning, human." Her smile widened. "But I'm afraid you'll have to bite your tongue."
Your shackles clinked as your fists curled.
"One rule," Amarantha purred, rising slowly from her throne. "Feyre is the only one who will answer the riddle."
Feyre flinched at the sound of her own name.
"And you"—Amarantha's gaze sliced back to you—"will have to be the one to strike the final blow in each trial."
The breath caught in your throat. "What?" Feyre whispered.
Amarantha grinned like a cat playing with its prey. "Did you really think I'd let you both come here with... the same odds?" Her eyes glittered. "One of you will need to be the brains, the other... will need luck."
The shackles around your wrists felt heavier.
"If Feyre solves the riddle before the final trial, you both walk free," Amarantha continued smoothly. "But if she fails, you will both bleed for me."
Your heart slammed against your ribs. The crowd was silent. Rhysand hadn't moved an inch—but you felt him watching.
"Am I understood?" There was no choice.
"Yes," you said flatly.
Feyre's head whipped toward you, panic flaring in her eyes. "Y/N—"
"Yes," you repeated, louder this time.
Because if you refused—Amarantha would find a way to kill you both instead. You knew it.
"Do you want to give it a try, little rat?” Feyre didn’t answer, she clearly had no idea of the answer. Amarantha's grin spread wider. "Wonderful." She clapped her hands, the sound cracking through the room. "Take them to the arena."
☆
The guards seized you both, yanking you toward the iron doors. You barely heard Feyre's frantic whispers as they dragged you through the corridors—
“What are you doing? Why would you agree to that?”
Because there was no other way. Because you'd rather spill anyone's blood but hers. Because Amarantha wanted to break you both—and she didn't realize she'd only given you a weapon to survive. Your own hatred. Your own rage.
And somewhere in the shadows, Rhysand's voice echoed through your mind—soft, amused, and entirely too calm.
“I can't wait to see what you'll do today, little mouse.”
☆
The iron gates screeched open. Blinding sunlight that you have been deprived of in the last days. Roaring crowds that almost made you deaf with how loud they were. The arena stretched out before you, a pit of bloodstained sand and jagged rock. Feyre's breathing turned sharp, shallow. You reached out, catching her trembling hand in yours.
"I'll fight for you," you whispered. “We'll fight together and win.”
Her blue-gray eyes snapped to yours, wide with fear. "But who's going to fight for us?"
You just smiled. Because you already knew the answer. Violet eyes burned into your back from the shadows above.
The crowd roared around the arena, a cacophony of cruel laughter and hungry whispers echoing off the stone walls. The Middengard Wyrm suddenly slithered through the trenches of the labyrinth, its putrid breath carrying the scent of death and rot. Feyre trembled beside you, her eyes wide and fixed on the looming beast.
You, on the other hand, couldn't stop grinning.
"Oh, she's beautiful, don't you think?" you mused, almost breathless.
Feyre's head snapped toward you like you'd lost your mind—and maybe you had. "Are you out of your godsdamned mind?" she hissed.
"Possibly." You crouched low, scanning the maze's layout. "But if we're going to die, at least let me enjoy the scenery."
Feyre looked like she was about to strangle you—if the Wyrm didn't get there first. The crowd above shrieked with laughter as the beast's massive, scaled body slithered closer, sniffing the air.
Amarantha leaned forward on her throne, golden eyes narrowed. "What is wrong with that one?" she muttered, half to herself.
Rhysand smirked from her side, swirling his goblet lazily. "Perhaps she's just having fun."
Amarantha's gaze flicked to him, then back to you.
The Wyrm's guttural growl echoed through the arena. You grabbed Feyre's wrist, dragging her behind a mound of rubble.
"Listen to me," you whispered urgently. "It's blind. It hunts by scent, not sight."
Feyre's breath was ragged. "How do you know that?"
You grinned wider. "I met one of those before."
The Wyrm's massive body crashed into the walls behind you, sending stone flying. Feyre flinched, but you only laughed.
Laughing. Like you were at some godsdamned festival instead of a death pit. Bets started to be made—loud calls from the crowd above.
"They'll last two minutes."
"One, if the beast is hungry."
"Three, if the older one is as mad as she looks."
Amarantha's lip curled. Rhysand swirled his wine, eyes fixed on you with open amusement.
"I'll take that bet."
Amarantha blinked, then smiled cruelly. "What?"
"I bet they survive."
The Queen of Prythian leaned back, eyes narrowing.
"And why would you waste your money on such stupidity?"
Down in the pit, you crouched lower in one of the hollow points in the wall, still grinning like a lunatic.
"Okay, Feyre, you're going to make a trap for that thing."
Feyre gaped at you like you'd grown a second head. "A trap?"
"Yes, you're smart—you can figure it out. Cover yourself in the mud, so you don't smell and make your magic."
"I can't—"
"You can," you snapped, eyes locked on the beast. "Dig. Now."
The Wyrm let out another earth-shaking growl, sniffing the air. Feyre's hands started clawing at the dirt—clumsy, desperate.
You stood out in the open, arms crossed, whistling. The Wyrm's head snapped toward the sound.
"Y/N!" Feyre gasped.
"Shhh," you grinned. "I'm flirting."
The crowd howled. Rhysand's laughter echoed through the arena—low and rich.
You paced slowly along the edge of the trench, clicking your tongue.
"Here, wyrmy wyrmy wyrmy..."
The beast lunged—and you bolted, barely dodging as its massive jaws snapped shut behind you.
"You are insane," Feyre screamed at you, still digging.
"You should try it—might make you more fun."
Minute after minute passed. The crowd was having the time of their life, apparently. Bets doubled. Tripled. Amarantha's smile began to falter the longer you could run from that thing without getting tired. The hole Feyre was making grew deeper by the second. The Wyrm circled, its forked tongue flicking out, scenting the air—but every time it got close, you darted just out of reach, laughing breathlessly.
Feyre's hands were raw, bloodied—but the pit was nearly finished. When it was ready, you sprinted in front of the Wyrm one last time, your voice ringing through the arena:
"You've been a lovely audience!"
And then you jumped inside of the hole, landing on your knees as pointed at the biggest and sharpest bone you could find while you ran in the labyrinth. The Wyrm lunged straight into the hole—straight into you.
Silence.
Then your singing voice while you climbed out through the beast's body. "VICTORY IS MIIIIIIINE—"
Feyre clamped a bloody hand over your mouth, her breath heaving. "You're going to get us killed."
You licked her palm. She yanked her hand away with a curse. “By the gods, what is your problem?”
Up on the dais, Amarantha's face was a mask of rage. The crowd had fallen into stunned silence. Only one person was clapping. A slow, deliberate sound. Rhysand. He got closer to the railing then, violet eyes locked on yours, a secret smile playing on his lips.
"I believe that means I win."
You pushed to your feet, brushing dirt from your torn clothes. With the most mocking, exaggerated bow you could muster, you turned to Rhysand. "My lord."
His smile sharpened as he raised his goblet of wine to you. "My lady."
It was the last thing you saw before the Attor's fist collided with the back of your skull. Pain exploded behind your eyes. The world tilted. Feyre screamed. Another blow—this time to your ribs—sent you crumpling to the ground. The Attor's claws wrapped around your arm, twisting until something in your shoulder snapped. You bit down on your own scream, tasting blood.
"Just to remind you, this game isn't fair," Amarantha's voice rang out coldly.
The Attor wrenched your arm harder. "Her Majesty is unhappy with the outcome."
You gritted your teeth, blinking through the pain. Feyre was screaming—fighting—but the guards held her back.
You spat blood onto the sand, then smiled through crimson teeth. "Oh, but you should see how happy I am." The Attor punched you again.
The last thing you saw before the darkness took you was Rhysand, still watching, still smiling. Still betting on you.
☆
When you woke up, the first thing you felt was the searing pain in your shoulder, radiating down your arm. Your mind was foggy, almost like you were trapped underwater, catching only bits and pieces of the conversation echoing from somewhere nearby.
"Bargain..."
"One month..."
"Healing…"
"Helping both at the trials..."
"Keeping me company during Amarantha's balls..."
The sound of his voice — that voice — made something flicker inside you, drawing you closer to the surface.
"Since your cousin set me free from Amarantha's control... I have a lot of free time now that I don't need to entertain Your Majesty anymore."
Your eyes snapped open, the cell spinning around you. Rhysand. That bastard.
You tried to sit up, but the sharp pull in your shoulder made you hiss in pain. Your arm hung at a wrong angle, still bleeding — your healing magic had been locked away while you were unconscious.
Before you could even think about fixing it yourself, darkness curled through the cell like smoke, and in a blink, Rhysand was crouching beside you — that same amused smirk tugging at his lips.
He leaned close, voice a low purr only for your ears. "Easy, you little menace... I'm only here to help."
His voice was softer than you'd ever heard him speak — not the mocking, wicked tone he used with everyone else. It pissed you off instantly. Your mind bolted awake, ignoring the pain as you sat up and glared at him.
"Really? My cousin?" you rasped. You looked at Feyre with as much indignation as you could. "You made a bargain without my supervision? I'm unconscious for what… five fucking minutes? And you're out here selling your soul to the prettiest male with powers?
Feyre, standing on the other side of the cell, looked utterly baffled — probably still dizzy from seeing all of the blood loss and the whole selling-her-life-to-the-High-Lord-of-the-Night-Court thing.
"You were going to die if he didn't help you!" she snapped.
You just scoffed, rolling your eyes even as your vision blurred. "I would’ve been fine if you just gave me time to wake up."
You called for your magic — clawing at that deep well inside you — and the familiar spark flared to life. It slithered beneath your skin, washing away the lingering fog. Rhysand's hand was still on your good shoulder, fingers light — but when your magic pushed out against his touch, something flickered in his violet eyes. You didn't give him time to question it.
With one sharp yank, you snapped your shoulder back into place. Pain lanced through you, but the broken bones began knitting back together almost instantly — skin sealing, bruises fading, blood drying.
“We have a lot of lack of trust here. Next time you wait for me.” You said to Feyre, out of breath from the amount of effort.
On the other side, Rhysand's eyebrows lifted. "You're... half-fae."
You deadpanned him, panting. "No shit."
His smirk grew wider — like you'd just handed him the most delicious little secret on a silver platter.
Feyre blinked at both of you, still pale.
"Wait— what?"
You flicked the rest of mud off your filthy clothes, feeling your old hometown accent slip from your tongue as your control started to fray.
"Oh, don't look so shocked, cousin. It was pretty clear that faes have healing abilities. You knew that! I told you!" You tested your shoulder, rotating it a few times before shooting Rhysand a glare. "And you too! The hell? Honestly, I've been locked up in that miserable Spring Court for months, pretending to be a sweet little human that knows nothing and does nothing, hoping for the day I could end this misery! There were perfectly good Courts out there with wine, silk sheets, and males who actually know how to speak like civilized beings. But no! It had to be Spring! So apologies if I am really pissed off that you just tricked my favorite cousin into a bargain that I have no idea what is while I was suffering the consequences of being a nice person for once."
Rhysand laughed softly — a low, decadent sound that sent heat curling through your stomach. "You're from the Night Court."
You flashed him a grin, letting your accent slip even thicker. "No shit."
Feyre's mouth fell open. "You're from the Night Court?!"
You deadpanned her. "What gave it away, smartass?"
"... The accent?" she mumbled, absolutely lost.
Rhysand's smirk grew even sharper, his violet eyes gleaming. "I could get used to having you both around.”
You shot him a dirty gesture. "But don't get too excited, darling, you won't get good guy treatment, you’re still the second prettiest male I've ever met."
His grin turned positively wicked. "Who's the first?"
You leaned heavily against him, using his arm to push yourself to your feet. "Haven't met him yet."
His low chuckle curled around your ribs — but you ignored the way it made your knees weak. Instead, you glared between the two of you, absolutely done with both your shit.
"Would one of you explain what bargain Feyre, and consequently I, just agreed to before I throw myself off the first cliff I find?"
You straightened your filthy clothes, flicking a bit of dirt from your sleeve like you weren't still half-dead.
"So, let's say I was desperate and thought you were going to die. And then I sold my soul to him for two weeks per month for eternity to live in the Night Court and apparently, we're his new party decorations."
Rhysand smirked wider, reeking of satisfaction. "I do love a good deal like this one. It's fair."
“I mean, he's going to help us in the next trials too… I'm not sure how, but It's in the deal so…” Feyre kept talking, unsure of your reaction. So you shot a smile to her and turned to Rhysand, a death glare in your eyes.
"Then let's hope you got a lot of patience left, darling, because you're going to be seeing a lot of us. And that's a threat."
His violet eyes glinted with something darker — something only you could see. You weren't sure if you'd won or just signed your own death warrant. Either way... You were going to have the time of your life.
☆
The second trial was worse than the first. Not because of the blood or the screams or the stench of death that clung to the air like a curse. No— It was worse because Amarantha had made sure this trial would break both of you from the inside out.
Lucien hung on the bridge of death, a few meters away from being smashed into pulp by the spiked ceiling that would be itching lower and lower for every second you didn't finish the trial. Feyre stood on one side of the the carved hole on the ground, in front of a stone wall written with lines and lines of text — her hands shaking as she stared at the levers below, numbered from one to three.
You stood on the other side of the hole, with only Lucien screaming between you both separating you. You were in front of a different wall, your own question hidden behind a sliding stone panel.
Amarantha's voice slithered through the arena like a knife. "The younger girl must answer first."
You glared at the bitch on her bone throne, grinding your teeth. "What kind of fucked up game is this?" you snarled.
Amarantha just smiled, cold and cruel. "Only once she answers correctly, your question will be revealed. Two minds should work together to save the life of a common friend. You should start.”
The ceiling began to go down on Lucien, he still had a few meters before he would need to get down. In the first few seconds he already sat on the ground, as if to give you space to look at Feyre. Her breath was coming in shallow gasps. You could see her eyes flicking over the carved text, could feel the panic rising in every line of her body. What—
Why was she just standing there?
"Come on, Feyre—"* you shouted, even as your own heart pounded against your ribs. "Read it."
Feyre's wide, terrified eyes snapped to yours. "I—" She swallowed hard. "I can't."
For a heartbeat, the entire throne room went silent. You stared at her—
The girl who had traded everything to get you both here. The girl who always read the prices at the market and reported them to you. The girl who had memorized every shortcut, every bargain, every hidden trick of surviving in that miserable village.
"What the fuck do you mean you can't?" you said, cold dread curling around your ribs.
Her face flushed, shame flickering across her pale features. "I only ever learned the words of things we needed to buy and the numbers. To read the prices."
The breath caught in your throat.
No.
No, no, no—
You thought—
You always thought she could read because of the market, because she always knew what things cost—
But of course.
Numbers. The same repetitive words. She only ever needed to differentiate the numbers. And she had never told you.
Rhysand's voice slipped through the bond, low and silky. "Surprised, little mouse?"
You clenched your jaw so hard it ached. "Get out of my fucking head and help her."
He only laughed softly — like he was enjoying this far too much. But then... you felt it — the whisper of his power curling around Feyre like a gentle breeze, guiding her.
And when she reached for the right lever —
You knew. He was indeed helping her. You could have kissed him if you weren't so busy trying not to vomit from nerves.
The lever clicked.
Lucien's strangled scream echoed through the arena as the spikes halted for now. You almost forgot he was there, as his body was already lay down on the ground, less than a meter separating his body from the imminent death.
Amarantha's smile faltered. "Lucky girl." She turned her eyes to you. “Your turn, maniac.”
“Honestly, as long as it's not mathematics I think I will be fi—” Then she snapped her fingers. Your stone panel slid open and the question carved into the wall was written in ancient fae language — twisting symbols that blurred together in your foggy mind. “Fuck.”
Fuck.
The ceiling began to dip lower on Lucien. You knew only fragments, aleatory words your mother had taught you in hurried nights when you were barely talking in the common language. The amount of time you spent without it was crushing down on your brain.
Rhysand’s voice slithered through your mind again. "Do you need help too, abomination?"
You clenched your fists. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "Fuck off."
His dark chuckle echoed through your bones.
Focus. You scanned the symbols—
"Soul."
"Price."
“Owl?”
"Death."
“Thousand years.”
Was that supposed to be a name or was just a word? The answer clicked into place in your mind like a puzzle snapping together, an old story of a man that traded his soul to be transformed into an owl for a thousand years so the death God would bring his wife back. One word for each of the five levers in front of you. The question was what kind of action the man took to save his loved one. You pulled the "Sacrifice" one without hesitation.
The spikes stopped. The whole place went deathly silent, before shouts and happy screams started to unravel. Even Amarantha looked... surprised.
Only one voice broke the noises — low and lazy, dripping with amusement. "Well... two lucky little girls, then."
Rhysand — lounging in the shadows like this was his own private entertainment. You turned toward him, heart still thundering in your chest. Without missing a beat, you broke out the biggest smile you could, dirt and sweat streaked down your face. "Thank you for your generous encouragement, High Lord."
His violet eyes glinted dangerously. "Anytime."
You straightened, grinning despite the ache in your body. Right before Amarantha's smile returned, sharp as a blade.
"How lovely." She purred. "We shall have a ball tonight to celebrate their victory."
Your stomach dropped straight to the floor. You could see that Feyre's face paled now that the spiked ceiling was rising up again. Rhysand only smirked.
You could feel his voice purring through your mind "I hope you brought something pretty to wear, little mouse."
☆
Nuala and Cerridwen were shadows wrapped in silk as they slipped inside your cell with bundles of fabric under her arms and a hand extended to each of you. "Time to get ready."
Feyre's face went pale. You just grinned despite the fathom ache in your shoulder and the bruises still colored — but not aching — across your ribs. "It's just a ball, cousin. What the hell should we be nervous of?"
Nuala's dark eyes flicked over you, amused. "You're not scared, are you?"
"Terrified," you deadpanned, making Cerridwen snort.
They traveled through the shadows until you got to a large and beautiful room. They dressed Feyre first — a midnight blue dress, almost modest and simple. Just a whisper of cleavage, the fabric flowing down to the floor like liquid night. No sleeves were attached to the dress, but the shadow covered females painted intricate details all over the remaining skin. They painted a little bit of Feyre's face with eyeshadow and lipstick, to bring a bit of color back to her face. Then they turned to you.
You knew the second they unwrapped the purple silk that Rhysand had chosen it himself. It was darker than a blue, the color of a sky right before the stars bled through, the color of his eyes — cut to cling to every curve, not as revealing as you had seen in the Undercity... but not exactly modest either. Just a few strategic slits across your thighs, the neckline dipping just enough to make a male think about what might lie underneath, and two cuts made to reveal your waist to the public.
But the real weapon was the jewelry they offered — silver pendants woven into the fabric, little glinting stars that winked every time you moved. Delicate chains wrapped around your bare arms, hanging from your wrists like shackles. Chains that dripped with shining pendants rounded your exposed waist. A collar circled your throat — simple, silver... Possessive.
You stared at your reflection in the mirror. You looked like Night Court royalty, in the way you used to be dressed like by your mother — dangerous and untouchable.
A familiar voice purred from the shadows. "That's more like it."
Rhysand leaned against the wall, so fucking smug. His eyes dragged over your body — slowly, lazily — before flicking to Feyre.
"I expect you'll be on the dance floor tonight, Feyre... maybe with Lucien? Or Tamlin, if he can crawl down from his throne." Feyre's mouth pressed into a thin line. “The paint is to make sure they don't touch you while I'm not present. It doesn't dry, so if anyone but me and your cousin touch you, we will know.”
"And me?" you asked, tilting your head.
Rhysand's gaze snapped back to you, his violet eyes glowing faintly. "You'll be sitting with me."
You knew what he meant — that you were supposed to perch on a chair beside him like some pretty little pet. So when the ball began and the music swelled… You sat in his lap instead.
His hand gripped your hip the second you settled on him, claws barely sheathed. His breath ghosted against your neck — low and dangerous.
"What do you think you're doing, you little menace?"
You leaned back against his chest, fingers tracing the rim of the wine glass he'd handed you. "Sitting with you. Like you asked."
Rhysand's chuckle vibrated through your spine. "You're playing a very dangerous game."
"For your information, I've always been a sore loser."
His teeth grazed your ear — so softly no one would see. "I'll keep that in mind."
The wine tasted like sin and starlight, just like you remembered — but the second Feyre's fingers twitched toward a goblet, both you and Rhysand shot her matching glares.
"Don't even think about it." you hissed.
Rhysand's grin sharpened. "I'd hate to see you lose what's left of your mind, Feyre darling."
She rolled her eyes in annoyance, but quickly left after spotting Lucien in the crowd. She needed a distraction if she wanted to pull him aside to talk. You swirl the wine in your goblet — then glance sideways at Rhysand. His eyes were already on you. You could feel the heat simmering beneath his calm facade, the way his fingers tightened ever so slightly on your waist.
Without breaking eye contact, you tipped your head back — letting the wine trickle slowly between your lips. Rhysand's pupils flared. You held the last mouthful on your tongue. Thinking. Calculating.
Then you pulled the hair in the back of his neck to tilt his head and leaned forward — so close your noses almost brushed — just to press your mouth to his.
He froze for half a heartbeat. Then his lips parted, and you tipped the wine from your tongue to his. Hot. Slow. Filthy. You could feel that the entire room stared.
It was supposed to be a brief kiss — just enough to make every eye fixate on you instead of Feyre slipping away to Lucien. But Rhysand's hand slid up your spine, burying in your hair. His other hand gripped your thigh — fingers digging into the slit of your dress, dragging your leg higher across his lap.
You felt him smile against your mouth and then he bit your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp.
"Good girl," he purred so low only you could hear. When you finally pulled away — panting, flushed — his thumb traced your bruised lip. "You wear my colors so well."
Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. "I grew up wearing them anyway."
Rhysand's eyes snapped to yours. And for one sharp second, you saw something flicker beneath that perfect mask. Recognition. Home.
But then the music shifted. A slow, haunting melody that made your entire body seize. You knew that song. A traditional Night Court dance — one they'd played at every Solstice, every masquerade. One your mother had taught you when you were barely tall enough to reach her waist.
Rhysand's mouth curved. "Do you still remember this one, little mouse?" Your heart was hammering now. "How long has it been since you left our home, after all?" You stood without a word — grabbing his hand and dragging him onto the dance floor.
The dance was intimate naturally. Every step demanded the couple stay close — chest to chest, thighs brushing, breath mingling. But when Rhysand's hand settled heavy on your waist, fingers splaying beneath the slit in your dress, you knew the two of you were about to make it worse.
Your own hand slid up to his shoulder — nails scraping against the silk of his jacket. The first step was slow — a teasing slide. The second, he pressed you against him, your breasts brushing his chest. His thumb stroked along your spine — once, twice — before curling possessively around your nape. You tilted your chin up — daring him.
Rhysand's breath fanned over your lips. "How many times have you danced this on your time in the Night Court?"
"Not enough."
His mouth curved. "Then let's fix that."
He spun you — so hard your dress flared, flashing a hint of thigh.
When he caught you again, his knee slid between your legs — the faintest pressure against the ache building there. You bit back a gasp. His grin was pure sin.
"Careful,” he murmured. "You're supposed to be distracting them... not making me distracted in front of the entire Court."
Your laugh was breathless. "Multitask, High Lord."
His mouth brushed your ear. "I could have you begging by the end of this night."
You leaned in, lips grazing his throat. "You'll have to catch me first."
He growled so softly you almost didn't hear it. And then spun you into another step.
☆
By the time the song ended, you were both flushed and panting. And everyone in the Court was watching you.
Feyre was gone.
Lucien was gone.
Tamlin hadn't moved from his throne like the coward he was. Amarantha's nails carved little half-moon dents into the armrests beside her. Rhysand only leaned down, brushing his lips against your ear—
"You always were the best distraction, little mouse."
You were still catching your breath when he led you back to his lap. Where you belonged.
Things will get WILD from now on because I'm gonna change EVERY SINGLE THING I dislike in that series and I WILL SHORT THIS THING UP
I love my baby fae girl pls send help to her
Warnings: Use of Y/N, ACOTAR rewrite, female main character, Tamlin is trash, not 100% book following, a bigger level of degradation (not on the good side), Amarantha 🤢, Rhysand 🥵
Whispers of Secrets and Starlight - Masterlist
Chapter 4: Heavy Is The Crown
The days after Calanmai were tense. Tamlin barely spoke. Lucien walked around like he was waiting for the next disaster to strike. Feyre pretended not to notice, but you did. You noticed everything. Especially the way Tamlin's gaze would linger on Feyre when he thought no one was watching. The way Lucien shot him warning looks everytime a different sound was heard in the forest. The way the manor seemed heavier, as if the magic itself was pressing down harder.
You knew what was coming before he even summoned the two of you.
Tamlin stood by the window in his study, back turned, hands clasped behind him. The light filtering through the glass cast him half in shadow. The scene was fitting, for the cowardice about to leave his mouth.
"You'll leave tomorrow morning," he said, voice flat.
Feyre blinked, stiffening beside you. "What?"
"You'll go back to the human lands. Both of you." He still didn't turn around. "It's not safe here anymore. Not with him knowing you're here."
Rhysand.
Feyre's brows pulled together. "But... why would that matter?"
Tamlin's shoulders tensed. You could practically feel the lie forming on his tongue. His fae blood stopped him from telling a lie but it never meant he couldn't run away from answering.
"Because I said so. He is dangerous, and I don't wanna know what his next move is if I keep any of you here." Your nails dug into your palms. Coward.
Feyre stepped forward, frustration bleeding into her voice. "Tamlin—"
"I wished we could have had more time together." That was all he said. Final. Dismissive. As if the conversation was over.
Feyre's mouth opened, then closed, confusion flickering in her eyes. You stared at Tamlin's broad back, your pulse a steady thrum in your ears. He wouldn't tell her. He was breaking his time in half and still wouldn't say why he kept Feyre here, why he made her fall in love with him and why Lucien always seemed so terrified.
You would.
☆
The next morning, the carriage waited by the doors of the manor. Feyre sat stiffly beside you, arms crossed, jaw clenched. She hadn't said a word since you'd left the house. You could feel the storm brewing beneath her silence, all the questions piling up, all the things left unsaid. She deserved the truth.
She deserved to know. The curse had shackled your tongue for weeks. Every time you'd even tried to hint at it, your throat had closed up, the words dissolving on your tongue.
But now Tamlin has given you only one gift. Now you are leaving. The curse had never said what would happen if you broke it outside the Spring Court. You glanced at Feyre, then at the woods passing by through the window.
Your heart slammed against your ribs. Do it. The carriage rattled down the dirt road, farther and farther from the manor. Time was running out. You gritted your teeth, reaching for the small knife hidden beneath your cloak. Without another thought, you banged the handle against the roof.
"Stop the carriage." The horses whinnied. The whole thing jerked to a halt.
Feyre's head snapped toward you. "What are you doing?"
You didn't answer. You shoved the door open and jumped down into the dirt, breathing hard. Be damned this ridiculous yellow dress Tamlin put on you. The driver barely glanced at you, already annoyed.
Feyre climbed out behind you, frowning. "Are you out of your mind?"
"Maybe." You paced a few steps away, your heart in your throat. "I think the time ran out—" You turned back to her, meeting her confused gaze. "So now I can explain it to you."
Feyre's brows pulled together. "Explain what?"
Your mouth opened... and the words spilled out. "Amarantha." Feyre only blinked. You swallowed hard, your pulse racing. "She's not just some faerie in the North. She's a monster. She's had Prythian by the throat for nearly fifty years, and Tamlin, Lucien... everyone that lives in the Spring Court... they're trapped under her rule. The other High Lords, they're all prisoners too. And there is Rhysand." You spat the word. "Whispers say he's on her side, he's her whore and her weapon. That's why the two bananas were so afraid of him." Feyre's face paled, but you kept going. "Tamlin was given one chance to break the curse. One loophole. He had to make a human girl fall in love with him, a girl who hated faeries so much to the point of killing one. And she had to tell him she loved him... without ever knowing why."
Feyre staggered back a step. "What—?"
You ran a shaking hand through your hair. "They couldn't tell you. And technically they couldn't tell me either. The curse wouldn't break if the human knew the truth. That's why none of us ever said a word."
Feyre's lips parted, horror dawning in her eyes.
You swallowed hard, throat tight. "They've been playing this game for almost fifty years, Feyre. And now Rhysand knows you're there. And if he tells Amarantha..."
You didn't need to finish. Feyre's face crumpled. “But I gave him a fake name…”
“Which name?” You tried to keep your voice from spilling pure horror at the thought.
“Clare Beddor.” She said in a voice smaller than usual. Fearing your reaction, apparently.
“Our neighbor?” You closed your eyes, forcing yourself to keep going. “Doesn't really matter, if Tamlin went there and gave himself out, Clare and possibly her family are already far away from being alive." Your cousin's eyes would have jumped out of her skull if it wasn't glued there. "Tamlin sent us away because he'd rather break this whole Court than let himself suffer from your loss. That's the kind of idiot he is."
A long silence stretched between you. Feyre's breath hitched. She pressed a hand to her chest, as if she could physically feel the weight of the truth settling there.
"But..." Her voice broke. "He didn't even try to explain—"
"Because he couldn't," you snapped, harsher than you'd meant. "He wanted you to hate him for sending us away. So you wouldn't want to come back. It was easier that way."
Feyre's eyes shimmered. Your chest ached.
You reached out, gripping her arms tightly. "But now you know. And you have a choice." Her breath trembled beneath your hands. "You can go home," you said quietly. "You can forget all of this. Or we can go back."
Her eyes snapped to yours.
"And we can fight."
Feyre stared at you — really stared. And then, slowly... She nodded. You let out a breath, your heart slamming against your ribs. The carriage driver was still waiting. You glanced over your shoulder, then back to Feyre.
"What will it be, cousin?" you murmured. "Are we running? Or are we breaking a curse?"
Feyre straightened her spine. Her eyes hardened. "We're breaking a curse."
A wicked grin curved your lips. "I was hoping you'd say that." You banged on the carriage again. "Turn us around."
The driver blinked, startled.
"You can't—"
"I said turn us around." With one final, wary glance, the driver clicked his tongue, flicking the reins.
The carriage jolted forward. Back toward the manor. Back toward Tamlin. Back toward war.
☆
The carriage creaked as it crossed the gates of the Spring Court. The manor stood in the distance — but everything was different. The gardens that once bloomed with endless colors were now twisted and withered, vines curling like dead fingers around cracked statues. The golden light that always bathed the place was gone, replaced by an eerie grayish hue. Faeries lingered around the grounds — not the few pretty, gentle creatures Feyre had gotten used to, but some sharp-eyed, other hollow-faced beings.
You glanced at her from the corner of your eye, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself. "It always did," you muttered. "You just couldn't see it."
Feyre's head snapped toward you. "You mean—"
"It was enchanted." You climbed out of the carriage, eyes scanning the ruined grounds. "Tamlin kept the glamour up to fool human eyes." You shrugged, moving toward the manor doors. "No matter how much I tried to tell you... you wouldn't have believed me if you couldn't see it yourself."
Feyre stood frozen, her lips parted. "But you saw through it." You paused, glancing at her over your shoulder. "Because you're half-fae, right?"
A bitter smile curved your lips. You pushed open the cracked front door and made your way inside, heading straight for your old bedroom.
"Being the abomination I am sometimes has its advantages."
The air in the room was stale — as if no one had set foot in it since you'd left. You ripped the wardrobe doors open, yanking out your worn hunting leathers. The soft, pastel Spring Court dresses you'd been forced into for weeks hung in neat rows beside them. Feyre hovered by the doorway.
"You're really half-fae?" she asked quietly.
You didn't answer. You just started stripping out of the ridiculous dress, letting the loose fabric pool at your feet. Feyre lingered for a moment longer before shaking her head, muttering under her breath as she crossed to her own room. When she returned a few minutes later, she was dressed in her simple human clothes — plain, practical and ready. You tucked a small dagger into your boot out of habit, but that was the only weapon you'd take. They'd find it anyway. Better to let them think you were weak. Better to let them think Feyre was even weaker.
The carriage wheels rumbled again as it carried you both toward the mountains. Neither of you spoke a lot. You kept your eyes on the road, the looming peaks of the Mountain that was keeping everyone prisoner kept rising higher and higher in the distance.
When the silence became unbearable, Feyre whispered, "What will happen when we get there?"
You didn't look at her. "You'll ask to bargain for Tamlin's freedom. And for the curse to break."
Feyre flinched. "She'll never agree to that."
"Not in normal conditions." Your voice was flat. "But she'll like the entertainment."
Feyre's hands curled into fists on her lap. You sighed, finally glancing at her.
"You need to play the part, Feyre." Your voice softened. "A helpless, stupid little human girl, desperately in love, with nothing to offer but herself. She'll keep you alive for the fun of it if you act like you're no threat."
Feyre's throat bobbed. "And you?"
A corner of your mouth curved upward. "I'll be the distraction."
Her brows furrowed, but you just turned back to the window. Let her wonder.
☆
The closer you got, the heavier the air became. By the time the carriage stopped at the rocky edge of the caves, the very ground seemed to pulse beneath your feet — as if the mountain itself was alive. The driver refused to go any farther.
"Last stop," he grunted, barely sparing you a glance.
You climbed out first, scanning the jagged, looming mouth of the cave ahead. Feyre hesitated behind you.
You glanced at her, eyes narrowing. "Leave the weapons."
Her head whipped toward you. "What?"
"They'll take them anyway." You tossed your dagger into the dirt. "Better to let them think you can't fight at all."
Feyre's mouth opened, then closed. Reluctantly, she pulled the small knife from her belt and threw it down beside yours.
You leaned in close, lowering your voice. "If they ask... you're just a human girl who fell in love with the wrong faerie and now you can't let it go."
Feyre swallowed hard, nodding. The fear in her eyes was a knife in your chest — but there was nothing you could do to spare her from what was coming.
You straightened, brushing the dirt off your hands. "If that little bitch still has the same pets we will meet a very ugly creature, so be prepared. Let's go meet the Attor."
You felt them before you saw them. The scrape of claws on stone. The rank, putrid scent wafting through the cave. Feyre's breath caught as the shadows stirred ahead — and then it emerged. The Attor. All rotting flesh and bat-like wings, its elongated mouth curling into something that might have been a smile.
It sniffed the air, yellow eyes flicking between the two of you. "The human girl... and whatever company she has... another human girl, perhaps." It crooned.
Your heart slammed against your ribs, hoping your fae blood would keep calm inside of you for at least a little while.
You forced your mouth into a slow, lazy smirk. "Wanted to meet us, sweetheart?"
The creature's nostrils flared, but it didn't rise to the bait. It only stepped closer, wings rustling. "And what... Do you bring to our Mistress?"
Feyre's voice was barely above a whisper. "I want to bargain. For Tamlin."
The Attor's head snapped toward her. Its mouth stretched wider. "How sweet."
Its claws twitched at its sides. It was enjoying this. It would enjoy hurting her even more. Rage coiled low in your belly — but you shoved it down. You had to play the part. You had to let them take you.
The chains were cold around your wrists. The Attor's claws dug harder into your arm as it dragged you through the winding tunnels. Feyre stumbled behind you, pale but silent. You didn't look at her. You couldn't. If you saw the fear in her eyes, you'd do something stupid. The mountain swallowed you whole, its endless dark pressing in on all sides. Everything feels like a cheap copy of what you once knew as the Court of Nightmares in Night Court. The recreation almost made you feel sick.
But you didn't have time to think about it that much if Amarantha was waiting. And if you played this game right... You were going to win.
The throne room was just as suffocating as you imagined. Dark stone stretched endlessly beneath your boots, the air heavy with the scent of rot and old magic. Feyre stood stiff beside you, her chin high despite the fear you knew was eating her alive. You kept your expression bored — uninterested — even when your heart hammered in your chest.
Amarantha lounged on her throne, eyes sharp and glittering as she flicked a finger toward the half-burned corpse nailed to the wall. Clare Beddor. Feyre's breath hitched beside you, but you didn't look at her. You couldn't afford to.
"You should have given me your name when I asked for it, girl," Amarantha purred, eyes never leaving Feyre. "But I suppose your little friend paid the price for your foolishness."
Feyre's fists clenched at her sides. You had to resist the urge to reach out, to press her fingers back open before anyone noticed.
Amarantha leaned forward, her red hair spilling over one shoulder. "But you're here now. Ready to bargain for your lover's freedom from what I heard."
Feyre's throat bobbed, but her voice didn't waver. "I'll do whatever it takes."
Amarantha's smile was slow and cruel. "Oh, I know you will."
She sat back again, tapping a long nail against the arm of her throne.
"I could kill you now," she mused. "But where would be the fun in that?" Her sharp eyes flicked between the two of you. "A challenge, then. I will choose how. Three trials, or a riddle. If you survive, I'll let him go."
The room was deathly silent. You kept your breathing steady and kept your heart from hammering louder.
Feyre's voice was barely above a whisper. “You will also free the other High Lords from your curse. Let them regain their powers and free their Courts. Let them judge you of what you've done”
“Now why would I do that?” Her smile was disturbing, the eye in her ring seemed to turn to Feyre, interested in the conversation.
“If you really think I can't win, you shouldn't be afraid of promising it.” The Queen's smile almost faltered from her face, before she flicked a hand in order to say she agreed to the terms. "You also have to promise not to touch or enchant Tamlin until I break the curse. Or until I lose."
Amarantha's smile sharpened. "Fine by me." Her eyes glinted. "I will have all eternity to enjoy him after."
Feyre's jaw clenched — but before she could speak again, you did. "Wait."
Your voice echoed through the throne room — louder than you'd meant to. Every head turned toward you. You raised your hand lazily — the same hand no one had noticed you'd slipped free from the shackles. A few murmurs rippled through the crowd.
You leaned your other hand casually against the cold ground, tilting your head. "This isn't fair."
Amarantha blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"I want a High Lord for myself too." A beat of silence. "You know? For motivation?"
Lucien — who'd been doing his best to blend into the shadows — choked on absolutely nothing. Amarantha's brow arched, and her lips curved into something dangerously close to amusement.
"Your willingness to stay alive isn't enough for you?"
"Absolutely not." You shrugged. "I came here after her, with absolutely no reason to save any of the people in this room. For all I care, you could chain Tamlin up and make him lick your shoes for the rest of his miserable life. The girl here—" you pointed lazily to Feyre without even looking at her, "is the one who is in love with him."
Feyre shot you a look like she might strangle you before Amarantha got the chance.
“Honestly, my life in the human lands was so boring that I came here to risk my life for nothing more than entertainment. I don't win anything if I get to survive this, and if I really wanted to just survive, I would've sent Feyre into that cave entry and said goodbye and good luck when I had the chance.”
You crossed your arms, leaning against Feyre's body — still chained up — like you'd just asked for a glass of wine.
"Well, Feyre here has an emotional support High Lord to fight for. What do I get? Lucien?" You glanced toward the red-haired male with mock disappointment. Lucien had the strength to look mildly offended. "It's not the same thing."
A few scattered chuckles echoed through the crowd. And Amarantha laughed — actually laughed — a high, euphoric sound that filled the room.
"Fine." She leaned back on her throne, waving a dismissive hand. "You can choose one of them." A ripple passed through the crowd as every single High Lord in the room shifted. "The High Lords should all rise," Amarantha called sweetly, "so the little girl can choose one of you to fight for."
The silence stretched. One by one, the High Lords stood from their places among the gathered faeries — some sneering, some barely sparing you a glance, some pleading.
Your heart hammered behind your ribs as your eyes flicked over the crowd.
Beron — cruel and uninterested.
Thesan — bored, already looking away.
Helion — shining and watching with a spark of amusement.
Kallias — fear and hope in his breathing .
Tarquin — tears in his eyes as he watched you.
You dragged out the moment, letting your gaze linger long enough to make them nervous. Then your eyes flicked to Amarantha's left — to where he stood. Rhysand. He hadn't moved, hadn't even flinched, had been thinking he wasn't an option. His violet eyes were already fixed on you, dark and unreadable.
Almost like a challenge. A dare. Your mouth curved slowly, eating up his fear.
"I want that one."
The entire room froze.
Rhysand's brows flicked up — the only sign of surprise on his perfectly bored face. Even Amarantha looked taken aback for half a second before she let out another sharp, delighted laugh.
"You want Rhysand?"
Rhysand's mouth curled into a lazy, wicked smile. Amarantha was still grinning, sharp and predatory.
"You want to fight for the whore of the Night Court?" Rhysand's smile didn't falter — but something flickered in his violet eyes.
You tilted your head. "Why not? He looks like he'd be more fun to save."
The room held its breath. Even Feyre was staring at you like you'd lost your mind. But you didn't dare break Rhysand's gaze. Amarantha's grin stretched wider.
"Are the terms the same?" you asked, voice light. "No touching him. No harm. Totally free for the duration of the trials, or after I win."
Amarantha tapped a nail against her chin, pretending to think. "Of course. It doesn't really matter."
You smirked. Rhysand's dark brows flicked upward.
You turned to him, feigning boredom. "Well, darling?" you purred. "Aren't you going to thank me for saving your life?"
His smile was razor-sharp. He stepped forward at last, hands tucked behind his back.
"I'm sure I'll find a way to repay the favor… little mouse." A shiver curled down your spine. You didn't let it show.
Amarantha clapped her hands, delighted. "Perfect! Two humans fighting for two High Lords in a challenge they can't win. How absolutely... amusing."
You felt Rhysand's power brush against your mind — just the lightest stroke. “What game are you playing, little girl?”
You locked him out with a flick of your mental shields. “Wouldn't you like to know, High Lord?”
His smile widened — but something dark flickered behind it. He still had no idea who you were. But you could feel the question thrumming beneath his perfect mask. He would figure it out eventually. You just had to survive long enough to make him care.
"You have three trials to win their freedom, one each turn of the moon" Amarantha announced, voice echoing through the throne room. Her eyes gleamed as she looked between you and Feyre. "And if you fail... you will both belong to me. I'll still have to decide if you're useful or not. That is, if you don't die during the challenges."
The shackles snapped back around your wrists. You didn't flinch. Rhysand's smile lingered as the guards dragged you both toward the dungeons. But before you disappeared through the dark archway, his voice whispered through your mind again — silky and amused.
“I'll be waiting right here, little mouse. Is your time to play the hero.” You smirked as the iron doors slammed shut behind you.
☆
The dungeons were colder than you expected. Dank, damp stone stretched endlessly down the corridor, the only light spilling from the faelight sconces flickering along the walls. The guards had shoved you both into different cells, sided with one another — each cell barely big enough for two bodies — before slamming the door shut and leaving you to rot.
Feyre hadn't said a word since they'd dragged you down here. She paced like a caged animal, arms wrapped around herself, face pale under the dirt and grime. You sat on the floor against the wall, knees pulled up, watching her with the calm patience of someone who knew the storm was coming.
It didn't take long.
"What the fuck was that?" Feyre hissed, whirling on you at last.
You raised a brow. "You'll have to be more specific, baby girl."
Her nostrils flared. "Don't call me that."
You snorted, having fun with the whole situation.
"Why him?" she snapped, stepping closer. "Of all the High Lords there, why would you choose Rhysand?"
Your smile faded — just a little. Because the truth was — you hadn't exactly meant to. You hadn't planned it. But the second Feyre told Amarantha she couldn't touch Tamlin for as long as this sick game was being played, your mouth had moved before your mind could catch up. As if something deep inside you had been waiting centuries for this moment.
You glanced at the wall, at the crack running along the stone. "I had my reasons."
Feyre let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Your reasons? You picked the most dangerous High Lord in Prythian, Tamlin's biggest enemy, literally the guy who put a head on a spike in the garden for everyone to see and is on Amarantha's side, and now you're tied to him for three trials with Amarantha herself watching. What possible reason could you have?"
You didn't answer. Because how the hell were you supposed to explain something you barely understood yourself?
Feyre's eyes narrowed. "You're doing that face. Thinking face. You know something."
You kept your face blank. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Feyre lunged forward, grabbing your arm through the bars of the cell. You winced as her nails dug into the bruises already forming beneath the shackles.
"You've been acting weird since we got here. Since before we got here." Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "You said you didn't care about the people in this land so why throw yourself in this nightmare with me? Why do this to yourself?”
You glanced at the iron bars — making sure no one was listening — before your eyes flicked back to her.
"You want to know why I picked him?" you murmured. Feyre nodded, breath shallow. You leaned in close — close enough that no one else could hear. "I think he's my mate."
Feyre froze. For a long moment, she just stared at you like you'd grown a second head. Then she laughed — loud and sharp — before clapping a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound.
"You're joking," she whispered through her fingers.
You didn't blink. Her smile faltered.
"You're not joking."
You shifted against the wall, trying to find a position where the shackles didn't dig so hard into your wrists.
"You know what a mating bond is, right?"
"Lucien told me about it once," Feyre muttered. "It's... rare. Almost a myth."
You nodded slowly. "But not impossible."
Her eyes darted to the iron bars again — like someone might overhear. "And you think...?"
"I don't think," you interrupted. "I'm almost sure."
Silence stretched between you. Feyre's breathing was quick, uneven. "You've felt it? The bond? Are you supposed to feel it?"
You swallowed hard. "No. Not... exactly. Not yet."
Her brows pulled together. "But...?"
You stared down at your hands — at the bruised skin already healing beneath the shackles.
"I don't know how to explain it," you admitted. "It's just... something in me knew I had to save him. The second I saw him in Calanmai something inside me called for him. Like I'd been looking for him without even realizing it. That day I thought it was the magic of the rite pulling me to go there, but when he went away the feeling vanished too."
Feyre sank onto the cold floor across from you, her face pale. "And he doesn't know?"
You let out a bitter laugh. "Of course he doesn't. He won't feel it as long as I'm human."
Her brows furrowed. "But why would the Cauldron give you a mate? They are for the most powerful of the species and you're only—"
"Half?" you cut in, voice sharp. Feyre flinched. You looked away. "Yeah. I know."
Silence fell again. Somewhere down the corridor, a prisoner screamed. Feyre hugged her knees to her chest, staring at you like you'd just dropped some ancient, forbidden truth between you.
"So what now?" she whispered.
You leaned your head back against the wall, closing your eyes. "Now," you said softly, "we survive until she wants to play."
☆
Feyre was quiet for a long time during the next many hours you lost count. When she finally spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. "You could have picked anyone. Even with the mating bond"
You cracked one eye open. "Yeah."
Her throat bobbed. "But you picked him anyway."
Your lips curved faintly. "I didn't pick him," you murmured. "He was already mine.”
So... yeah I saved Feyre from that weird scene when Tamlin bites her or wtv my girl doesn't deserve it
And... well... I don't want to rewrite the whole scene when Tamlin and Lucien needed to beg to rhys so meh I didn't
If anyone is wondering why I'm publishing this so fast: I have been writing pieces of this for weeks now, I'm just playing Lego building them into chapters
Warnings: Use of Y/N, ACOTAR rewrite, female main character, ew males, not 100% book following, some level of degradation (not on the good side), a decapitated head, Rhysand 🫦
Whispers of Secrets and Starlight - Masterlist
Chapter 3: The Night We Met
You hadn't planned to leave the manor. Even with that strange pull in your chest, that whispering ache beneath your ribs that had been gnawing at you the entire day, you'd forced yourself to stay put.
Whatever it was, whatever called to you beyond those gates... it wouldn't end well. It never did.
You had learned long ago not to follow those instincts, to shove them down, to bury the pieces of yourself that felt too wild, too close to something you couldn't name. You were supposed to be a lonely female who obeyed, served, and fought. You weren't a human, and you shouldn't act like an animal either. Whatever thread tugged at your veins tonight was dangerous, ancient. It had no place inside of you.
So you stayed. You paced your room, your fingers twitching, your heart rattling too fast in your chest. You clenched your hands at your sides, digging your nails into your palms until the sting grounded you. You wouldn't give in. Not tonight. Not to this.
But then… Then you saw Feyre. You'd only glance out the window, expecting to see the light of the fires in the hope it would calm you down a little bit. But there she was, slipping through the gates, darting into the forest with only the moonlight to guide her.
Your heart stopped. “What the hell is she doing?”
You were moving before your mind could catch up, slipping into your boots, grabbing your knife, and bolting out into the cold night air. Your body knew before you did, knew that if she was going where you thought she was, she wouldn't come back the same. You wouldn't watch another important person walk into a forest and never come back alive because of fae cruelty.
The bonfires glowed in the distance, flickering on the hills like tiny stars fallen from the sky. Drums pounded through the dark, deep and ancient, matching the thrumming in your own blood. The air itself felt heavier the closer you got thicker, charged with something that made your skin crawl.
Calanmai. You'd heard the stories whispered by the servants, the warnings that Tamlin had barked at dinner in that clipped, cold voice of his. Stay inside. Lock your doors. Don't come out until morning. It had been enough to keep you away. Until now.
You found Feyre near the edge of the celebration, half-hidden in the shadows as if she could ever blend in. Her wide eyes darted across the hills, her breath quickening as she took in the wild, drunken revelry unfolding before her. She was so painfully human, so breakable. She shouldn't be here.
"Feyre," you hissed, stepping out of the shadows.
She flinched, whirling toward you with a hand raising halfway into a silly defense pose. But her shoulders sagged when she saw you. "What are you doing here?" she whispered.
"I should be asking you the same damn thing. I only came after you." Your pulse was still racing — from the chase, from the moonlit tension clinging to the air... from that ache still thrumming low in your chest.
You scanned her face, searching for any sign of what had possessed her to come here. But all you found was stubbornness, that same reckless streak you'd spent years trying to protect her from.
"I wanted to see—"
"You wanted to get yourself killed," you snapped, stepping closer. "Do you have any idea what happens on Calanmai?"
Feyre's mouth opened, but whatever excuse she was about to spit out vanished as the drums deepened, echoing through the night. The bonfires flared higher, casting long shadows across the hills. Your stomach twisted.
"Let's go back to the manor," you ordered, voice low. "Now."
Feyre's brows pinched. "I just wanted to look—"
"We've looked." You grabbed her wrist, your pulse hammering beneath your skin. "Now we're leaving."
But before you could drag her away, a new sound cut through the night. Low, cruel laughter. Three males emerged from the shadows, tall, and lean, the stench of sweat and stale wine clinging to them. Their grins were sharp and predatory. You went rigid. Feyre froze beside you, her breath ragged.
"Look what we have here," one of them drawled, his white teeth glinting in the firelight. His eyes dragged over Feyre, then flicked to you. Your hand twitched to grab your knife.
"Two little mice lost in the woods." Your stomach turned to ice. They were drunk, but not nearly enough to make them weaker or slower, just bolder in cruel ways.
You shifted, putting your body between Feyre and the males without thinking. "Keep walking," you said quietly.
The tallest one grinned wider, his gaze crawling over your face, your body. You could feel Feyre trembling behind you. Could feel her fear, sharp and familiar, but you couldn't let her see your own.
"Why don't you let us have a little fun first, mice?" the male purred. You forced your grip to steady close to the knife hilt.
"I'd rather slit your throat open and watch your blood soak the grass." The male's grin faltered. Just slightly.
But before anyone could take another step, another male appeared. A shadow slid out of the darkness like smoke. One moment the space beside you was empty, the next, a figure stood there. Tall, dressed in black, power coiling around him like a living thing. The males stiffened. Feyre's breath caught.
But you... You knew. Even before you saw the gleam of those violet eyes, even before that voice slithered through the night, always smooth, amused, deadly.
"Here you are." His smirk was pure sin, hands tucked casually into his pockets. "I've been looking for you."
Feyre tensed beside you, blinking up at him. You didn't move. Didn't breathe. Because you'd heard that voice before. In whispered stories. In half-forgotten starlight dreams.
And something deep inside you—something you had spent years trying to bury—began to claw its way back to the surface. His gaze flicked between you and Feyre, those violet eyes shining with curiosity. And then he smiled. The males vanished into the crowd without another word. But his eyes never left yours.
He tilted his head, that slow smirk still playing on his mouth. "And who," he murmured, "Are you?"
He leaned slightly closer, power curling off him in tendrils, dark and ancient, brushing against your skin like a phantom touch. You fought the instinct to recoil, meeting his gaze head-on. You couldn't let him see that it affected you, that he affected you.
"I don't believe we've met," he said, voice smooth as silk, but there was something lazy beneath it, something... calculated. His eyes drifted down your body with slow, deliberate interest before flicking back to your face. "And I never forget a pretty face like this."
You felt Feyre shift behind you, her breath catching. Typical. Of course, he'd try to rattle you like that, try to make you squirm. You knew his type. Knew him, long before you'd ever set eyes on him.
Because once, many years ago, someone had whispered stories about him in the dark. Tales of the Night Court's heir. The half-breed with violet eyes and a silver tongue. The boy who laughed at the rules of his Court, who danced in the shadows and played wicked games with hearts and minds alike.
He had been nothing but a name back then. A distant legend told between stolen giggles through drunk females in bars and hushed gossip your mother’s friends told her in secret dinners. So he'd never been a stranger to you. Even now, standing in front of him, there was a flicker of something familiar beneath the dangerous beauty. But you locked it away, buried it deep where he couldn't see.
"I don't believe I gave you permission to look at me like that." Your voice was steady, clipped. "And I'm not in the mood for introductions."
His smirk sharpened. "Pity. I was rather enjoying the view."
Behind you, Feyre tensed again, but you didn't look away from him. Didn't even blink.
"You heard what I said." Your heart pounded in your chest, but you forced your chin higher, every inch of you screaming not to let him see an ounce of fear. "She's leaving."
Those violet eyes gleamed. Predatory eyes.
"And what about you?" he purred, stepping closer — close enough that you caught the faintest trace of night-blooming jasmine clinging to him beneath the smoke and sweat of the revelry. "Are you staying to keep me company?"
You didn't move. Didn't flinch. "That depends." You tilted your head slightly, voice dropping lower. "Wouldn't want to interrupt your little game of playing hero. How very... out of character, by the way."
Something flickered in his gaze—too fast to catch. Interest. Surprise. Like he'd expected a frightened little doe, not something sharp-toothed and biting back.
“Go. Now. Find our friend and tell him to get you back home.” You purposely didn't say Lucien's name, but hoped she would understand. You needed to get her out before Rhysand took interest in her mind. For once, Feyre didn't argue. You heard her footsteps retreating—heard the crackle of leaves under her boots as she vanished into the night. Leaving you alone with him.
The smirk on Rhysand's lips slowly grew bigger. His head tilted, those violet eyes drinking in every inch of you like you were some puzzle he couldn't quite solve. Then, slowly, you smiled.
It was an old habit—one you had learned to perfect long before you ever crossed the Wall. A smile could be a weapon just as sharp as a blade, just as cutting as any snarl. You wondered if he knew that, or if he thought you were some foolish girl playing brave in the dark. But those eyes, those impossible, star-flecked eyes, lingered on your face, as if trying to place something.
He didn't know you. Not really. But you knew him.
You had stopped to hear the stories whispered in firelit rooms by your best friend long before Prythian had become your prison of torture and grief. Had listened to a young female with dark hair and a quick tongue speak of the male with shadows in his veins and a crown he never wanted, how he lied to keep the appearances, how he protected his mother from his father, how he would be the best High Lord she would ever have to pleasure to see. You remembered the way her eyes had glowed when she spoke his name—Rhysand—as if he were something out of a dream that she hoped to witness.
But that girl was gone. And whatever warmth she'd once told you about had been buried beneath three centuries of blood and hungry power. Now he was the most dangerous male in Prythian and he was looking at you like he was trying to decide if you were prey or something more interesting.
For a long, tense moment, he just watched you. The firelight cast flickering shadows over his sharp features — high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and those violet eyes that seemed to see far more than what lay before him. The smirk on his lips never wavered, as if he was utterly amused by the sight of you stepping between him and your cousin.
His smirk grew. "You know who I am." It wasn't a question.
You forced yourself to keep the smile, a sharp curve of your lips. "I'd have to be a fool not to."
Rhysand's gaze dragged over you again, slower this time. Assessing. Calculating. Like he was trying to pick you apart — trying to place you. He wouldn't. Not yet.
He couldn't know that the female he'd loved decades ago was a connection to you. Not when you'd buried that version of yourself so long ago. Not when the name he'd once known was now dust on your tongue, a memory you wanted to keep just for yourself.
But still, those violet eyes narrowed slightly, as if something about you tugged at the edges of his mind.
You could practically feel him searching, prying, waiting. You almost wanted to let him. Almost.
"You should run along, High Lord," you said softly. "Go find someone else to toy with tonight."
His smile turned razor-sharp, all glittering teeth and promises of bad, beautiful things. "Now why would I do that," he murmured, stepping even closer, "when I've just found the most interesting creature at this entire miserable rite?"
You turn your mouth into a bored smile. "I wonder how many bones I'd have to break to keep you from ever finding out who I am."
For a heartbeat, he just stared at you. And then, he laughed. A rich, dark sound that wrapped around you like silk and smoke. The kind of laugh that belonged in the dead of night, in whispered promises and half-forgotten dreams. It made something deep in your chest tighten painfully.
Don't let him in.
He took a slow step closer, that wicked grin curling at his mouth again. The silence stretched between you, heavy with the pulse of Calanmai's magic. The air shimmered, alive, wrapping around your skin like a lover's touch. It made your blood sing—made the thing inside you stir and stretch, hungry for something you couldn't name.
Rhysand's head tilted slightly, that feline smirk still playing on his lips. "Brave little thing, aren't you?"
You forced yourself to hold his gaze, even as the power thrumming beneath his skin seemed to reach out and brush against yours, testing, curious. "I've been called worse."
His smile sharpened. "I have no doubt."
A breeze rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of bonfire smoke and crushed grass. You clenched your hands at your sides, fighting the urge to shiver. The pull in your chest hadn't stopped, not since the sun had set. If anything, standing here in front of him, it had only grown stronger. It was like the magic of Calanmai was trying to drag you into him, to let him fill your lungs, your blood, your bones. It made you feel like you were coming apart at the seams.
You could see it in the way his eyes narrowed slightly, in the way his power curled at the edges of your senses. He could feel it too, then, the same way you could feel him.
For years, you'd carried his name like a secret in the hollow of your chest. You had wondered what had become of the male your friend once spoke of, if he had survived his own reign, or if he'd been swallowed by the darkness his father left in his wake. Rhysand took another step closer until he was close enough that the warmth of him brushed against your skin.
"What's your name?" he asked softly.
The question settled in your bones, vibrating through every nerve in your body. You should give him a false one. Should use your half human part of yourself to lie and disappear into the night. But the words slipped out before you could stop them.
"If you guess correctly I'll give you a prize, maybe." He blinked, caught off guard—and then he laughed again, richer this time.
"I think I like you." You felt the corner of your mouth twitch upward, heart still racing in your chest.
"You wouldn't be the first to." His smile was slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world. He opened his mouth—to say what, you didn't know—but then his head tilted slightly, as if hearing something in the distance.
His gaze flicked back to you, the amusement gone. "You should run along now, little human."
The nickname curled in the air between you, mocking, teasing. He was trying to scare you off. Trying to see if you'd flinch.
You didn't.
Before you could say anything he tilted his head slightly. “Tell me, will I be seeing you again?”
Your heart skipped, and you tilted her chin up, meeting his gaze squarely. Whatever answer you wanted to give died in your chest. “You most definitely will.” It was all you said.
Without another word, Rhysand reached out, taking your hand in his. The brush of his lips across your knuckles was light, but it sent a shock of heat up your arm until your heart.
Then he straightened, his eyes locking with yours once more. He stepped back, melting into the shadows with that same infuriating smirk. "Until we meet again, little girl."
With a final smile that was pure mischief, he vanished into the night. And then he was gone. But his power lingered, wrapped around you like invisible chains.
You stood in the dark for a long time, your heart still thundering, your breath still catching in your throat. Your hand lingered where he had kissed it, but before you could think too much about it, the sensation in your chest, this pounding feeling, began to grow weaker.
It wasn’t the pull of the magic of Calanmai in the air. It was something else. Something between the both of you that you were afraid to name.
Your friend had always told you that Rhysand would become the most dangerous male in Prythian. What she never told you was how easy it would be to want him.
☆
When you finally returned to the manor, the first thing you did was check on Feyre. Your heart hadn't stopped pounding since you'd left her in the woods. You know that this night you will barely sleep, your ears still echoing with the rhythm of the drums, the feel of those violet eyes pinned on you like a predator playing with its prey.
But when you got to her room, nothing had happened. Thank the Cauldron, nothing had happened to her. Feyre was asleep when you checked on her, tucked beneath the blankets, her breathing steady. You lingered in the doorway for a long moment before leaving the bedroom, the tight knot in your chest slowly unwinding. She was safe. For now.
You hadn't been able to get him out of your head. Those eyes. That smile. That question. Who are you? You weren't sure you'd ever wanted someone not to know something so badly in your life.
The next morning, after sleeping way less than you were used to, as you kept looking at the night sky outside, you woke to the sound of raised voices drifting through the halls. Tamlin and Lucien fighting. Again.
So you took your time getting ready, washing off whatever remnants of Calanmai still clung to your skin. The manor felt heavier today like the weight of the night before had sunk into the very walls. You heard Tamlin being a beast in the middle of the night while he chased something in the corridors, so you woke up and checked to see if he would get close to Feyre’s bedroom. Thankfully, to his luck, he didn’t.
By the time you made your way down to breakfast, the tension in the air was thick enough to cut. You stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame, unnoticed. Lucien was standing by the window, arms crossed as he watched the scene, face tight with anger. Tamlin was behind the chair at the head of the table, still radiating that barely-leashed temper that always seemed to simmer just beneath his surface.
And kneeling in the middle of the room was Feyre. You didn't need to ask what exactly happened. Even if you didn't have the details, you already knew. Your eyes flicked to the third and fourth plates set on the table, the torn curtains that no longer hid the decapitated head of a male in the middle of the garden, and then Rhysand having fun with the scene.
You watched silently as he prowled through the room, circling them like a cat playing with mice. His power crackled in the air, invisible claws wrapped tight around both Tamlin and Lucien, a smaller amount of it hanging around on Feyre — to what you could sense, she wasn't slightly hurt. He was toying with them and they hated it. But you... You couldn't help the smile that curled on your lips. It was the only time you'd ever seen Tamlin where he belonged — on his knees.
By the time Rhysand finally released them from his invisible grip, the High Lord of the Spring Court staggered back to his chair, jaw clenched, pride shredded. Lucien muttered something low under his breath, barely holding himself together as he helped Feyre get off the ground. You chose that exact moment to step forward, your voice cutting through the heavy silence like a knife.
"I come late one time," you drawled, making your way toward the table, "and miss the only day we get a little fun around here."
Four heads snapped toward you. Feyre flinched. Lucien's amber eyes widened slightly. Tamlin's nostrils flared. But Rhysand's smirk only sharpened.
You let your gaze drift lazily over Tamlin, lips curling. "It was lovely seeing you like that, Tam. You should try that more often."
Tamlin's green eyes flashed, his mouth opening— But Rhysand flicked his fingers, and Tamlin's voice died in his throat. A laugh slipped from your lips. Pure, delighted mockery.
"Ah." You settled into your chair, reaching for a piece of cake. "That's even better. The no sound of your voice. That is my preferred routine, honestly."
Lucien shot you a warning look — one that screamed ‘Stop talking before he kills you’. But you didn't. You couldn't. Not when you could feel him watching you. Not when those violet eyes pinned you to your seat like he was already peeling back your mind layer by layer. You glanced at him from beneath your lashes, slow and deliberate.
"Care to join us for breakfast, High Lord?" you offered sweetly, breaking off a piece of cake. "We do love having guests, right? Tell him, Tamlin.” You turned your head to Rhysand, tilting your head to look up at him. “That's how we got stuck here, by the way. He offered breakfast once and never let us go back. But I'm sure your company is not as wanted as Feyre's, so you probably won't have the same destiny.”
“Y/N.” Lucien's voice sounded desperate, he gripped Feyre's arms in fear, but at the same time to steady himself. To remember that there were more innocent people to protect.
But Rhysand onky stepped closer — too close. He leaned down, until his breath ghosted across your ear.
"So," he murmured, voice like velvet. "Enlighten me, how many bones did it take for me to find out who you were, hm?"
Your heart stumbled. He probably saw you in Feyre’s memories. But you didn't let your smile falter. Instead, you leaned back just enough to meet his gaze — so close your noses nearly brushed. You flicked your eyes toward the window, toward the head now mounted on a spike in the gardens. The same male who had cornered you and Feyre last night.
You looked back at Rhysand, your smile sharpening. "Just one head was enough, apparently."
A low, wicked laugh rumbled in his throat. For a moment — just one breath — the entire room vanished. It was just the two of you. He, with all his dark, ancient power coiling beneath the surface. You, with whatever it was buried inside you — something half-forgotten, half-awake. The crackle between you tasted like lightning. Then Rhysand straightened, his smirk firmly back in place.
"As tempting as that offer is," he purred, "I'm afraid I'll have to decline." His eyes flicked once more over you, slow and thorough. "But I'll be sure to extend the invitation back one day... in my court."
Your smile didn't waver. "You will know where to find me."
His grin turned lazy. "Oh, I will be sure to remember."
With one last lingering glance, he vanished — just a ripple of night and shadows left behind. Only then did you exhale. You felt the weight of three pairs of eyes still fixed on you. You tore another piece of cake between your fingers, glanced at the three stunned faces around the table, and smiled.
"So..." You popped the bite into your mouth, chewing slowly. "Which one of you will tell me how all of this happened? I got here, and the two amazing soldiers in shining armor were already on the ground."
Lucien choked. Feyre blinked at you, wide-eyed. Tamlin's chair scraped back as he stormed from the room without a word. You leaned back in your chair, sipping your coffee. Maybe Calanmai hadn't been a total waste of time after all.
