A Court of Fallen Heroes: Chapter 25 - Behind Locked Doors
This time it wasn't her—or maybe it was the ugliest version of her.
She felt the armor before she saw it, a weight that dragged her flesh downward like sin poured into metal. The pauldrons hugged her shoulders, red as freshly spilled blood and heavy as a thousand stolen souls. The material didn't feel like steel—more like a sick crystal, polished in a hurry and left to crack beautifully. It was scratched, chipped, plates dented from old blows, as if someone had tried to kill her a dozen times and gotten bored halfway through.
The sword was a disgrace of size. She dragged it behind her, the tip biting the floor, gouging stone, throwing cold sparks. Sometimes, when she moved too sharply, fire burst from inside the blade—as if a volcanic heart had been locked inside the metal and was desperate to breathe.
Around her, the table made of skeletons waited like an altar. Ovals of fused ribs, skulls set like domes, vertebrae screwed into a structure absurdly stable. The room smelled of old smoke, heated iron, and bones washed in ash.
Beyond the bunker walls, moans gathered like a choir. Not screams—moans. As if fear had sunk into their bones and no longer had the strength to climb to the throat. With every step she took, the sounds intensified, as though the sword was feeding on them.
She began circling the table in a psychotic rhythm. Once. Twice. Three times. With each loop, the armor released a dull sound, like a bell buried underground, and seemed to come more and more alive—like a red flare hissing under the torchlight pinned into the rock walls.
" Only three? " The voice didn't come from her throat—whoever was speaking somewhere behind sounded like they'd been nursing pneumonia for a century, phlegm sliding thick along the walls of the trachea. She felt, suddenly, that she had no eyes. So she turned her entire skull, the heavy helmet creaking like a rusted door, and fixed on the old man in front of her. " That's all you're capable of? "
The others' silence tightened like a noose. She couldn't tell how many bodies were hidden around her, but she could smell them—rank, earthy, death-soaked. The air itself seemed to recoil from the room.
" This is why I brought you all the way here? " The man continued, his contempt lazy, almost bored. " So you can be useless? So you can bore me? " The old man swallowed. His face was yellowed by torchlight, forehead slick, hands clenched to the edge of the bone-table like an anchor that never dried—water dripping from him as if dampness had become his natural state.
" Patience, my lord, " She said—too fast. Too servile. " We had no way of knowing what we were dealing with if we didn't test their powers. "
A short laugh, joyless, scraped the chamber. The old man tilted his head like he was truly considering how pathetic that sounded, and a thin stream of moisture slid from his white hair. " If War starts to sound more mature than you, more patient, " a third voice said, each word hammered in like a nail, " I'm afraid you, old man, are not what you're supposed to be. "
Then the shadow moved. A pale hand, glossy as wax, emerged from the darkness and gripped the chair's arm like a throat. On the thumb sat a large, terrifyingly simple ring—a violet stone set in a mount that looked like hardened night. The room fell silent. " Whatever you do, " the voice said, calm and inevitable, " take her alive. "
In that instant, the fire inside her sword flinched. Not with rage. With impatience.
Light hit her first. Not the soft, lazy gold of a village morning, slipping through crooked shutters. This was clean light. White. Almost clinical. The kind of light that had no mercy for shadows or secrets.
Vythra flinched and squeezed her eyes shut, then forced them open with a small grimace, like she'd been caught doing something shameful. Her back was the second thing she noticed. Stiff. Damp with sweat. Almost glued to a mattress that was far too soft. When she tried to move, her spine popped in a few unhappy places, vertebrae cracking like they were stretching after a long sulk.
She jerked upright on one elbow and froze. She wasn't in her cabin.
The room was several times larger than the attic she'd lived in for the last weeks, furnished extravagantly—but in a way that felt old, medieval, rustic. It tugged at some memory of her grandmother's house from the other world: heavy wood, solid shapes, a hunger for space. The air smelled faintly of expensive soap, books and something else underneath—forced quiet. The kind of quiet pressed into existence by discipline, by nerves held tight. The kind that could snap.
The walls seemed to hum around her, stone and plaster bending inward in her dazed vision, as if the room itself leaned closer to inspect her. Even the high ceiling felt like it dipped for a centimeter, letting her take in the paintings that bloomed across it: wide fields, an unblemished blue sky, tiny painted figures walking along rivers. An illusion of being outside. Not in a cell.
The bed creaked beneath her. The mattress firmed up as she shifted, like it was trying to help her sit, to steady the arm that had gone numb and trembled under her weight. Head still fogged, she looked at her right arm—bandaged, braced tight to her chest like a broken piece of someone else's body. It felt anesthetized, almost phantom, as if it belonged to a stranger.
I'm not dead. Again. Slowly, fragments of memory slotted back into place. The last thing she remembered was the beautiful dvergar woman tipping an antidote down her throat, something burning in her veins. Had they killed the dvergar after? Dragged Vythra to the Court of Nightmares? Or worse—brought her to Velaris. A gilded cage she'd never break out of.
She tried to sit up properly. Her body objected immediately—heavy, rigid, that sticky fatigue that comes after fever and too much blood lost. Her lower back flared, pain shooting down her legs like lightning, but she pushed through it, teeth grinding, forcing herself upright despite the vertigo. Nausea rolled through her. She nearly gagged on an empty stomach, feeling the absence of food burn in her belly.
When she decided to test her right arm, to coax nerves and synapses into firing—it was like being stabbed straight through the brain. A short, strangled sound escaped her lips. " Fuck. "
Layers and layers of bandages wrapped her forearm, so precise it was almost offensive. Someone had taken their time with her. From wrist to nearly the elbow, the linen was stained with muted, dark red. Not too much. Just enough to say: you were one breath away from losing this.
She looked down at herself. Clean clothes. Not hers. A simple soft shirt, a caramel tone that almost contrasted with the sick white of her skin after losing so much fluids, light and loose, not sticking to her. A dark green skirt, fastened at one side with three sets of small golden buttons that flashed when she moved. None of her belts. None of her patched fabric. No trace of the life she'd worn like armor.
Irritation flared hot, bright enough that for a heartbeat she forgot the pain. Someone had undressed her. Completely. Probably scrubbed her like laundry, maybe even waxed her, then redressed her like a doll in someone else's wardrobe.
" Seriously? " She rasped, her voice rough enough to scrape her ribs from the inside, sharp as a saw. " You could at least leave me my dignity... if you're going to take everything else. "
A small, grumpy noise came from under the blanket. Vythra went very still. The covers shifted like a small sea. A grey shape rose from the white softness, stretching, slow and royal. Misty. Round, accusing yellow eyes. Ears slightly flattened, like she'd just voted against the entire Night Court in a unanimous council.
Vythra's throat closed without asking her permission. " You... " Her voice came out too thin for someone who pretended to be invincible. " You're here. "
Misty meowed once, curt and offended that the question had even needed asking, then stepped onto Vythra's lap with calculated weight. The cat bumped her forehead into Vythra's chin, a small, stubborn impact. Vythra shut her eyes for a second, feeling frustration slide off her shoulders like a loosened boulder.
Her anchor. The only constant that didn't interrogate, didn't lie, didn't plan. Just a furious, small animal who somehow always found her, like the world had a hidden rule: Vythra is not allowed to be alone for too long.
" Good thing they didn't turn you into some kind of fae Barbie doll too. " She muttered, then stopped when she noticed the pink ribbon around Misty's neck—a neat bow against her white patch of chest fur. A prettier leash. Vythra unknotted it slowly, deliberately. Misty purred like an engine made purely of stubbornness.
On the bedside table, another ribbon appeared. As if conjured on a draft of air. This one pale blue, glossy, definitely silk. Expensive. Tempting.
Her cat was not being collared by anyone, not even with silk.
In the darkest corner of the room, a shadow shifted just before the heavy curtains drew back of their own accord. The fabric was thick, night-blue, sliding open with a soft hiss. Sunset eased through the windows, unhurried. Vythra pushed herself off the bed, legs shaky and bare against cold stone, and measured the distance to the balcony doors that refused to open, held by some invisible lock. She leaned on every piece of furniture she passed—a carved chair, a low table, the edge of a bookshelf—still too unsteady to trust her own balance.
She had definitely slept more than a day, judging by the way her body responded like something dragged out of a grave.
The first thing that stole her breath was the sky.
It shouldn't have been that beautiful, not with everything she'd been through. But there it was: a deep, ink-dark blue flooded with strokes of violet and warm gold. An aurora, green and almost teal, pulsed at the horizon, trailing like a veil over rooftops and spires. Hundreds of stars crowded the glass, pressing close to see the newcomer—she recognized some patterns even here: a crooked shape that might be the Big Dipper, a scatter that reminded her of Orion.
Far in the distance, past twisted rooftops and elegant towers, the sun tossed one last streak of fire over a river—a narrow silver curve she could just make out. It hissed and glimmered beneath the dying light, framed by a mountain range with three jagged peaks.
It all lay so far below that clouds, pale and misted, drifted between her balcony and the streets. From this height, the city looked like a jewelry box spilled open: tiny lanterns glowing on streets and eaves, warm beads of light strung along the bones of the city. This could only be Velaris, judging only by the sky. It was breathtaking, it was more magical when you lived it than when your read about it.
So, her fears became true. She was in a beautiful cage, but she must not be distracted.
The walls hummed again. Beside the balcony latch—already locked—another ward shimmered into being, like an extra bar sliding into place. Not yet, it seemed to say. Not for you.
As to apologize for the inconveniece, a teapot and a cup appeared at her side, steaming and radiating warmness. Her nausea stirred, refusing to leave. Vythra didn't touch any of them, only studied the handy craft of the paintings from the porcelain and the golden ridges.
Her heart shrank to the size of a pin.
Melancholy hit hard, sharp and suffocating. A sadness with no clean edges, tangled with regret. What was the point of seeing wonders like this if the people she loved weren't there? And now she couldn't even tell which people she meant—the ones from this world or the old one? Did they know she was gone? Did they look for her? Or had time simply stopped there, frozen in the moment she fell? Maybe only minutes had passed in that world while here months had bled away.
She'd lost track of how long she'd been thrown between deaths and wars and strangers' agendas.
Misty hopped up onto the little coffee table near the window. The cat fixed her with shiny, liquid eyes, and her tail brushed gently against Vythra's thigh. I'm still here, she seemed to whisper in her mind.
" I know. " Vythra whispered, voice frayed. " But I have so many holes in my soul I don't know how I'm still in one piece. "
The cat dipped one bold paw out of amusement into the tea, shaking it of any excess and licking it afterwards. Safe, she rose her head again than dipped another paw. The house rumbled around, like it was laughing at the creature's smartness. A bowl, smaller and inked with cat prints appeared at Misty's side, indulging her to eat what seemed like freshly cooked stew. The cat watched it weirdly, like it was to fussy for her likings, used to eat things more common, but dipped anyway and ate away the whole bowl, before another appeared.
A soft step sounded behind her. Not a warrior's stride. Not heavy, not stomping, not bristling with aggression. A measured, almost feminine pace, light but assured.
The door opened. Vythra turned, pupils flaring—fear, or nerves, or both. From now on, she was on foreign ground again. And she wasn't sure she could adapt one more time.
A woman stepped inside and halted in the doorframe when she saw Vythra standing. " You should still be in bed. " the woman said calmly. " Deep asleep. "
Vythra's gaze went straight to her eyes—brown, almost pure, with the faintest undertone of wine in the right light. A kind of brown so honest that for a heartbeat Vythra didn't know whether to cry or compliment her. The woman let her look, seemingly unbothered, quietly ticking off every bruise and half-healed wound on Vythra's body. There was something like approval in the way her gaze lingered on the fact that Vythra was upright at all.
" You healed my arm? " Vythra chirped, then immediately thought it was a stupid question. A second later, it became relevant again.
Tall and composed, dressed simply but spotless—like someone whose authority had been earned in silence—the woman's lips curved slightly. Fine lines deepened at the corners of her mouth, the kind that only years of frowning and smirking could carve into warm bronze skin. Her curly hair was pulled back with a pale blue band, strands of white threaded thickly through what once had clearly been coal-black.
" I did. " She confirmed. " If you're asking why it's not entirely finished—it's because your right arm required more work to restore full function. " Her tone was effortless, a low, soothing cadence that reminded Vythra of a harp string plucked gently. " But I imagine you already understand that. I've heard you know your way around healing. In your own... peculiar fashion. "
That maternal note again. Vythra felt it like a hook. That's going to be my curse, she thought. Collecting mothers in every world.
" I'd like to learn from you. " Vythra blurted, then blinked at herself. " Sorry. That... just came out. "
" It's all right. " The woman replied, smiling properly this time before closing the door and walking in. Her shoes—a soft, shimmering blue—clicked lightly over white stone floors in a steady rhythm. " I can show you whatever you're willing to learn. But I don't know how long you'll be allowed to stay here. You're expected downstairs. "
Vythra blinked. Then dropped her head a fraction and made a small, sour face, exhaling through her nose. " Did you come for something specific? " She asked, maybe a bit too acid. The woman had yanked her straight out of the movie playing in her own head.
" Tomorrow at ten, they'll bring you back to me so I can finish reconstructing your arm. " The healer explained, motioning toward the door as invitation. " My spells were too strong to be used all at once on a mortal. Your heart might have stopped. So, I did it in stages. That's why you slept so long. " She gestured lazily at Vythra's chest. " I had to reduce your blood flow and slow your heart. You'd lost more blood than was reasonable. "
They passed a tall cabinet carved into the wall, glass-fronted and crowded with books and bottled tinctures that faintly smelled like perfume. Near it, a narrow door stood slightly ajar, a hint of steam-scent and tile drifting out.
" The antidote you received did most of the heavy work, " she went on, " After that, I was left with the lighter task of repairing what the poison hadn't ruined. "
" I'm hard to take out of commission. " Vythra said, trying to sound less fragile than she felt. Misty gave a small, approving grumble, like a tiny bodyguard.
" I don't believe in luck. "
" That sounds more realistic. "
The healer's mouth twitched, the barest ghost of amusement. " Even so, there wasn't much I could do for your back. "
Vythra swallowed. One knee nearly buckled when another wave of pain shot down her thigh.
" You don't have to say it, " the woman continued gently, " My assistants and I cleaned and changed you. We saw some of your... scars. Unfortunately, the bone didn't heal properly before. I suspect you already know that. The fracture formed poor, porous tissue and several adhesions to the surrounding muscles. To fix it, I would either need to break the bone again, or begin a very long and risky process that could leave you with serious deficits from the waist down. "
Vythra opened her mouth to reply, but then lifted a hand instead. " No need to list them. I know the risks by heart. "
" Good. " There was no pity in the woman's eyes—only assessment. " You should also know it will always be a vulnerable area. Sensitive to extreme temperatures. Prone to chronic pain. To fragment shifts if you force it in combat without proper preparation. It will always be a weak point. " She paused. " But I may have a temporary solution I'm testing. "
" That would be... great. " Vythra said honestly.
" That depends on how long you remain here. "
" Of course it does. I'm going to be a crippled legend. "
" That's the part I find the most exhausting, " Patient. Prisoner. Problem.
As the healer turned toward the door, Vythra felt something else.
The chain. Deep in her chest, that fine, irritating vibration. Two invisible ends tightening and loosening to some distant storm's rhythm. Not painful. More like... alert. Pleased. Light as a feather. A lazy cat stretching in the dark, yawning, watching with red, ember-bright eyes.
Vythra frowned. " Who else is here? "
The healer paused in the doorway. " I don't know if you want the answer. " A tiny sigh, almost amused. " At least two of them are already in the House, " she explained, slender fingers holding her skirt lightly, so it won't brush the floor, " And one of them is very much not inclined to approve of your existence. The High Lady is on her way—with Amren and Morrigan. Quite the honor on your head. "
" I feel so welcome. " Misty jumped lightly to Vythra's shoulders, then settled her front paws over Vythra's collarbone like a living necklace. A silent promise: If anyone comes in with bad intentions, I claw their eyes out. " Fine. " Vythra whispered—to the ceiling, to the chain, to the whole damned Court. " Let's see who breaks me first. "
The woman didn't have to repeat the invitation. She slipped through the doorway like a ghost passing through a wall, almost silent, the hem of her blue skirts barely whispering over the stone. " Come. They won't wait forever."
Of course they wouldn't. Who was she, a mere mortal, in the face of all those mighty faes?
Vythra tightened her good arm around the cat draped at her neck like a living scarf. Misty allowed herself to be carried with an air of deeply offended dignity, tail flicking lazily against Vythra's shoulder blade.
Her soft slippers met stone for the first time—a cold, finely polished stone, pearl-pale and faintly reflective. Their shapes warped and stretched in it as they walked, like they were already being eaten by the House. The floor was spotless, the kind of surface that made every flaw in you feel louder just by contrast.
The hallway rose around her—high, indecently high, like the open throat of some enormous whale ready to swallow her whole. The same white stone lined the walls, broken at intervals by arches and deep-set niches. Purple flowers spilled from tall vases placed with precision, freshly cut, fragrant, as if someone changed them every morning before dawn. The air smelled of parchment, petals, and a breath of cold, salt-touched wind that drifted up from somewhere below, from the city and the river.
Her body remembered before her mind did. Her knees seemed to know the length of each step, the angle of every turn before her eyes found them. She'd walked here before—not with this flesh, not in this name, but through someone else's bones, in a dream that wasn't quite a dream. That first night in Thaibar, when Niven had found her and sleep had dragged her somewhere that wasn't sleep at all.
She wasn't even sure it was the same building. But the déjà-vu slid icy fingers into the back of her neck.
The woman descended first, taking the curve of the staircase with that unhurried certainty of someone who came here thousands of times before. The steps flowed down in a wide arc, not steep but sweeping, a ribbon of stone. The banister was carved from dark, glossy wood, its surface alive with whorls of leaves and wings, each feather and vein picked out by a patient hand and too many hours of work.
With every step, Vythra felt her knees complain, but pride kept her upright. She refused to reach for the woman's arm. She would only use furniture and cat as crutches. At least Misty didn't care if she used it to lean on her.
" You're walking well. " The stranger observed eventually, not as praise—just an entry in a ledger. " That's... reassuring. "
" Don't get attached. " Vythra drew her attention, playing with the band of her skirt. " I break easily. "
" Humans are... inconveniently unique. " The healer replied, giving her a sideways look. " Perhaps even more than we are. Fae fight for their own legacy. You lot... always fight for someone else's cause, and always die first. Then you let others take the credit. "
" Sounds like my demographic. " Vythra concluded, rising her freshly puckered brows. Her fingertips drifted along the banister, just the pads of her fingers, feeling the warmth of the wood. Old. Loved. The House seemed to breathe with her. A faint current of air slid down from above, brushing her ankles, circling them curiously. Measuring her.
She had been here. Not as Vythra, but like an intruder. As Cyan. As the ghost inside someone else's life. She'd roamed these halls with feet that weren't hers, studied corners, windows, rooms. The House of Wind. Where she'd taken the dagger.
Slowly, realisation iced her stomach.
I took it from here. Not from some nameless storage room, not from a market stall, not from a forgotten chest. From their House. From a mantelpiece where the heat had licked the handle so fiercely it seared her palm even in the dream.
Her gaze flicked to her left hand, searching instinctively for the faint white ghost of that old burn. Nothing. Too shallow to last. But the memory burned clearly enough.
Who noticed first that it was gone? Azriel, reaching for empty space? Rhysand, narrowing his eyes for half a heartbeat? Or some poor servant whose spine turned to ice at the sight of a bare place where steel should've been?
These were not people who took theft lightly. Especially not theft of something as intimate as a Shadowsinger's blade.
" You're thinking too loud. " She said, still descending, her voice almost amused. The blue of her skirts whispered in controlled waves. " You're making the House nervous. "
At her words, a set of doors snapped into existence on the left—a tall pair of dark wood panels where before there had been only blank stone. They lingered for a heartbeat, then faded again like a mirage, along with a thick rug that had appeared to cushion Vythra's feet and then vanished as if offended.
" The House can join the club. It's not the only one nervous. "
The hallways broadened. To the right, an opening revealed a training room—silent for now, but lined with racks of weapons arranged with almost reverent order. Swords by length. Daggers by curve. Spears like a forest of steel. Every piece polished, deadly, waiting.
Further down, another landing opened. The outer wall broke into a row of tall windows, floor to ceiling, letting afternoon spill in cold and bright. Velaris spread itself beneath her again, this time from a slightly different angle, as if the city was turning its other cheek. From here, the river glowed more clearly—a ribbon of silver and shadows, bridged by delicate arches. Lanterns dangled from the railings, tiny fires like insects of light inching along the water's skin. Small boats drifted lazily, like the city itself knew it was beautiful and didn't have to hurry.
It was a place she'd once only read about, sitting in her cheap bed from her old world, imagining how it would feel like to get lost in the city. Now, she finally had the audacity to see and feel it on her skin.
Just not as Feyre had. Not as a guest or as a High Lady in waiting. She would see it as a problem to be handled. As an anomaly. As leverage. A prisoner, not a guest.
The House seemed to sigh around her, the stone humming faintly, as if it already knew the scene waiting below: doors opening, heads turning, voices cutting off mid-sentence.
Vythra tightened her hold on the cat at her throat, squared her shoulders in her mind first, and kept going down. Every step felt like part of a countdown to the moment all those eyes would land on her.
She knew, broadly, what was coming. They hadn't dragged her here for hospitality. Rhysand would dig into her mind, peel her memories apart like threads and braid them back however he pleased. Cassian and Azriel would stand at the edges like guard dogs, and the others—High Lady, Mor, Amren—would watch, weigh, decide.
She'd lived a version of this before. Different faces, different titles. Niven and her family, seating her at their table, asking who she was, from where. Measuring her with their eyes, evaluating every answer, then deciding to accept her. To give her shelter. To give her purpose.
Had it ever been as benevolent as they'd made it sound? Or had they been forced into it by whatever bound them to this world, to the Mother, to their bargains? Had they truly loved her the way they claimed—or had it all been duty dressed up as affection? Maybe Shum had been right. Maybe he'd been the only lucid one among them, the only one not seduced by some sterile dream of "salvation."
He'd still been wrong to murder his own kin.
Her gaze dropped for a moment, sinking deep, anchored somewhere between past and ribs, and the pain that answered was so loud she didn't hear the House creak again—didn't notice the way a candle sparked to life on the wall beside her, a small, flickering tribute from the magic in the stone.
She didn't understand any of it anymore, but she let that thread unravel behind her. The dead deserved at least that much. In her old world there was a saying: Only good things must be said of the deceased.
Now came the luxury edition of the same process. Night Court instead of a human priest's household. Same role for her: placed in the center, stamped with the label complication.
And Malou? And Sorscha? The thought slammed into her from the side, right where her heart was supposed to be. She'd left them behind to save them, but her feelings still twisted imagining what they were doing now. Whether Malou had fully recovered. Whether Sorscha's hands still trembled. Whether they'd found the dagger she'd left. How long until they stormed in after her.
Last time she'd seen them, they'd all been covered in blood and poison.
Now she was alone. Again.
" Your heart rate is climbing. " The woman noted, not bothering to look back. " Try breathing. Slowly. I just fixed your arm. Don't make me reopen it. "
" You're very optimistic if you think breathing fixes impending interrogations. " Vythra concluded dryly, but she did as told. Cold air scraped down her throat, filling lungs that still felt too big for her ribs, scented with wax and something faintly sweet. " Who's waiting? "
" Everyone that matters to this Court. "
Vythra bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. " Is he going to go digging around in my head the moment I step in? " She asked, like she was asking about a procedure, not a complete violation.
" If he's merciful, he'll warn you first. " The stranger's tone didn't quite suggest confidence. " But mercy is in short supply these days. "
They descended another sweep of stairs. The staircase widened, turned more formal, more solemn. Paintings appeared along the walls: battles frozen mid-swing, night skies full of impossible constellations, and portraits. In one frame, a male with violet eyes and a smile that knew far too much. In another, a female with wings spread wide like a cloak of shadow over a city.
Vythra's stomach pulled tight. She knew who they were. She'd recognized them years ago, in cheap ink and mass-market covers, long before she ever imagined she might stand in their house. Now she was going to see them for real. Hear their actual voices. Discover just how much the books had lied—and just how much she had idealized people who, at the end of the day, had hunted her down, killed her, and were now hauling her in for judgment.
The chain in her chest vibrated softly, like a muted bell. Presence. Attention. Someone on the other end had just drawn in a long, careful breath.
They reached a broader, shorter corridor that ended in a set of heavy double doors. Dark wood, inlaid with black metal, the lines curling and looping like stylized wings. From beyond them came the murmur of voices. Not loud. Controlled. Now and then a word broke free, but never enough to form sentences. Just tones: irritation, curiosity, patience stretched thin.
Misty dug her claws a little deeper into Vythra's shoulder—not to hurt, but to anchor.
Vythra straightened her spine as much as the scar in her back allowed. Better that than crumpling. She lifted her chin with the stubbornness of someone who knows they're about to be stripped of every secret but refuses to undress themselves.
" Any final medical advice? " She asked, one corner of her mouth twisting into a bitter almost-smile.
" Yes. Don't lie about the things that matter. He'll find them anyway. Lie only about the things you can't afford to lose. "
And with that, she pushed the doors.
Conversation died instantly, as if someone had cut the rope holding all the voices up.
The main room wasn't as large as Vythra had imagined—not a cathedral, no throne hall with endless columns. More like a sitting room dragged up to the edge of indecency: tall windows thrown open to the night, a long table of dark wood, armchairs and couches arranged in soft, strategic clusters, thick midnight-blue rugs that swallowed footsteps. A fireplace burned along one wall, the flames moving in a calm, unhurried dance, as if called here for nothing more than warmth and ambiance.
Five pairs of eyes turned toward her. Six, if she counted Amren's—eyes that didn't seem entirely designed for a human face.
Cassian leaned against the table, arms crossed over his chest, wings relaxed but not careless, gaze tracking her posture from head to toe like an assessment he couldn't help making. Nesta sat ramrod-straight in a chair off to the side, one hand curved around the armrest, the other resting on her knee, blue eyes cold as ice, filtering every detail, judging whether or not it deserved to exist.
Mor was there too—annoyingly beautiful—head tilted, looking at Vythra like she was a new story thrown into an already complicated plot. Curiosity, a hint of sympathy, and something sharper behind it.
Amren, small and terrifying, stared straight through her. She was the first who actually stilled. Something in that ancient gaze snagged on Vythra's shape, on some invisible outline no other could see; Amren's throat bobbed in a small swallow at whatever she spotted, and then her eyes slid sideways—toward the fire.
Toward the fireplace that kept the flames from consuming them all. Just there, beside the mantel crowded with carefully placed crystals, stood Azriel.
He had chosen shadow, of course. Arched slightly against the stone, wings folded tight, his left arm draped lazily over the mantel in a posture that was too casual to be real. Exactly where Vythra remembered seeing, in that dream-walk, the dagger she'd stolen. The space was empty now, but her skin prickled at the memory of the heat in that handle.
He didn't spare her a full look. His eyes stayed on the wine glass cradled in his right hand, the firelight flickering in the dark surface, reflected in the garnet liquid. Only when she crossed the threshold did his amber gaze darkened by a shade, as if someone had lowered a curtain behind his irises. He didn't even spare her a glance of his own precious stock of criminal glances, like she was cheap and he ran too low on money. That cheap you can't even afford a look.
Vythra's chain grew heavy, as heavy as a lead coffin and suddenly, she didn't know what to do with her spare limbs. She chose to pet her cat, begging for some light retribution.
Azriel wore a simple black shirt, the kind that shouldn't have looked like a sin and yet absolutely did. Soft leather—or something just as indecent—clung to his built torso, the fabric pulling over muscle in a way that felt almost intentional. The sleeves were shoved up to his forearms, exposing veins and fine, burned scars that mapped his bronzed skin like old constellations. The top buttons had been left undone a little too casually, as if he'd suddenly grown warm, and the shadow between his collarbones sat there like it had been placed by a very biased artist.
His trousers, also black, were cut from a heavier fabric that hugged his hips and thighs before falling straight, held up by a worn leather belt nicked and creased by years of sheathing blades. Illyrian boots, scuffed at the edges and stained by mud and travel, said battlefields far more than velvet chairs. Nothing flashy. No embroidery. No jewels. Just clean, dark lines that let him be the ornament in the room.
And the way he stood—slightly tilted to one side, one shoulder propped against the wall, one hand buried in his pocket—meant anyone entering the room would miss him for maybe two seconds. After that, ignoring him became completely impossible.
At the far end, Feyre sat with her hands clasped in her lap, black onyx gown pooling like midnight around her. Her half-braided hair swept back in a crescent over her head, a small silver crown catching the firelight. Her blue eyes blinked once, quickly; her head tipped to the side with a doll-like confusion, as if she were seeing her own reflection in a warped mirror. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, and her gaze climbed almost reflexively to her mate, something like a question—like a plea—flickering there for a heartbeat.
He lounged against the edge of the table as though he wasn't invested at all, but the pose was too precise to be accidental. His hands rested loose on the wood, fingers slightly spread, and his wings were nowhere to be seen—but his power throbbed around him like a storm trapped in a jar. Those violet eyes swept over the others first, checking reactions, calming or stoking as needed. Then they landed on her.
On Vythra. On the body wrapped in their clothes, the carefully bandaged right arm, the murderous grey monster perched on her shoulder like an illegal crown. His mouth twitched, like he assessed the danger, as if Misty was some great dragon ready to bite his head off.
She felt filthy under that gaze. Stripped and catalogued. For one insane second, all she wanted was to hurl herself into the flames—her, the borrowed clothes, everything—and burn until there was nothing left but bone. Eternal agony felt almost simpler than standing there under all those eyes, all those silent verdicts.
No, you ruined the balance.
You've caused us a thousand problems.
I killed you once. I can do it again.
Just what we needed. Another one like me.
Everyone else blurred out for a heartbeat. For the first time since she'd woken, Vythra felt it clean and sharp: this wasn't a dream, or a book, or some scene she could snap shut by closing the covers. This was the main stage. No backstage. No props. Just her, shoved dead center in the cruel circle of light.
Every gaze in the room pinned her in place. And only one of them held anything close to... pity.
The woman beside her shifted, clearly sensing the tension. After a few strained seconds, she was the first to cut through it. She turned to Feyre and Rhysand, inclining her head in a quiet and respectfull way. " I've left her in one piece. " The politeness in her tone edged very close to a warning. " Please return her tomorrow by ten in the morning in the same state. " Without waiting for an answer, she swept out—no dramatic slam, just a soft rustle of fabric and a door that shut with gentleness.
And then Vythra really was alone with them. The main room felt designed for exactly this: a very civilized kind of interrogation.
The high ceiling, with its dark beams, held understated chandeliers of faelight that cast a steady glow, too even to give the shadows of the past a chance to hide away. Pale stone walls were warmed by tall bookcases and paintings of Velaris at night—rivers of light and stars rendered in precise strokes. To one side, a carved fireplace the size of a royal tomb burned low, logs popping now and then, throwing slow orange shadows across their faces. A room built to make you feel safe right up until someone hit you in the head with the truth.
Misty was the only creature present who looked completely unbothered. The cat slithered down from Vythra's shoulders like a lazy snake, then began circling her ankles like a one-cat royal escort: small, offended, utterly fearless. She started inspecting the place. Nose tucked into the edge of a rug, whiskers twitching at the leg of the table, batting at an invisible thread near an armchair.
The House reacted. A small ceramic bowl appeared on a side table, filled with thick, steaming milk. A heartbeat later, as if amused with itself, a tiny stuffed mouse blinked into existence on the carpet, rolling slowly until it bumped into Misty's paws.
The cat stared at it. Blinked. Then smacked it with one paw. The mouse rolled again, animated by a will that definitely wasn't feline.
The House was playing with her cat. Of course it was. The House of Wind had already picked its favorite. Not the human. The animal.
Vythra swallowed down a frayed, inappropriate laugh.
" Have a sit. " Rhysand said at last, voice almost gentle. He hadn't raised his tone. Didn't tack on a clear "please." But the word slid through the room like a command the stone itself acknowledged. The High Lord stood at the head of the long table—not on a throne, but close enough to it. He pulled his hands into his pockets, and with them retracted a good portion of the visible threat leaking off him. His violet eyes didn't bother pretending to be friendly.
Vythra wanted to be difficult. To remain standing. To slide bonelessly to the floor just to annoy him. Then she pictured herself through their eyes and decided she didn't want to. She wasn't even sure if her hair was brushed. That faded, bitter red now hung around her shoulders, tangled and dull, barely grazing them. Her awareness of her own body spiked—sweat-damp shirt clinging to her shoulder blades, bandaged arm heavy, knees loose.
Her legs made the easy choice for her. They were already going soft. They wouldn't have held her much longer after so many days of not being used. She sank into one of the chairs closer to the fireplace, back ramrod straight even as her spine screamed for more heat, more numbness. Every instinct begged her to cradle into a ball. She refused.
Nesta watched her sit with that chilling kind of focus that peeled right through bone. Head slightly tilted, as if Vythra had been personal enemy material for centuries already. Her hair was once more arranged in that intricate crown around her head, and her previous battle-dirty clothes were gone—replaced by a gown of smoky satin that clung and draped just so. Her sharp features, no longer washed out by nausea and exhaustion, looked even more honed now that she'd eaten and slept and stopped looking like an angry zombie.
Cassian pushed off from the door he'd been guarding and moved to stand near the back of her chair—not directly behind her, but a little to the side. Close enough to intervene, far enough to pretend he wasn't there like a prison guard.
Morrigan planted her elbows on the table, studying Vythra over the rim of her glass. Just like in the books, everything about her was a shade of red: dress, shoes, lips, even the stones in her earrings—a bright, unapologetic crimson that made her blonde hair seem even more striking, even more artificial.
For a heartbeat, Vythra wondered if in this world too people did the whole "dumb blonde" thing, or maybe if only in her old world this ethical problem still persisted.
Catching Vythra staring, Morrigan arched one delicate brow and brought her blood-red nails to her lips, a little smile curling at one corner.
She really did look like some inhuman version of Margot Robbie—if someone had taken the actress, sharpened the cheekbones, and replaced the soft Hollywood gaze with another that could demolish a person with just one look. Which, given Morrigan's powers over truth, was... thematically appropriate.
Amren didn't bother pretending. She'd taken up residence in her small armchair near another door, legs crossed, eyes gleaming with a smoky curiosity that didn't feel human at all. Her short hair flickering faintly whenever she turned her head.
They probably had the same height, her and Vythra, but the way the demon examined her, fingers tapping a slow, razor-edged rhythm on the tiny side table, it was giving her the sensation that this woman was, without discussion, superior to her.
This was what a parent-teacher conference in hell must have felt like.
Feyre and Azriel stood a step apart; Feyre closer to Rhys, Azriel fused to the fireplace, shadows making him look somehow taller, broader, more carved out of night than man.
" Good. " Rhysand intoned at last, slicing through the silence. " Let's not waste precious time. " His gaze slid from Vythra's face—her eyes still that sickly, washed-out blue, bruised with exhaustion—to the cat at her feet, who was busy pretending the High Lord of the Night Court didn't exist. " First of all, " he went on, in a tone so politely reasonable it made Vythra want to punch him, " you're safe. No one here will harm you. As long as you don't give us a reason. "
Extraordinarily. How comforting. She echoed the thought in her head like a bitter joke, them the last part just came out loud " All that's missing is you telling me your torture sessions come with scheduled water breaks. "
Cassian coughed once. It might have been a half-swallowed laugh. It might have been a warning. He'd changed since the forest: now wearing a sleeveless dark tunic that bared arms corded with muscle and ink—Illyrian tattoos twisting up his skin in thin spirals before breaking into harsh, slanted lines.
Rhysand's mouth curved, just a fraction. " We haven't gotten that far yet. " His eyes returned to her, sharpening. " What's your name? " He asked, as if he didn't already know.
Of course he wasn't in anything as simple as "clothes." Whatever Rhys wore was more thesis than outfit. A black shirt in some luxuriant soft fabric that caught the light like a raven feather, unbuttoned just enough. Over it, a long coat in a muted, dying-indigo so dark it nearly read as black, the hems edged in faint silver embroidery—stars and wings, only really visible when he moved.
" Vythra. " She declared abruptly, like she was pushed from behind by something. She frowned, feeling the words gathering in her throat, ready to spill out. It felt suffocating.
" The real name? " He pushed again, his lilac eyes narrowing. His features reminded her of Nimue more than she liked to admit. Even that malicious haze around him felt familiar.
She lifted her chin, like some invisible hands tilted it up more into the light. " I don't remember the old one. So this is the real one now. "
Across the table, Morrigan dipped her sharp chin, acknowledging the answer, gold eyes shining. Rhysand seemed satisfied enough with the truth he tasted there—but Mor wanted more. " Who gave it to you? " She asked, for the first time speaking directly to Vythra. Her voice was soft, melodic, but there was weight under it, something that tried to slip between the ridges of Vythra's shield and rip it apart from within.
The veins in Vythra's neck tightened. Fine. Half-truth, then, to keep Rose out of their claws. " A woman from Rosehall. She took care of me for a while. " And then she cut herself off, slamming inner doors shut the way Sorscha had taught her—layering it with Malou's mind-stilling, brick over brick. Wherever she didn't want them going, they could dissect hair strands all day. They wouldn't get in.
Nimue's potions hadn't managed to unearth her old name. She doubted dragging it back would help her now, anyway.
Morrigan tilted her head, chastising her silently with that faint twitch of her brows, then pursed her glossy lips, licking them once, like she'd finally found a story worth chewing on.
Azriel shifted somewhere behind her. Vythra felt it before she heard it—the faint scrape of boot on the ground, the swishing of clothes, of a person changing positions. Some masochistic part of her wanted to look back at him, to prove she hadn't lied entirely when she'd spoken about Rosehall in the forest. To show him there was truth woven into her bluff.
But he didn't need her confessions. Or her lies. Or her, full stop. He stayed leaned against the mantel, one hand loose around his glass, golden eyes flicking to her just long enough to confirm his hunch: he was listening to every word. And judging each one. The Spymaster was crueler than any of the other.
Another flash of ill silence climbed on the marble corners of the wall, dripping all over them. Vythra's pupils jumped from one to another, waiting for someone else to put another inculpatory question untill they might catch her with something she couldn't lie on. Her fist clenched further on her skirt, a subtle tension pressin on the back of her head. Overwhelmed was not a sufficient word to gather all the feeling that were wrestling in her weak body.
I should've stayed in bed.
Feyre studied her closely, like an artist squinting to see the sketch beneath a finished painting. " Where do you come from, Vythra? " Her voice got a surprisingly rough undertone. Vythra hadn't expected that—the legendary High Lady sounding like she'd swallowed winter and shards of glass. Years in the cold would do that to vocal cords, she supposed.
Vythra's mouth went dry. " From a world that doesn't exist for you. From another land. Another... universe. Pick whichever term helps you sleep at night. "
Amren made a short, unimpressed sound, her narrow nose lifting a fraction. " From another world. " She translated, bored, " How original. "
" And yet, " Rhysand cut in smoothly, folding his fingers under his chin like he'd almost forgotten he was the one leading this little show, " you walked into the Court of Nightmares like you owned the place, stole blades from Hewn City, knew how to find Rosehall, knew things about us you could not have learned here. " One dark brow arched in elegant disbelief. " Where, exactly, did you read about all of this? Tourist pamphlets? "
Vythra dug the nails of her left hand into the fabric of her skirt deeper, as she felt them taking her for granted. This was going to sound terrible. Embarrassing on a cosmic level. " In books. In my world. Books... about you. About all of this. You were fiction, to us. "
Rhysand's shifted in his place, the perfectly tailored trousers pulling smooth over long legs as he crossed them, polished boots making no sound on the rug.
" About us? " Feyre repeated, very slowly. " About... the Night Court? "
" About you. " Vythra explained further, lifting her gaze to the High Lady. " The books were written around your character. I know all your thoughts, your feelings, your choices. " Her throat worked once. " Then the rest of you— " she added, flicking a finger toward the others gathered around, " —you started as secondary characters. First Tamlin, then Rhysand, then Amren, Mor, Cassian, Azriel, Nesta. And Elain. "
Something cold slammed into the back of her skull as she spoke Elain's name. From under her, a mass of shadows emerged, sizzling, grabing the legs of her chair like their master wanted to throw her off of it. Across from her, Rhysand's attention sharpened into something almost lethal; he hadn't reacted to 'Tamlin' at all, but that... that got his eyes off the polite, lazy setting. Vythra had the sudden, feral urge to spit. Preferably in his wine.
She didn't want to think too much around the problem that the High Lord of Spring Court meant to them, nor wanted to show any sign that she wasn't entirely on the same page with them considering the way they treated that guy. She pushed the tought away completely. Elain included.
" About your war. " Vythra went on, forcing the words out. " About Hybern. About... a lot of things that probably haven't made it into your official histories yet. " Her voice wobbled at the end. Not from fear, but from something stranger, uglier: fury. The kind of anger only a fan could feel after meeting their heroes and discovering they were just people—messy, cruel, contradictory people who bled and lied and made the wrong choices, over and over.
Briefly, she remembered what she discovered in Draegan's office: the letter, the numbers, the grotesque history, the slaughtering. Her eyes closed, but this time, she couldn't peel away those murders.
Cassian straightened, interest flaring. " And what did this... book say about me? "
" We'll get to that. " The High Lord cut in, not bothering to look at him. His gaze stayed on Vythra, pinning her to the chair. " Right now I'm interested in something else. How many of these books exist? How many people know about us, in your world? "
The question wasn't entirely stupid. Maybe he was thinking that many more could break through the veil, like she did, and end up trapped here. This could be a breach in their security system, maybe some will get to the wrong side and spill all of their secrets to wrong people. Many could also die, the way Vythra did. But, not many could still come back.
" Enough. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Maybe hundreds of thousands. It's... a pretty popular series. "
Mor's head tipped back, golden hair shimmering in the faelight. " A series? " She echoed, half-incredulous, half-delighted, as if someone had just told her there were songs written about her favorite disaster.
Contradictory emotions were written all over their faces. They tought she was mad and lying.
" Books. " Vythra explained, her fatigue turning sharp at the edges—acid. " More than one. Whole volumes. Don't worry—most people just draw you in compromising situations on the internet. No one actually believed you were real. "
" Inter... net? " Cassian murmured, eyes narrowing as he tried to wrestle the word into sense. " Inter... like between...? "
" Until you fell here," Amren observed, cutting off the warrior.
" Until I was thrown here, " Vythra corrected, meeting Amren's stare without flinching. " I didn't choose this. "
" Who threw you? " Amren leaned forward just slightly, like a blade testing the space between ribs. Her eyes gleamed. " Who sent you? "
" I don't know. I only know I was in my universe, in my body, dealing with my own... problems, and then I was in Thaibar. In an... oasis." Suddenly she felt naked. Not physically—she was covered, clean, wrapped in their fabric—but stripped anyway, like they could see the seams of her existence and were already picking at them.
Rhysand folded his fingers, then glanced at Amren—his second, his shadow of authority—as if they were conspiring against the entire world with a single look. " We'll circle back to that later. Let's return to something more... immediate. The monsters that attacked you in the forest. Who sent them? "
The dream flashed behind Vythra's eyes: red armor, a sword that threw sparks. That voice— Take her alive. She inhaled sharply. " I don't know who they are. But they're not mine. "
" But they want you. " Feyre said plainly, no softness to cushion it. Just truth placed on the table.
" I guess so. " Vythra pressed her heel into the floor to keep herself from fidgeting, from showing how the word made her stomach tighten. " Which, honestly, seems to be a recurring theme. "
" And what are you, " Mor asked, head tipped as if she were studying a new story she hadn't decided whether to enjoy yet, " that so many want to catch you? "
" Tired. " Vythra answered. " Very tired. "
Cassian rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in his skull. " Just tell them you're a witch already. Three of us witnessed what you did with the forest. "
" If you're implying I summoned creatures to hunt me, bite me, and poison me, " Vythra snapped, " then yes—absolutely. I called them to save me from your thrilling, impending, impossible lecture. "
Rhysand didn't smile. " You said, " he continued slowly, voice softening into something far more dangerous than shouting, " that you knew what was coming. That we'd drag you here, that I'd—your words—'play peekaboo in your mind,' and that the others would 'fly around me like two obedient bees and get honey if they behaved.' "
" I'm sorry. " Vythra said, not sounding sorry in the slightest. Her eyes stayed on Rhysand's. " That's what I read. "
Rhysand's expression darkened—though at the corner of his mouth, an almost microscopic smile still toyed with the air, like he couldn't help himself. " Then you also know what I can do. How I can step into someone's mind. How I can break, remake, manipulate. " His violet gaze sharpened, landing like a pin. " You know things about my wife that many in this world couldn't possibly know. About her sisters. About our wars. About... the bonds between us. "
" I know enough. " Vythra confirmed. " And no. I'm not reciting spoilers to you. " A dry breath left her nose—too close to a laugh, too close to a snarl. " I already have enough people who want me dead. I'm not about to ruin your timeline on top of it. "
" Timeline. " Amren repeated, as if tasting a suspicious wine.
" Events. " Vythra translated, flat. " If I tell you too much, I change the future. And however tempting it would be to avoid certain... events—we might break something more important. "
" A witch with a sense of responsibility. " Morrigan murmured. " How sweet. "
Cassian hummed his agreement a little too fast, a little too eager—like he'd always approve whatever Mor said just because it was Mor.
Vythra's mouth twisted. Maybe Eris had a point about that weird Illyrian vice of—
Nesta cut in, ice to the throat. " You could be lying. Inventing some prophecy. Playing us like fools. "
Vythra met her stare head-on, unblinking. " Yes. I could. " Her voice stayed steady even as her pulse tried to claw up her neck. " Wouldn't be the first time I lied to survive. "
Then Azriel spoke. " You were telling me about Rosehall. " The room shifted around those words—like someone had adjusted the weight of the world. No one interrupted him. Even Mor's smile softened into attention. Even Amren's predatory stillness sharpened. " Before you stabbed me in the leg. " He added, almost as an afterthought.
Vythra felt sweat slip down her spine, cold and thin. Regret hit her hard—sharp enough to taste. Why did I ever open my mouth. She felt him move—not hurried, not aggressive. Controlled. The way a storm approaches: slow, inevitable. The edge of the rug marked a boundary like a ring of salt, and she sensed him stepping closer to it, his shadow swallowing hers.
" You said someone important hides there. " Azriel continued. " That she treated your wounds. " His amber eyes didn't blink. " Tell me exactly. When. How you got there. What she did. " It wasn't a question.
" The truth is: I don't know who your mother is. I've never met her. "
Mor lifted her other brow, faintly—then nodded once at Azriel, as if granting him the right to continue carving.
" I died in Thaibar. " Vythra went on, voice tighter now. " I was... shattered. My soul wasn't clinging to anything. " She swallowed, and for a second the room blurred around the edges. " I woke up at Rosehall. A woman washed the blood off me. Wrapped my injuries. Prayed over my head for days. Fed me soup that was too salty... " A small, unwilling smile slipped into the corner of her mouth. Nostalgia. A weakness she didn't like showing. " She gave me this name. Vythra. " Her gaze drifted, just for a heartbeat, somewhere far away. " She said you can't start a new life with the same name you died with. "
But something in his eyes... shifted. Not warmth. Not mercy. Something worse—something human. " If you never met her, how did you know where my mother is? "
Vythra's spine stiffened. She forced her chin up. " I told you. I read. " A short pause, the kind that stung. " In my world. " Her arteries throbbed again—like someone had poured an elixir into her blood that made it harder to dodge, harder to soften anything.
Cassian tipped his head back and closed his eyes for a brief second, like the conversation physically pained him. Rhysand bit the inside of his cheek, expression carefully neutral.
" Beautiful. " Amren said at last. " So we have a mortal from another world with access to an... edited version of us. Who lived and died in enemy territory, woke in Rosehall, and is now hunted by smoke-made beasts. " Her gaze dragged over Vythra like she was inventory. " And for dessert—she carries a kind of magic even I haven't seen. With the delightful possibility that it's something... malignant. "
Rhysand's gaze pinned her—sharp, violet, suddenly real in a way it hadn't been a minute ago. " How many others know about you? " he asked, and for the first time the tension bled openly into his voice. " About what you carry. About the power in you. "
Vythra answered too fast—like the word had been sitting on the tip of her tongue for days, waiting to be ripped out. " Nimue. And maybe two or three more. Not many. " Her mouth pulled into something bitter. " The rest think I'm insane. "
A rope wrapped aroung her tongue, wanting to get that other name out: Eris. Eris might be another person that suspected something. But she couldn't drag him in this too, knowing no one here tolerated him, either.
" Nimue. " Rhys repeated, already drawing invisible lines between points. His fingers flexed once on the wood. " I've never heard of her. "
" Of course you haven't. " Vythra lifted her brows, the expression practiced—sharp enough to look brave, desperate enough to be true. " And you probably haven't heard of Sorscha or Malou either. " Vythra leaned into it anyway, because she'd learned the hard way that silence got you killed faster than arrogance. " Because they didn't exist in your world before I fell into it. They weren't in the books. They weren't supposed to exist. "
The room tightened around that statement. If her simple existence here could delete or bring into existence people, she might be more dangerous than they anticipated.
" And those last two helped you slipped into my territory and stole the daggers. Yes? Who are these women? "
" I don't— " Vythra started, and swallowed hard, the acid of it burning up the back of her throat. " Malou is— and Sorscha— " Her good arm hugged the lining of her sleeve as if she could physically hold her insides in place.
Then Morrigan moved. Not even dramatically—just a subtle flex of her fingers on the table, like she was adjusting a ring. Like she was loosening a knot. And something inside Vythra unspooled. A hidden tap twisting open. Words trying to crawl out of her mouth against her will. Her teeth snapped down. Vythra bit Morrigan's imaginary knuckles—hard. She tasted blood and copper and rage.
Mor's power still brushed at her throat. Vythra lifted her head slowly. Her eyes flashed—green, ugly with warning. Mor's expression flickered, a hairline crack in the mask. She yanked her hand back from the table as if she'd been burned.
Rhys's head turned, fast. Shock cut through his calm for half a beat.
Vythra didn't give them time to speak. " Do that again and next time you'll leave this room without fingers. "
Mor's gaze sharpened into something mean. " Excuse me? "
Misty—bored of their tension, bored of their posturing—leapt onto the table like she owned it. Because she did. The House clearly agreed. She padded straight toward Rhysand first, tail high, ignoring the concept of personal space with regal contempt. She sniffed him thoroughly—once at his sleeve, once at his hand, once at the air near his throat as if deciding whether he was edible.
Then she turned and sauntered toward Mor. Misty leaned in—and sneezed right in her direction. Mor's face tightened, offended on a spiritual level.
" That doesn't work. " Rhysand said finally, shifting his weight. " She's not focusing well on what matters and she didn't give us anything. "
" You're upset she won't tell you everything on the first meeting? " Amren drawled, eyes bright with mean delight.
" I'm saying there are too many... variables. " Rhys's tone stayed controlled, but the edge was back now—knife-thin. " I'm not putting holes in her mind in front of an audience. And I'm not discussing the future of my Court in the middle of my sitting room. " His gaze returned to Vythra like a hook finding skin. " We continue in my office. " He announced, and the word office sounded suddenly like a cell dressed in velvet. " Only those who need to be there. The rest— "
" I'm not going anywhere. " Nesta cut in. " I was there. I saw what she did. I'm staying. "
Rhys weighed them for a heartbeat, then he exhaled through his nose. " Only Azriel. Cassian and Amren. " His eyes flicked briefly to the others—Feyre, Mor—an unspoken later. " This has already been discussed in detail with them. Too many voices will muddy it. "
Vythra's stomach dipped as the room began to move, decisions clicking into place without her consent. She trembled—not visibly enough to satisfy them, but enough that she felt it in her bones. She was being carried again. Not by hands this time—by authority.
Mor lifted both hands theatrically, brows arched. " You're throwing me out? Charming. "
Misty yawned widely, showing teeth, and curled her tail around Vythra's wrist like a warning bracelet.
And Rhysand—still watching Vythra like she was an equation he intended to solve—tilted his head. " Get up. "
The House heard it. The air heard it. Vythra's spine heard it. And somewhere deep in her chest, that invisible chain gave a small, anticipatory hum—like it knew exactly what door they were walking toward next.
" I want at most one extra person making inappropriate jokes. " Rhys said flatly. " The rest of you are just distractions. "
Mor twirled her glass between two fingers, a slow, wicked dance. " Fine. But if it ends in blood, I want details. "
" There won't be any blood. " Feyre cut in, sudden and firm, her tone slipping effortlessly into High Lady. " We're not doing things the... old way. "
Rhys straightened, smoothing a hand through his hair. " Of course not. "
Vythra's stomach rolled, a cold wave cresting under her ribs. " And if I refuse? "
Rhysand held her gaze without blinking. " Then you remain a dangerous enigma—one who knows far too much about us, who is being hunted by creatures scenting your blood, and who wields a kind of magic no one here has ever seen. " His shrug was disturbingly casual. " And I'll be forced to treat you as a threat until I learn more. I dislike the idea. But I can. "
She pushed herself slowly to her feet. Her knees ached, her spine crackled in protest. Misty hopped down from the table at once and trotted to her side, tail held high like a tiny black banner. " Fine. Let's go. You can finally see what you wrote without knowing you wrote it." She paused, letting her eyes drift over them—her supposed heroes. They weren't what she had imagined. Maybe she wasn't either.
Then she followed Rhysand to his office, Misty pressed to her ankle, her heart battering against her ribs like a bird trapped in a gilded cage too beautiful to be real.
Rhysand's office smelled faintly of ink and polished wood.
The door closed behind them with a polite little click, entirely unsuited for what was about to unfold. The room wasn't large, but it had that luxurious-cage feeling: pale stone walls tamed by dark wooden panels, a towering bookcase in the corner overflowing with thick tomes, rolled maps, jars of sand, crystals, parchment. A massive black-wood desk claimed the space by the window, where a whole wall opened into the night—Velaris glittering below like a fallen constellation.
On a side table waited a silver tray with wine, delicate glasses, and fruit sliced too beautifully to touch. A deep midnight-blue carpet swallowed their footsteps. The fireplace murmured, gold and warm, as though it had never witnessed interrogation of any kind.
Vythra found herself guided—politely, almost tenderly—toward a solitary chair placed in the center. Not comfortable. Not uncomfortable. Perfectly calibrated to unsettle.
Rhysand positioned himself on the corner of the desk, one hip resting against the carved wood, arms folded loosely across his chest. He looked like he was lounging, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. His violet eyes swept over her again, calculating.
Cassian had taken up the opposite side of the desk, big arms crossed, wings tucked tight. He looked relaxed, but his gaze flicked constantly between Vythra, Rhys, and Azriel—measuring the air.
Azriel stayed near the window, a shoulder propped against the stone. His earlier glass had vanished, as if he'd discarded every distraction for the role he was about to play. Shadows slid over his ankles, his wrists—restless. His gaze rose to meet Vythra's for a single heartbeat, the amber darkening.
Misty curled at Vythra's feet, tail a stiff black line, eyes narrowing. The moment they stepped fully into the room, the cat's playful façade vanished. She wasn't toying anymore. This was serious.
Vythra's mouth dried out. Still, she dragged her chair an inch closer to the center of the carpet, as if she were the one assessing them.
" So... Vythra. " Rhysand began. " Or do you prefer another name? "
" This one's the least revolting at the moment. " She replied, sitting down. Her back protested, but she refused to touch the chair's support. " Let's stick with it. "
" Very well. Vythra, you're here because you're a problem. And—potentially—a solution. For us and for our world. I don't mean that as an insult. And considering the gaps in your memory—whether natural or... imposed—I'd like you to let me help us find the core of the truth. "
Vythra didn't look impressed. Her brain was doing cartwheels inside her skull—half lucid, half muffled by whatever medicine still drifted through her blood. " I know you're not the bad guys. But you didn't exactly give 'good guys' either. You hunted me across continents, terrified me, and one of you actually managed to kill me. "
" Yes, when you broke into the treasury of Hewn City. " Rhys reminded her, lifting a finger. " Let's not forget that part. I assume you know that what sleeps inside you has two faces: one benevolent, one catastrophic. When you stole the weapons and vanished, we feared you might become a Tiamat—that your witch-side had already tasted chaos magic and was being corrupted. Try to understand our perspective. "
" Would've been easier to just ask. " Vythra muttered, shrugging. Amren hissed under her breath. " I know what a Tiamat is, and how someone ends up becoming one. But that thing you're all so afraid of—it's still asleep. "
" Not entirely. " Cassian said. He had been silent until now, merely observing, but he placed one broad hand on Rhys's desk. " I saw how you controlled the forest. "
" To save Nesta. " Vythra shot back.
" How can you admit you've read about us, " Amren drawled from her seat, ruby ornaments clinking as she shifted, " and then accuse us of not simply asking whose side you're on, when you of all people should know the rules here. You have no idea what you're dealing with. "
" Fine. Have it your way. Let's get to the terms and conditions, then. "
" Term one: How did you break the barriers between worlds? "
" Amren, you of all people should know the veil is already thinning by the second. I didn't break it. " Vythra said, glancing back at her. " I fell through an already existing hole. Big difference. One requires intent. The other just requires being unlucky enough. "
" You're not just unlucky. " Amren narrowed her eyes. " You're an anomaly. You've died three times and you're still here. You've slipped in and out of the Court of Nightmares like it's a kitchen door. That's not just misfortune, girl. "
" Maybe it's a talent. " Vythra lifted a brow. " Didn't exactly have time to add it to my résumé. "
" We're not here to trade clever lines. " Rhysand scolded her. " We're here because I need to know what you are. Where you came from. Who else knows about it. And how much you threaten this world's balance. "
" Love how you phrase it like you've never threatened anything in your lives. " Vythra sighed. " Pretty sure the Illyrians would disagree. " The silence that followed was heavy enough. Cassian's jaw locked. Azriel's wings went taut, tension shivering along the membranes in a barely-there tremor.
" Let me into your mind. " Rhys's voice softened, somehow heavier for it. " Before you say no, understand this: I'm asking permission. I'm not taking it. And I won't touch you—won't touch anything—without it. " He pushed off the desk and stepped forward. Power trailed after him like a second shadow, deep midnight-blue and indigo, smelling of ozone, summer rain, and something bittersweet, like crushed cocoa beans warmed by the sun.
Vythra's fingers dug into the arms of the chair. " And if I say no? "
" Then it will take us longer to reach the same truths. " He said honestly. " Through questions. Pressure. Mistakes. We don't have that kind of time. Neither do you. "
" In translation, " Amren added, " either you let him in, or we will be forced to become... less polite. "
" Can't wait to see the 'less polite' version. I thought we already did the full tour. " Breathe. In. Out. Her lungs burned like they were lined with ash.
Azriel's eyes flicked to her, quick. A silent warning: don't push too far.
" Fine. " She said at last. " But listen very carefully to me, High Lord. " She locked her gaze with his. " Do not force the locked doors. If they're closed, they're closed for a reason. Some things, once you see them, can't be unseen. And they will change what comes next. Not in a way you're going to enjoy. " She thought, sharply, of Feyre—of how, by now, there should have been a child forming quietly under her ribs. But there wasn't. That thread of the future had to be guarded at any cost.
" You're asking me to be gentle. " Rhys said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small, rueful smile. " Not my most natural talent. "
" I'm asking you not to be an idiot. " She shot back. " You need me. There's no point in detonating the bomb before you've used it. "
Rhys exhaled, a short breath that felt like him drawing every frayed edge of his power inward. " Then I'll warn you: this is going to sting. " He came closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that she could feel the whisper of his breath, wine-soft and threaded with something darker. He raised one hand, holding it a few inches from her temple, fingers steady. " May I? " He asked again.
Vythra drew in a slow breath. Misty gave a low, disgruntled growl at her feet. " Go in. But if you get lost in there, I'm not coming to find you. "
His power descended. Not like an explosion. Like a cold, lucid tide rising around her ankles, then her calves, then her thighs. She felt it seep beneath her skin, slide along the back of her neck, press into her sternum, slip through places inside herself she hadn't known existed. The scent of storm air—of sky just before the rain breaks—flooded her senses. The edges of the room blurred. Voices thinned, stretched, faded.
By the time she realized she wasn't sitting in the chair anymore—that she was suspended somewhere between—it was already too late. Her mind was not a neat corridor of doors and drawers.
It was a burned field. The sky overhead was the color of old blood, dried and flaking: a tired, crusted red. In the center rose a structure of bones—a warped city made of skeletons, ribs arched into bridges and gates, spines twisted into stairways, skulls stacked into domes that leered without eyes. Every step crunched on shards of something that had once been whole.
Rhysand felt it like a punch to the chest. This wasn't just memory. This was impact fossilized into landscape. Fear, death, survival—all hammered so deep they'd turned into architecture. There, at the core of it all, he sensed it: a mark burned into the very air. A name without letters, a place without geography. But his mind supplied one anyway. Thaibar. Etched so deep into her that the world inside her skull had rearranged itself around it.
He perceived her two ways at once: the woman sitting stiff in the chair, knuckles white on the armrests, and the echo of her that had walked these bone-bridges, bled on this scorched soil. Her thoughts fluttered against his power like moths against glass. Her shame, her fury, the stubborn, exhausted refusal to break—he felt it all, raw and unfiltered, brushing against him, testing him.
Vythra felt that perception like hands on glass—like someone reading not just her memories, but the grooves they'd carved into her. She felt violated, stripped bare under that violet gaze that now saw too much. But she did not pull him out. She let the violet current of his magic move further, deeper, skimming the edges of what she'd sworn to hide, of futures tangled like threads in the dark. She held the doors open with everything she had, even as she allowed him to walk the wasteland.
Deeper into the field of bones. Closer to the thing that slept beneath it. At the edge of the burned field, the world thickened. A mass of shadows waited there—presences without faces, without names. One shape resolved into a woman hanging from nothing, neck bent at an impossible angle. Another stood eyeless, dark hollows where sight should have been, staring at him with a gaze he could somehow feel. Behind them, a farmhouse burned, flames eating through wood, roof collapsing in a shower of embers.
Then her hands—Vythra's hands—closed around a dagger, squeezing it deeper in that stranger's heart. Nails breaking skin. The girl's mouth opened in a soundless scream as her legs kicked, as the light left her eyes. Figures stood around her, one disfigured, wearing a crown, one with long, black hair, holding a hammer.
Rhysand didn't know any of them. He didn't know their names, their stories, their worlds. But he felt Vythra's horror. Felt her guilt pour through the memory and into him, hot and curdled, as if he were the one with blood on his hands. As if the weight of that body had dragged down his own wrists.
He pushed on. The circle of scorched earth broke, and he crossed its boundary as if stepping through a ring of fire. The landscape snapped and shifted. He found himself in a strange room, four walls wrapped around objects he didn't recognize—smooth boxes that hummed faintly, thin glowing panes, cables coiled like snakes. It was a world that made no sense to his Illyrian instincts.
On the table, a cat stretched lazily, swatting at a frozen fly caught mid-air. Time here had snagged; dust motes hung suspended like tiny constellations. And in the center of that stillness, a creature held Vythra's face between long, pale claws.
Rhys saw the angle of her jaw, the way those talons dug into her skin, drawing lines that would become the scars she still wore in the waking world. Her eyes were wide, wild, desperate. The being's features blurred and wrong, as if reality itself refused to give it a clear outline.
Samael, the thought flashed through his mind. Quick as a knife. A name wrapped in cold. The room vanished as the floor gave out under him.
He fell through torn skies. Through worlds layered atop one another like the soggy, stuck pages of a ruined book. Each time he passed through one, he caught only fragments: a city of metal and glass, lit by cold, artificial stars; a field under three pale moons, grass glowing faintly blue; a black tower wrapped in fog, windows like watching eyes. Whenever his mind tried to name them—whenever a voice from the outside world tried to pin a label—something ripped the word away, leaving a bitter taste of lost behind.
Once. Twice. Ten times. Her name was lost. A scream. A flash of light. Impact. Thaibar, again. He glimpsed the oasis first: turquoise water, palms swaying, sun like molten gold overhead. Peace, for a heartbeat. A white deer watching her sleep. A hand that was offering an evanescent family.
Cyan. The girl named her.
Then the trauma came roaring back like a tidal wave of ice. Blades. Smoke. Screams shredding the air. The scene fractured into splinters—steel flashing, bodies falling, magic roaring loose. He saw a prison, stone slick with damp, and felt Vythra's power recoil when two silhouettes descended into the dark, searching for someone.
He watched Vythra die. Lungs filling with blood, each breath a drowning. The cold of the stone pressing against her cheek. The chain hooked somewhere deep in her chest yanked her backward, away from the dark, away from rest. Pain—raw, white, vast.
Rhysand braced, but it still slammed into him. Through the filter of his own power he felt it: what it was to die and be dragged back again, like being ripped from a dreamless sleep by hands that did not care if they broke you in the process. What it was to not want to return.
Niven. Niven. Niven. The name hammered against his temples, pulsing, relentless. For a moment he felt himself tipping, sliding into a spiral of madness—down, down, where nothing made sense and everything hurt.
Then the current wrenched him away. He rose above an ocean, saw a ship rolling under black waves, lightning carving the sky. Another flicker: Rosehall, looming like a memory that didn't belong to him. A monastery corridor, cool and dim, a woman's hands deftly wrapping bandages around torn flesh. Warmth. The clean sting of herbs.
A door slammed in his face. You're not allowed here. Vythra's voice boomed inside his head, echoing through his own skull. He flinched—not in body, but in mind—realizing that even here, inside her, she still held some lines he could not cross.
The world shuddered and lurched again.
War. The clash of steel and stone. The brutal, grinding conflict of the dverg people, sparks flying from their hammers like tiny stars. A cabin crouched in a forest, smoke curling from its chimney. Malou laughing with a cruel, bright delight. Sorscha sighing, tired down to the bone. Training in a courtyard: sweat, rain, blood mingled in the dirt. A dark presence trying to take over her mind and soul, chanting for her, calling after her. Vythra falling. Getting up. Falling again. Running like a lunatic through Hewn City's streets, shadows and marble and fear pounding in her chest.
A roofline, sharp against the night. A figure made of shadow perched on the tiles, cloaked in darkness that hissed and curled. Azriel. He felt her terror. Then Vythra died again—this time choking on poison, her body convulsing, agony searing through every nerve as her muscles locked and spasmed. Her vision narrowed, then went white.
Rhysand moved through all of it as an intruder, boots sinking into the mud of her memories. He'd expected to find fear of him here. Maybe awe. Maybe that twisted sort of reverence people sometimes developed for their own executioners. He'd half-prepared himself to see his own face, crowned and terrible, reflected in her nightmares.
Instead, he found disgust. Bone-deep exhaustion. A bitter, splintered irony. Longing for her home. Regret after a lost lover. And beneath it all, a ragged, stubborn love—shredded, but still alive—for too many worlds that had never fully wanted her. Worlds that had used her, then cast her out like a stray. Hate towards a father figure and hope to find another mother figure.
He tried to go deeper. The shattered landscapes drew inward, folding in on themselves. In their place rose a short corridor, walls smooth and pale, stretching just a little way ahead. Doors lined both sides: some white, some black, some banded in iron or scratched and splintered. A few stood barely ajar. Most were locked tight, swaddled in chains of light and shadow.
As he passed them, he saw white coats, weird cities, unknown people. He knew—instinctively—that everything essential was behind the locked ones.
His power reshaped itself, fingers made of dark starlight reaching toward a door that pulsed faintly. The wood was carved with a familiar sigil: the symbol of the Night Court, cracked straight through the center.
Not there. Vythra's voice rippled through the corridor, warping the space. I told you not—
But curiosity, and that old, poisonous need for control, and his fear for his people—all of it converged. He pushed. The door creaked open a sliver. That was all it took. Feyre. The River House. A fire roaring in the hearth. Feyre sitting in an armchair, a plain dress falling over her legs, one hand resting on her stomach. Round. Full. Pregnant. She smiled with a kind of quiet he had rarely seen in their world. A fragile, impossible peace.
The vision blew apart. I SAID NO.
The word wasn't shouted—it erupted. The door slammed with a force that wasn't his. All the doors in the corridor crashed shut at once, the sound reverberating through the entire mental landscape. The chain in Vythra's chest snapped taut and lashed outward, striking him like a whip made of fire.
His power was ripped free of its hold, torn out of her mind and hurled back into his own. The link shattered. They came back almost in the same heartbeat.
Rhysand staggered half a step backward, sucking in air like someone had kicked him in the ribs. His hand still hovered in the air where her temple had been, fingers trembling. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing most of the violet. He reached, almost unconsciously, for his throat, as if an invisible hand still gripped it.
Vythra was rigid in the chair, as if a bolt of lightning had gone through her. Her breathing came in harsh, broken gasps. Sweat slicked her skin, darkening the hair pasted to her temples. Her green eyes glowed, almost fluorescent in the low light.
Misty was perched on her chest, fur standing on end, tail bottle-brushed. The cat hissed at each of them in turn, a warning in every sharp exhale. A thin trickle of blood slid from Vythra's nose, cutting a red line down to her lip. " I warned you. " Vythra rasped, voice shredded. " I told you not to open locked doors. "
" What did you do? " Amren was already on her feet, metallic eyes narrowed to slits. The edges of her power sharpened the air. " What did you show him? "
" What he chose to see. " Vythra spat back. " But now he won't see exactly that in reality. Congratulations, High Lord. You just changed the path. Proud of yourself? "
Rhysand tried to speak. Nothing came out. His jaw flexed, his throat worked, but the words—those words, the ones about what he'd seen—jammed somewhere below his vocal cords. Pressure built there, a tight, burning knot. He could feel the shape of the knowledge, but it would not pass his lips. His gaze slid to Vythra. Shock. Frustration. And beneath both, a thin, undeniable vein of real fear—not for himself, but for what this restriction meant.
" You're not allowed to say it. " She said quietly, as if simply naming a law that already existed. " To anyone. At any time. If you try, it's going to hurt. I'm done watching timelines shatter because you lot don't know how to respect boundaries. "
" What did you do to him? " Amren all but growled. " You can't bind the tongue of a High Lord— "
" I'm not the one at fault here. If he saw clearly, the thing that brought me here forbids us to do that. " Vythra shrugged with one shoulder, though her bandaged hand trembled. " I didn't write the rules. I just keep getting thrown into them. And dying in them. Repeatedly. "
" You've broken the balance. " Amren hissed, taking a step closer. Her power coiled, heavy and hot in the air. " You tore the veil and fell on top of us, dragging that infernal power and the things behind it into our world. Now you dare to tie our hands— "
" I broke the balance? " Vythra laughed once, a short, empty bark. " You hunted a mortal across worlds. You killed her three times. You sent beasts and spies, made bargains to drag her here dead or alive. And I'm the problem? Really? "
Cassian shifted. Not into a fighter's stance—not toward her—but a small step to the side, like he needed to feel the ground under his feet again. His eyes were glazed with something that wasn't quite shock, wasn't quite horror. He'd seen enough of Rhys's reaction to know this wasn't normal, not even for them.
Azriel remained in his corner, but the shadows had lost their neat discipline. They coiled around his boots, climbed his calves, quivering. They'd tasted her panic, her defiance, the holy wrongness of what had just happened and didn't know whether to attack or protect. They clung to him like restless dogs, ears pricked, teeth bared.
" You went rifling through my mind and expected to find what? " Vythra went on, her voice rising, rough around the edges. " Admiration? Devotion? 'Wow, what heroes you are, thank you so much for killing me and dragging me here'? The things you saw there, " she continued, the power in her belly humming so hard the air seemed to vibrate with it, " those were lives where I fought for other people. Died for other people. Hoped for other people. And every single world spat me out like a sick animal. You were just the last ones. With wings. "
Rhysand was staring at her now with no mask left. Not the charming High Lord, not the cool strategist. Just a male who had lost control of the board. Exhausted. Furious. Shaken by her, by her power, by Samael, by the realization that he could not simply bend this to his will.
" And let's be very clear. " Vythra said, her voice dropping into something calm and deadly. " I don't owe you anything. Not you, not your world. If I wanted, I could let this planet choke on its own ashes. Burn, fall, tear itself apart. I don't give a flying fuck for what will happen to you. "
Azriel tensed, bracing for the line he knew would follow. The one he'd already seen forming in her eyes.
" I have nothing here. Nothing to lose. Nothing to fight for. Nothing to love. The only ones who've had the decency to treat me as more than a tool are two exiled women and a cat. The rest of you... you want power. You want what you can rip out of me. You want a winning edge if war comes knocking. " Vythra looked at each of them in turn. Her eyes blazed now, bright green glass held over open flame.
" So let's set this straight from the beginning. I'm not your hero. I'm not your soldier. I'm not your cosmic toy. I'll fight for the only side that has anything real to offer me. " Her chin lifted. " I'll fight for whoever sends me home. " She finished. " If you want my loyalty... make a better offer than that. "
Silence fell. Heavy. Thick. The sort of silence that made even the fire in the hearth seem to hesitate.
" Go to your room. " Rhysand ordered at last. The command cracked through the air. Vythra shoved herself to her feet so fast the chair crashed backward, hitting the floor with a sharp smack. She didn't look back as she left, Misty clinging to her like a shadow with claws. The door slammed behind her, leaving the others alone in the office. " The rest of you—get out. Get the fuck out! " Rhys roared, every inch of the House shuddering with the force of it. No one argued. They filed out, silent, the room suddenly too small for all that frayed power.
Before Azriel could cross the threshold, Rhysand's hand snapped out, closing harshly around his arm. " I want to have a word with you. "
