Embers & Light (in progress):
Slow-burn healing fic for both Cassian and Nesta, starting from Nesta being sent to the Illyrian mountains by Feyre... Prepare yourselves for angst and yearning, bickering and flirting banter...
Summary: Nesta Archeron may be the unsung hero from the war with Hybern, but since then, she has felt nothing but hollow. Suffering from a battle trauma so fierce it knocks the breath out of her, Nesta spends her days drinking, bedding males and spending the Night Court coffers to block out the memories of cracking bones and rolling heads. Until... enough is finally enough and her sister and High Lady, Feyre Archeron, exiles her to the Illyrian mountains to live with Cassian - the one male who has always managed to get under her skin. Thrust into a culture in the midst of dissent, Nesta is made to face the darkest parts of herself, as well as the magic that roars in her veins, to figure out who she is and who she will become on the road to recovery.
One-shots
Of Books & Timber (one-shot from the Embers & Light universe):
A one-shot where Cassian builds Nesta some bookshelves in Illyria (or a missing scene from Embers & Light). You don’t need to have read E&L to understand this fic.
Kernels of Truth (one-shot, CANON):
A missing scene from ACOFAS, when Mor follows Cassian upstairs after he arrives back at the townhouse after chasing Nesta on Solstice (and when he throws the mystery box in the river!)
Dinner Conversation (one-shot, CANON post-ACOSF)
One hundred and fifty years after ACOSF, Nesta and Cassian sit around the dinner table with the Inner Circle. And Cassian has an announcement.
Clouds Are Shrouding Us in Moments Unforgettable (Kinktober)
Nesta and Cassian have never been a couple that willingly deny themselves some action between the sheets. But when Cassian has to whip the Illyrian legions into shape for an entire week, as well as smooth out the disputes between unruly clans, Nesta and Cassian make a deal: no orgasms until they are reunited at the Spring Court to celebrate Calanmai.
But when Nesta eats some aphrodisiac-laced cherry pie whilst waiting for Cassian to arrive, the bargain they struck is immediately replaced with a base need for release. Nesta hurries to her room where she can finally be alone, but just as that orgasm begins to crest, Cassian catches her in the act.And they had a deal, did they not?
Warnings: NSFW, Spanktober, Dom!Cassian being sexy AF, orgasm denial, Nesta high on aphrodisiac
Alternative POV’s in Embers & Light
Prologue (Rhysand)
Don’t read until after chapter 35 of Embers & Light if you don’t want spoilers :)
Chapter 9 (Cassian)
Cassian sees Nesta’s scars for the first time. Protective Cassian™
Chapter 20 (Nesta)
Nesta witnesses Cassian in only a towel
Chapter 15 (Nesta)
Cassian finds Nesta has started her cycle and runs her a bath
Chapter 25 (Cassian)
Cassian tries to soothe Nesta’s nightmares and ends up sleeping beside her
Chapter 44-45 (Cassian)
Cassian struggles to cope without Nesta
Chapter 51 (Cassian)
Cassian is reeling after something monumental happens at the Lake.
Habits Universe (to be read in order)
1. Habits (NSFW one-shot):
ACOSF one-shot of Nessian smut on the premise that Nesta and Cassian sleep with one another in Illyria shortly after Nesta arrives. Angry sex turning into something softer... NSFW.
2. Wings, Flames and Shadows (NSFW)
Nesta/Cassian/Azriel play strip poker in Illyria. This is set in the Habits universe but can be read as a standalone. Seriously smutty.
3. Wings & Flames (NSFW)
Nesta & Cassian come together in the aftermath of his trip to the Winter Court.
Alternative POV’s for the Habits universe
Wings & Shadows (Azriel POV during Wings, Flames & Shadows):
During a state visit to Kallias's Winter Court, Azriel and Cassian deal with the consequences of their recent joining with Nesta and the truths Azriel learnt.
Modern AU’s
A Golden Opportunity
Blurb: For months Cassian had been waiting for the chance to take Nesta Archeron on a date. No, strike that, Cassian wouldn’t lie to himself. He’d been waiting for years, Mother damn it.
From the moment Cassian had first laid eyes on Nesta he’d known that there would be no-one else. Cassian couldn’t explain it, but he’d just known with a rattling clarity that startled him awake. There would be no more raucous lifestyle where he bedded anything that moved. There would be no half-assed dates that were clearly going nowhere or late-night hook-ups.
There was only one goal: to get Nesta to agree to go on a date with him and pray to the Forces that Be that she’d fall in love with him, too.
The Girl
Amongst the writhing bodies, Cassian spots her. Scarlet cami, hair like honey. He watches her for too long, the way her hips move to a rhythm nobody else quite seems to get like she does, the length of her ponytail as it swings to and fro.
When she turns and meets his eyes, he’s a goner. And at the end of night, when he backs her into his apartment, he realises quickly that whoever this girl is, she takes what she wants and he’ll take what he can get.
Notes: I had a few of you asking me for Azriel’s POV during Wings Flames & Shadows and eventually the idea stuck! This is set at the end of the fic, when Azriel finds Cassian at the Winter Court to address the fact that Nesta is Cassian’s mate. I loved writing this and I really hope you like it, too. It was strangely easy to get into Azriel’s head for this one <3
For those of you who want to refresh your memories of what happens in WF&S then you can descent into this smutty pit of hell here.
Let me know what you think! And just a friendly reminder that if you like what I write I’d love you to reblog so it can reach more people--thank you <3
Wings & Shadows
Azriel POV
Despite being alive for over half a millennia, Cassian had never truly learnt to master his emotions. Whilst Azriel had honed the true art of a cold, blank mask from a young age, the general’s hazel eyes had always been a pathway straight to his heart if you knew where to look. But since the war—since living with Nesta—those underlying expressions had become something else entirely. Something stark and intensely sad. Something more distant and troubled as he worried over the ghost of a girl he had once known and loved.
That was not to say that Cassian did not attempt to hide the torment that wanted to wrangle its way across his features whenever he was forced to leave Nesta. Usually he laced over the agonised expression with barked, easy laughter and arrogant, drawling banter, but for the entirety of their trip to Kallias’s Winter Court, Cassian was… not present. Oh, he still plastered on his carefully orchestrated blend of fake, wide smiles and deathly calm as he usually did—a combination that should not be possible (although Azriel supposed Cassian had always defied the impossible)—but it was as if a light had flickered out somewhere and none of it rang true.
Rhys had clocked it immediately but knew better than to comment. He had learnt to keep his mouth shut when it came to his mate’s sister, even if it meant that Cassian’s duty to protect was reliant on muscle-memory and reflex rather than calculated assessment during a court visit. So his High Lord’s eyes had only flickered with faint starlight, the way they always did when a cog turned and clicked into place in his mind, before he turned back to congratulate Kallias and a glowing Vivianne on their pregnancy.
But given Azriel’s presence in Illyria the night before their trip to Winter, he knew just how fiercely every troubled thought and every laboured breath of Cassian’s was consumed with her—with the too slim female he had left behind. The female who was most likely slipping back into the lifeless husk she had been before Azriel’s hands had run over her body and Cassian’s mouth had lavished love and adoration with every press of his lips to her bare skin.
When the three of them had finished, it had only taken one look at his Cassian’s face and the outstretched wing he had thrown over Nesta’s body for Azriel to know that he should keep his distance. He had trodden dangerous ground when he had willingly engaged in that tryst—if it could even be called that. Whatever humming energy that whipped between Cassian and Nesta was certainly not just fucking, even if they wanted to pretend that was all it was. In the past, he and Cassian did not make a habit of discussing their shared social conquests, but slipping back into that brotherly familiarity had felt… tenuous this time. And whilst all memory of Nesta had been erased from Azriel’s skin, vanilla and jasmine still remained entangled with Cassian’s pine and musk, like the imprint of a frozen memory in time. Of when Nesta had been awake and glowing. Of when Cassian had wrapped her in his wings—protecting her from the trauma he seemed to know would come knocking as soon as he left her again.
But after three days of subtle distance to let Cassian cool off, all Azriel had achieved was an icy chasm of separation between he and his brother and a look on Cassian’s face that was so tortured Azriel couldn’t believe that nobody else had stepped in to ask what was wrong.
That was not to say that Mor’s chocolate brown eyes weren’t shimmering with concern or that Feyre hadn’t examined Cassian for a touch too long, but neither of them had dared to broach the subject. And whilst Mor would have usually probed Azriel for more information or fretted to him about what they should do, that easy familiarity between them had been severed.
Azriel could not see it ever being mended.
So, perhaps it was Azriel’s own grief that had him seeking out his brother on that third morning. Because even though his own heart was battered and aching, Cassian’s was worse. Azriel had learnt that the moment Cassian had sunk his teeth into the pale column of Nesta’s neck as she shattered between them—a mate territorially claiming his mate.
Mates. They were mates, for fuck’s sake.
Azriel should have known. He had suspected, of course, that Nesta Archeron was not just a female who’d managed to get under Cassian’s skin. Azriel knew Cassian better than anyone, after all. His brother had more female conquests than anyone he knew, his sexual appetite ravenous, yet Azriel’s shadows hadn’t needed to whisper to him in order for Azriel to glean that Cassian had not bedded anyone since Rhys had returned to the Night Court. Had not even glanced a female’s way since his eyes had first locked with the eldest Archeron sister in the mortal realm and snarled at her that he saw someone who had let her younger sister risk her life everyday whilst Nesta stayed safely at home. And even as Cassian’s eyes had gleamed feral as she had dismissed him, Azriel had known then that Nesta was not just another opponent. That she was in fact, most likely, the only person who was evenly matched to the male who was rumoured to be a warrior-God given flesh.
And maybe if Azriel’s judgement hadn’t been so fogged with Mor’s rejection then he would have been clear-headed enough to clamp down on his arousal and refuse to engage in a game of strip poker that could only have gone one way. But Azriel hadn’t been thinking straight. Had only thought about how even if Nesta was too gaunt, she was still undeniably devastating: her curves sweeping; her breasts full and aching. She had tasted like sin and distraction, and when her smoky grey eyes had turned from closed off to vulnerable and eager to please, his shadows had eddied out of control, flinging themselves out wide as he spilled onto her chest, her stomach...
That had been the final straw for Cassian.
Azriel didn’t blame him. He would not have had the same self-restraint himself.
The bitter winter air was sharp enough to burn when Azriel stepped out onto the otherwise deserted balcony of the breakfast room. Cassian’s wings should have been tucked in tight, but it was obvious that he was too far into his head, even as he seemingly stared out at the landscape before him. At the rolling slopes of white that stretched out for miles and miles until they were cut off by the green stripe across the landscape, where the pine trees of the forest lined the horizon.
Scuffing his shoes on the stone to alert Cassian of his arrival, Azriel stepped beyond the magical shields protecting the palace from the elements outside. The fiery crackle of pine logs was replaced by the crisp, bracing scent of winter as Azriel’s long legs carried him smoothly to the stone balcony wall to stand beside his brother.
He did not glance sideways at Cassian. Did not risk it, as he asked bluntly, “Did you want to do it?”
Cassian’s chest jerked and Azriel knew he was holding in a huff of breath—or more likely, a snort. A ginormous polar bear stepped out from between the snow-dusted pine trees, and together they watched the way the animals fur rippled with power and unimaginable strength as it padded across the ice covered fields. “Obviously,” he drawled.
Azriel’s sharp look was enough for Cassian to finally turn his head.
“You’re mates,” Azriel stated. His voice remained deep and lifeless—simple—but his words were soft and private. Only for he and Cassian.
Pain struck across his brother’s expression, the movement so swift and blinding that Azriel felt his heart clench. Shadows coiled and whispered around his ears, but Azriel silently ordered them to cease and they became quiet. “Yes,” Cassian forced out between gritted teeth.
Fists curled and uncurled at his friend’s sides, as if waiting for the questions and the derision, but Azriel only dipped his chin. “I suspected,” he said, “but when you initiated it all, I thought you couldn’t be, because there would be no way that you’d allow me to join you both otherwise.”
The grunt that emitted from Cassian’s throat curled downwards at the end, threatening to turn into a growl. Those fists tightened again and Azriel wondered how soon he’d have to blend into shadow. “You both wanted it. I wasn’t going to let you do it without me, was I?”
The torturous truth in the words hit home. Had Azriel been too blinded by his recent conversation with Mor to have judged what was right and what was wrong? But… no. Azriel had scented that room—the consensual desire thrumming between all of them. And he had not forgotten the look Cassian had shared with him that had told Azriel he was game—the raised, taunting eyebrow.
“You know I wouldn’t have done it without you,” Azriel replied carefully. “Nesta wouldn’t have done it without you.”
Cassian’s silence vibrated with a tense energy and Azriel understood the words his brother still could not voice aloud: he needed to be home with his mate. To check that she was ok. How could the others not see how badly Cassian was faring? He looked as if he had barely slept. Dark rings hung beneath his eyes as sharp as bruises and the agony wrought upon his face was so fierce it made Azriel’s shadows cluster to his brother, tendrils coiling out towards him.
His brother did not acknowledge them, even as one curled around his shoulder—a cold, gentle hand.
“Does she know?” Azriel asked.
It had been something Azriel had already considered. Feyre hadn’t recognised when the mating bond had snapped into place for she and Rhys and she had been human just like Nesta—had not grown up knowing about the bond and what it meant. Azriel couldn’t bring himself to ask Cassian when he had understood what he and Nesta were. There were so many times that Azriel had suspected that something far greater than lust or even simply love existed between the two of them. But then the war had finished and Nesta had become… empty—a byproduct of grief and death—and any obvious hope on Cassian’s part that the two of them might become something more had disintegrated into ash.
Steamed breath clouded the sky as his friend exhaled. The sound was bitter, somehow. “You should have asked, Does she care?”
“She cares,” Azriel replied, not waiting to pause for breath or to even blink. He had seen the way they interacted together now after all—how their bodies blended into one being, as if they had orchestrated a dance that only they knew. “Her eyes have this hollow quality most of the time. But sometimes, when she looks at you, it’s as if you have woken her up.”
Silence again as Cassian stared fixedly out at the expanse of white—at the fae that were bundled in thick furs and holding on tightly to leather reigns as they guided velvet-antlered reindeer and their curved sleighs through the snow.
“She’s good for you,” Azriel continued, offering up a truth—a blessing he knew his brother so desperately craved.
He was pressing far more than he usually did. Azriel was often a male of few words, but it was not often he saw his brother this lost. And Azriel supposed he had been privy to something nobody else had besides Cassian—a Nesta that was not sharp and prickly but open and unguarded in a way that had both hurt and given him breath. Azriel had seen the light spark back in her eyes when Cassian had bowed to kiss her. But Azriel wondered if Cassian knew how much she had woken him up, too. How for once, Cassian had not tried to be anyone but himself.
His brother’s brow furrowed with what Azriel translated as disbelief. “She doesn’t let you pretend,” Azriel clarified simply, in a tone that was not up for discussion.
A muscle ticked in Cassian’s jaw, but he merely crossed his arms tightly over his broad chest. The leather of his armour creaked, the sound swept away with the moaning of the wind. “It was hard not to be territorial,” he admitted eventually, glancing quickly at Azriel.
It was an apology, Azriel realised and a chuckle left his lips before he could stifle it. Cassian’s eyes widened in surprise. It was not often the Shadowsinger laughed so easily, but Azriel couldn’t help it. Cassian had certainly been restrained beyond measure, but there had been times when every muscle in Azriel’s body had been braced for Cassian to launch himself across the room and throttle him.
But Azriel did not bother saying any of that, even as his lips curved at the memory. He only pushed away from the railing wreathed in frost-covered ivy. It signified an end to the conversation but more importantly, what had occurred between the three of them—a clear line that would not be crossed again.
“Who knew you were so restrained,” he deadpanned, his voice falling into a near drawl that had Cassian barking a laugh. Rhys had asked Azriel to travel to Illyria in order to gather the latest intelligence from the camps and report back on the latest whisperings of the rebellion. He was already late. So he only nodded at his brother as his power swirled around him, ready to bleed him in and out of shadow until he arrived where he needed to be.
“I’ll see you in a week,” he told Cassian, and then everything went dark.
Notes: Hello lovely readers! I am so sorry for the day's delay in posting this chapter. I was really poorly last week (and I'm still recovering) so I wasn't able to keep on top of my writing in order to bring you a chapter yesterday. That is not only because I found this very difficult to write, but because this is a LONG chapter. 14k words. There was so much to pack in, and as you all know, I am not one to gloss over certain elements, especially not Nessian goodness. Thank you to everyone who has sent me will-wishes this week and last. You are all lovely people and it's very much appreciated. Let me know what you think, as always. And apologies for any typos and inconsistencies—as I said, I've not been well so my brain has not been functioning like it usually does!
Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cassian
Frawley and Lorrian were all ready to go when Nesta came downstairs. Those ever-perceptive eyes—ice blue and brown—fell immediately to Nesta’s chest as she stepped into the hallway. But to Cassian’s relief, the witch remained relatively silent, mounting Caerleon and casting into the sky with her husband close behind her in a glow of emerald without more than a few crisp, comments.
Nesta flew on Sala. Despite knowing that she had trained on Caerleon enough the previous week to know what to expect, Cassian could not help the fear that wound its way into his mouth as beast and Fae left the ground. He needn’t have worried. Sala’s gait seemed as natural to Nesta as breathing; her legs tucked into the manticore’s flank just before the beast’s wings with a confident, determined grip and her fingers were secure in Sala’s ruff. Cassian had launched himself into the skies straight after her, watching Nesta as if he were a hawk. He knew the magic binding Nesta and Sala would keep Nesta seated despite the battering winds and any notion of gravity, but that didn’t stop him from flying a few feet below her for the first couple of miles, ready to throw himself into a nose dive should she fall.
But later, when he realised that Nesta was perfectly at home on top of her manticore, Cassian had risen to fly beside her. And when he had winked at her, his broad wings flapping to match her furious pace, the smile she had sent back had been genuine enough for Cassian to know that if he died that day, he would die happy. That he had seen Nesta offer him a true smile without any thought of stifling it, and it was beautiful.
A few miles from the camp, the four of them landed to leave the manticores in a thicket of pine trees. Cassian watched Nesta bury her face into the manticore’s neck and whisper in the beast’s ear before she wordlessly strode over to him.
They had decided the night prior that Frawley and Nesta would leave their manticores behind. It was an idea that had been met with great protest by Frawley, but in the end, Cassian and Lorrian had talked her round. They were both of the same opinion; bringing the manticores to the Solstice luncheon would probably push the already hostile Illyrian lords to self-combust. So the manticores would remain on stand-by, out of sight but near enough to the camp to intervene if necessary.
“Ready to go for a ride, sweetheart?” Cassian teased Nesta as she walked towards him.
Cassian had expected things to be strained between them since he had given Nesta the necklace. There was also the small matter that they would be publicly declaring themselves together today, but Nesta appeared wholly unfazed. If anything, she looked happy, despite the sexual innuendo which usually had her dropping swiftly into irritation. Her cheeks were stung pink from the cold air, giving her a healthy glow, and her eyes were impossibly bright in a way that made his own heart ache.
Her lack of reaction didn’t help Cassian to stop thinking about Nesta in a sexual capacity. And the thought of Nesta actually riding him… He had dreamt of her so many times now that their imagined actions had become a well-rehearsed dance. He knew what it felt like for her to straddle his hips. Knew what she sounded like when she sighed and sank down onto the length of him, his lips attacking the column of her neck. Of how he groaned so deeply that everything in him shook. Nesta’s phantom hands always weaved through his hair at the sound, and when she bent to kiss him, she tasted entirely right...
“I suppose I’ll have to make do with you,” Nesta struck back, pulling Cassian out of his salacious thoughts with a jolt. Her tone was playful, but there was an underlying edge of disappointment that told him she was fed up of being carried around.
Even though it hurt, Cassian understood. He wouldn’t want to be carted around the skies when he could fly through them. So, he only cast a new protective shield over them, knowing that Nesta would spit blue murder if he ruined her hair. He also knew that he should look presentable for once, rather than turning up in blood-stained armour and hair so wind-snarled that running a brush through it threatened to break it more than it promised to ease out the knots.
Cassian might be the Night Court’s general, but that didn’t mean it was beneath him to look presentable.
For a long, the two of them travelled in silence. To his surprise, Nesta had curled her fingers into his chest, an action which had been lost long ago with her fear of flying. The action was absent-minded enough to tell him her thoughts were elsewhere. Indeed, when he glanced down at her she looked far away.
Cassian was just about to ask if she was all right, when Nesta asked, “Sala will be ok in the forest?”
He bit back a smile at her concern. Somehow, he knew that would upset her.
“Yes, she’ll be fine,” Cassian replied sincerely. “She’s an alpha predator and she’s with Caer.”
Darting another glance downwards, he found Nesta chewing on her lip. The action made her appear even more beautiful. Cassian didn’t know how Nesta always managed to look so arresting. Sometimes, he thought it was because he saw her through rose-tinted lenses, but then someone else would make a comment, like Lorrian yesterday, and he’d know it wasn’t in his imagination at all.
“If you need her, she’ll come,” Cassian assured Nesta, locking his eyes with hers so his words held weight. “Sala is bound to your magic, just will her presence and she will find you.”
Slowly, Nesta nodded. When she unclenched her teeth, her bottom lip was swollen and flushed. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss her when they weren’t dying. Whether she’d let him. Sometimes—only rarely—Cassian thought she might. Like earlier, when he had given her the necklace and she had twisted to look up at him. It would have been so easy to cup her cheek and bow his head that little bit further. And for a second, he’d thought that was what she had wanted. Her eyes had darted to his lips, but rather than satisfaction Cassian had felt a stab of mutual fear. Because they both knew that if Cassian was to give in to temptation—if she let him and wanted it—they would not stop until their skin was bare and their bodies were moulded into the other.
Cassian fortified his ring of fire at the thought. Made it even tighter and more formidable. Blocked out the thought of Nesta’s endless skin and her unforgiving curves. Since the kerits attack on Windhaven, Cassian felt more of Nesta down that shared tether. It was still constricted, but it was enough to get hits of emotion more frequently than before. And even though Cassian was desperate to, he hadn’t dared to reach out and touch that twisted rope again.
It hurt to deny himself the pleasure of brushing against it. The urge pulsed beneath his skin, whispering her name over and over: Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.
“You’re ok with today’s plan?” Cassian asked Nesta, because he needed to say something that didn’t make him think about how they would be sharing a bed later. How he would be so consumed by her scent it would be hard to breathe, let alone think. Needed to focus on the fact that today could be very dangerous and that he was willingly carrying her right into it.
It would not be like last time when she had been suffering from nightmares. This time she would be lucid. He would not be able to arch a protective wing over her and ghost his body alongside hers. It was going to be necessary torture and he had no idea whether she had yet pieced together that they would not have separate sleeping arrangements. Nesta was usually so quick to put two and two together, but she had not truly snapped or refused point blank to be anywhere near him, which made him suspect that it hadn’t yet clicked.
“Aside from being promised to you?” Nesta asked, a slight crease appearing between her brows.
The words were not vicious, but Cassian still had to snicker away the hurt. “Aside from that.”
“Yes, I’m ok with the plan,” she replied. She craned her neck up to look at him. “You’re worried.”
Cassian could not help but press his lips tightly together. He thought about denying it, but somehow he knew that she could read his expression too adeptly.
“I’m always wary before I meet with the war-lords. I’m even more wary when a meeting has been brought forward,” Cassian admitted. He cast his gaze forward to the skies, to Lorrian and Frawley who were flying ahead of them. Lorrian’s natural gait had always been faster than Cassian’s. Whilst Cassian’s wings were bigger, Lorrian’s build was made for speed. “I’ve got a bad feeling about it,” he admitted. “Marsh is a notoriously harsh war-lord, but he’s been unwell in recent years. Usually, a war-lord would not think twice to rid himself of a son who would pose as a threat. Kallon has openly claimed to have Enalius’s sword and his father has not made a single move against him, even though it threatens his position.”
“You think Marsh would kill his own son?”
Cassian snorted. “It has happened before. That, or a son would be cast out of the camp and stripped of his entitlement.”
Nesta frowned. “So, what you are saying is that you do not think that Marsh has long left to live and he is allowing Kallon to rule in his stead?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I think,” Cassian replied seriously, not at all surprised at Nesta’s intelligence. “And that means Kallon could soon be in a position of great power and influence, especially if he claims to have been chosen by Enalius to unite the Illyrians.”
They flew in silence for a few minutes. Cassian could almost hear the cogs turning in Nesta’s mind, as she digested the information he had just given her. But when she finally spoke, it was not about Kallon or the rising discontent. “I won’t be subservient.”
Cassian looked down at her in surprise. Did she mean today? “I don’t want you to be,” he said carefully. Honestly.
“Aren’t you going to remind me of the Illyrian customs and how I shouldn’t behave considering I’m a female?” Nesta asked stiffly.
Cassian frowned. Maybe things weren’t fine between them, after all. There was a sudden edge to her voice that he had heard when he had first shown her the necklace. That sharp, brittle parry that had almost seemed like she was purposefully attempting to put distance between them. He had felt her panic. She hadn’t been able to stifle that emotion before it flew down their tether. Nor had she been able to disguise the beating of her heart, which pattered at such a rate that it had melded with his own terrified rhythm.
Nesta knew what the necklace was, Cassian was sure of it. Knew by now that he had dived back into the Sidra to retrieve the gift she had refused, just as she had rejected him.
Now Cassian was no longer clouded by the fierce grip of rejection, he could not entirely blame Nesta for turning him away on Solstice. She had spent the evening sitting as far away from the fire as possible during a visit against her will. And not only had she had to fight battle trauma, but she had been forced to endure how they were all moving on without her. It was what Nesta had insisted upon, but Cassian was not stupid enough to think that it hadn’t hurt, especially when he had opened Mor’s gift and laughed along with everyone, pretending everything was fine when it most certainly was not. When it had felt as if someone had already thrust a hand into his chest and thrown out his bloody, bleeding heart for everyone to see.
To see the world through a pair of dusky blue eyes rather than hazel had everything tilted sideways, but it was necessary, he knew that now.
“No,” Cassian replied shortly, and meant it. Nesta was wild and he hungered for it. To see her chained and timid went against every fibre of his being.
“Is that not what is expected of the females here?” Nesta questioned, her voice that little more pointed.
Cassian frowned again. “It is, but I like you just the way you are,” he confessed slowly. “It is not what I would ever expect of you.”
Then, he barked a laugh, missing the sudden change in Nesta’s expression. “And you’ll find your defiance is in good company. You and Frawley are going to make a formidable pair.”
A soft snort. It was as close to a laugh as Cassian was going to get, but he would settle for it, even if it was nothing on the joy that had hit him square in the stomach a few weeks prior. He had been eating breakfast in the kitchen when he had felt it: pure, radiating laughter that had somehow ghosted into his ears and wound itself around his most vital organs. He had been out of his seat and in the skies before he had a moment to catch himself, following that tether between them that was more defined than ever before. But the cold, bracing air had done him good, and Cassian had turned sharply around, suddenly understanding that it was not his moment to share. That it was something Nesta needed to experience independently from him.
So, Cassian had waited at the bungalow for Nesta to return, every second a new form of torture. And from the moment she stepped through the front door, he had known they had reached a turning point. There was a lightness to her features that he had not seen before. As if the laughter had broken through that expressionless mask and rendered her new.
Cassian had expected to have to wait for a glowing retelling from Mas the day after, but Nesta had told him herself, a ghost of a smile on her lips as he made her breakfast and a mug of chai, listening to her talk and talk and talk.
He would have sold his soul in that moment. Would have done anything for her. But he had only sat opposite with a cup of steaming coffee and watched her eat as if she hadn’t for days. And when he had asked if she wanted to come with him to oversee his camp duties, she had nodded without hesitation, telling him she had a few hours before she was due to show Feyre around the camps with Mas.
“I should warn you that they’ll be interested in you,” Cassian told Nesta after a moment.
Nesta’s body turned stiff in his arms. “What do you mean?”
“Word has spread amongst the camps about what you did,” Cassian explained.
Mas had encouraged the widows to do as much. The monthly market set deep in the mist-shrouded valley of Empyr, was the perfect opportunity for those that could fly to spread word, just as Kallon’s recruits spread vicious discourse about the Night Court. The valley was flanked by lush forest green and cascading waterfalls, and Illyrians flew from all over the mountains to stock up on essentials, from grains and spices, to weaponry and healing medicines. It was also the location of the Illyrian festival Kharon, where once a year, Illyrians congregated to sail souls to rest down the River Styx.
Cassian couldn’t wait to take Nesta there. Was waiting for the perfect moment.
“Feyre was there, too,” Nesta reminded him, but Cassian only shook his head.
“You brought Mas back to life. A lowly widow in the eyes of the average Illyrian. You gave someone worth who was deemed as having none, Nesta. You sparked an oppressed female to lead others and finally stand up against cultural traditions that have been engrained for centuries—”
“But the males don’t see it that way?” Nesta guessed, cutting him off. Her expression did not give any indication that his praise had either pleased or irritated her.
Cassian tilted his head in a shrug, but he did not stop staring into her eyes—into the smoky blue that mesmerised him even now. “Should the dissent continue to rise, we might be forced to invoke a referendum about whether Illyria should become an independent nation,” Cassian explained. “Females have the right to vote. Rhys instated the law many years ago, much to the chagrin of the Illyrian males. I think that’s why Kallon has been targeting the females who lost their husbands and sons in the war—in the hope that their support would swing the cause in his favour.”
“But if he is behind the orchestrated attacks, then we could stop a divided nation?” Nesta asked, finishing his strain of thought.
Cassian’s smile was grim. “Exactly.”
“You think he did it?”
Cassian shrugged. “I keep thinking about those bastards who have disappeared. I would not be surprised if their allegiance had been bought by the rebellion. I’m sure they have been promised a station above the lowest ranking foot soldier. You heard Devlon, they are all exceptional in the skies, but they aren’t recognised for their talents. They have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”
“What would happen if you captured them?” Nesta asked quietly.
Cassian looked into the distance—at the pine-capped mountains and the craggy mountain stone. He didn’t want to think about what would befall those males. He knew them. They were good soldiers with no sense of self-worth.
Nesta touched Cassian’s shoulder. “Maybe it won’t come to that,” she said.
“Maybe,” Cassian replied, but he knew he didn’t sound convinced.
Lord Marsh’s residence was a too-large stone building set deep into the forested mountain ledge that overhung the rest of the mountain pass. Flags bearing the Ironcrest insignia—a crested hawk eagle with its wings spread wide—rippled in the breeze, and Fae males armed with spears flanked the huge double-doors, which were made of heavy pine and punctured with black iron studs and heavy handles in the shape of Illyrian wings. The guards iron helmets were plumed with pointed black feathers tipped with white, just like the hawk that had given Ironcrest the latter part of its name.
Carefully, Cassian touched down onto the stone a careful distance from both the entrance and Lorrian and Frawley. He did not give Nesta the opportunity to step away. Instead, he tightened the arm that was still wound around her waist and curled a wing around them like a shield.
Already he felt territorial. Already he did not want to let her go.
“You stay with me tonight.”
Nesta’s head whipped up at the dead seriousness of his tone. His words were not up for debate but to his surprise, she did not hiss ‘no’ and he did not feel that silver power push against her skin. Cassian suspected that Nesta’s nerves had started to fray at the prospect of being somewhere that was not the bungalow or Lorrian and Frawley’s cottage.
He touched her hand to bring her back. Nesta stared down at the fingers that clasped hers as if she did not understand how they had got there, before she tightened her grip and turned to face him. As she met his gaze, that smoky blue latched onto him and he felt as if he was a predator who had crawled into the palm of her hand and rolled over in surrender.
“If you need to get my attention when we are inside then send me a subtle signal,” Cassian told Nesta in a quiet voice. Already there would be too many prying eyes and ears. He could already feel Fae watching him from the crown glass windows, their faces distorted by both the plain whorled glass and the stained colours of the insignia set into their middle.
Nesta frowned. “How—”
Cassian pressed his fingers gently against Nesta’s stomach. He felt the wings of her ribs and the muscles of her core. “Here,” he said softly, his heart battering against his chest. “Like you did the other day at Kanaman.”
This close up Cassian could taste the sweetness of Nesta’s breath. Could see every single one of her eyelashes and the black-blue kohl that rimmed the upper lids. Nesta was not usually one for enhancing the features she already had. She did not need to. Staring at Nesta as a human had been enough for Cassian’s breath to catch in his throat, but as Fae… she was devastating. And whilst Cassian preferred Nesta windswept in leathers and a simple braid, he could not deny that when he had found her that morning to give her the necklace, his knees had gone weak.
Yet, there was something about Nesta being dressed up which made Cassian feel as if he were at a distance from her. As if the formal garments and the tight, intricate arrangement of her braid slammed a partition between them, highlighting how he was only a lowly bastard and she was too good for him. It was why he had often kept his distance before, too fearful to speak with her in front of his friends in case she were to shoot him down publicly. And the truth of it was that Nesta made him feel like he was young again. He had played games without realising it. Ignoring her to feign indifference, hoping to hide just how affected he was by her mere presence in a room. How scared he was to let his friends see just how much his wild and vulnerable heart had been flung out before this bewitching female for the first time in centuries. Because Nesta was not like anyone else he had ever met. He had never felt like this. Not just an undeniable pull of attraction, but something deeper than lust or fancy. Something more.
It was only when Cassian spied the pyrite laying below her collarbone did he relax a little. Perhaps it was too simple for someone as arresting as Nesta, but she hadn’t rejected it. Had let him put it on her and she had not taken it off, not even when she had realised what it was. How it highlighted that painful memory that was strung between them.
She had called the necklace beautiful. Had meant it.
“What—” Nesta started, but she broke off suddenly, a flicker of recognition dawning on her face. Absent-mindedly her fingers closed around the pyrite, as if touching it allowed her to understand—to tap into his mind and read his thoughts.
For a moment, they stared at one another. Both of their hearts thumping even as their expressions remained impassive. If not for the slight stain on Nesta’s cheeks Cassian would not have known she was affected at all.
It amused him that she had thought she had gotten away with sending an emotion back without him noticing. It was the first he had felt something gentle from her, rather than a blast of emotion. And whilst the sensation had still been stifled down that constricted tether, it had touched him in a way he could not explain. That she had cared enough to soothe his torment.
In that moment, Cassian had felt wholly connected to her, but Nesta hadn't even glanced his way.
Outside of their cocoon, Cassian heard approaching voices and the clink of armour. Even still, he found himself hesitating, wanting a private moment with Nesta for a little longer before they were thrown to the vultures.
So, Cassian surprised her, raising her knuckles to his lips. Her skin tasted so intoxicating the primal part of him internally growled, but he only looked at her with dark eyes as he slowly retracted his wing — at the smoky silver that slid behind her irises, and unable to help it, breathed softly, “Pulchra.”
His lips quirked against her skin when her breath hitched. Then, slowly, he dropped her hand and offered her his arm with a smile that for once he did not have to catch and shape into something else. “After you, amore,” he said.
Nesta studied him for a moment. He watched her eyes slide past him to the stone building—to the window and the faces that he knew were staring, prying and scheming. Saw the understanding dawn on Nesta’s face that told him she had believed the kiss for show, when really it had been nothing but a perfect excuse.
And then she took his arm.
Warriors on duty armed only in fighting leathers and what Cassian suspected was a number of well-hidden knives led them to the drawing room. Stone walls lit by bobbing faelights cast dark, long shadows in the hallways and onto the faded rugs. As they turned a corner, female servants came into view laden with silver plates piled high with food. In the near distance, a wide doorframe gleamed, light spilling into the corridor and with it, the rumble of forced conversation and the clink of glasses.
One step into the bright room had Cassian on high alert and scanning for every possible exit point. As usual, the Solstice Luncheon did nothing to bring the Illyrians together. Instead, the clans remained steadfast in their own groups of lords and ladies, save for the odd stiff conversation between camps with long-formed alliances. Cassian spied Lord Condor from Forktail speaking stiffly with Devlon, and Cassian immediately thought of Lorrian. How would he fare coming face-to-face with his younger brother today? Notoriously they did not get on. Rumour had it that Lord Icor Condor had not been happy that Lorrian had been promoted from outcast to Colonel. Cassian had received a hate letter for it, not that he cared. Everyone knew Lorrian was the best equipped Illyrian to get their warriors back to a high-level of skill in the skies.
It did not take Cassian long to locate Ironcrest’s war-lord. He was sitting at a large pine table laden with Illyrian cuisine in front of the right-hand bay window. In front of him, a large silver goblet was full to the brim with red wine, as well as a plate piled high with untouched food.
Lord Anguis Marsh had always been a broad shouldered male who was unusually well-kept for a warrior. His dark hair was slicked back to feather at the nape of his neck, and he sported a hooked, crooked nose and an ugly scar which effectively splitting through his upper lip. When Marsh had been in good health, he had been known for his alarming speed on the battlefield and the vicious nature with which he gutted his opponents. Now, Cassian could not find that male in front of him.
Marsh was the eldest of the war-lords—a few millennia old, perhaps—and as Azriel had reported, his health was not what it was. The lord—or prince, as all the top ranking war-lords were referred to (with Enalius being viewed as their God and King)—had not been able to fight in the most recent war, nor had he made a point of sitting in on the War Counsel. Kallon, who was Marsh’s only princeling and son, had been denied a place on the Counsel in his stead, with Cassian arguing that it was not only because Kallon was unseasoned, but because he wasn’t intending to fight against Hybern himself. It had been a decision that Cassian knew had not been taken lightly, and he did not delude himself to think that the repercussions weren’t now stacked against him.
The prince’s declining health was far worse than when Cassian had last seen Marsh. That much was evident from where he remained seated at the thick pine table rather than standing with the majority of his guests. Although, Cassian mused, he would not put it past any Illyrian war-lord to feel so superior that they remained seated at their house table as if it were a throne.
Steering Nesta over the table to get the formalities over and done with, Cassian deliberately shortened his strides to match hers. As he did so, he tracked Marsh reaching stiffly for his goblet to take a deep drink. It did little to disguise the unmistakable tremble of his hand. Only the war-lord’s eyes remained the same as Cassian remembered; small, yellow and beady — alert and vigilant in the way that only a true Illyrian warrior was. They slid from Cassian to Nesta, before moving on to Lorrian and Frawley behind them.
“General.” A deep, drawl laced with the faintest rasp. Not as fierce as it used to be, that was for certain.
Yet, the sneer that twisted the male’s tan face as they came to a stop a few feet from the table undoubtedly belonged to Marsh. The movement highlighted the scar on Marsh’s lip, the skin crumpling as the split caused it to curl in the wrong way. “I see you brought company, bastard, when usually you do not grace us with your presence at all.”
Cassian did not let a flicker of expression taint his blank canvas. He had sent word of their intended stay well ahead of time, but Cassian knew that Marsh would feign ignorance just for the spite of it. “Yes,” he replied. “As I am sure you are already aware, Colonel Lorrian has been reappointed and is overseeing the armies aerial fleet. Neither of us would miss the Rite counsel.”
It was true, Cassian would not miss the Rite counsel that would take place later that afternoon. It was unusual that it had been moved. Usually it took place mid-January, but seeing that it was Ironcrest who was due to hold the ceremony that year, combining the Solstice luncheon and the Rite counsel made sense. It didn’t stop Cassian from being suspicious. Any deviation from the Illyrian’s deepest traditions always had Cassian’s hackles raised, not because he did not appreciate progress or the ability to adapt, but because it was not the Illyrians usual way, especially when it came from one of the oldest Illyrian war-lords.
Marsh did not acknowledge Cassian’s comment regarding the Rite. Instead, he said maliciously, “I didn’t believe there was an aerial fleet left.”
Cassian did not allow his body to stiffen. Did not allow to show how they affected him, even now. He could beat them all to a pulp if he wanted, Cassian reminded himself. He had more siphons than all of them. More Killing Power. He may be a bastard but he was a worthy warrior and better suited to lead the armies than any one of them.
So, he dropped into a voice that he saved for occasions like this. A voice which promised death and destruction and was not to be disputed. “Colonel Lorrian will oversee the training of your aerial warriors tomorrow morning,” Cassian clipped coldly, as if he had not heard the rebuttal. “And we will see how much of that rings true. I am sure Ironcrest would not have allowed their warriors to sink in standard.”
Another curl of the lip as Marsh sneered. Without looking behind him, Marsh raised his goblet with a shaking hand. A female servant rushed forward with a tall, heavy pitcher of wine. When his goblet was refilled, Marsh did not shift his yellow, beady eyes from Cassian as he lifted the goblet to his lips. His hand shook with enough effort that the contents spilled over the lip and onto his arm.
A snarl unleashed itself from Marsh’s throat, the sound not unlike a whip hitting home. The goblet thunked onto the pine table, wine sloshing over the surface. “Maya, you useless female,” Marsh chastised the female servant, whose eyes had widened with fear. “You jostled me. Get me a napkin at once or I will banish you to the widows camp and be done with you.”
The hand that was still looped through Cassian’s arm tightened slightly, and Cassian felt the threat of Nesta’s magic push beneath her skin. Training regularly with Nesta had allowed Cassian to become used to the seal of her magic. It was something which had become as naturally as breathing to him since that day at Spearhead, when they had first trained with his siphon. It was almost as if Nesta’s magic had imprinted onto his very being. When it moved, he felt it. When it blazed, he burned without fire.
As if it were the most natural gesture in the world, Cassian brought a hand to cup Nesta’s where it lay on her arm. It was a reminder to stay calm. Nesta’s job was to scout out the emotions in the room, not set it aflame.
“Father,” a male voice announced.
Cassian turned to see a male standing a few feet from them. Kallon was the imitation of his father when he had been in good health: impossibly dark hair scraped back to the nape of his neck; yellow eyes; a chiselled jaw; and sharp cheekbones. He was handsome in the way that most Fae were, and his skin betrayed his youth; the majority of brown unmarred, save for a vicious looking scar on his arm and half of a missing index finger on his left hand, which left the digit intact only to the knuckle. Kallon did not have Illyrian tattoos yet—had not seen war to earn them—and on the backs of his hands lay no siphons.
Given the steadfast rule at all gatherings for the war-lord, Cassian was not surprised to see that no sword lay either in a scabbard by Kallon’s side, or strapped down his spine, as was Illyrian custom.
“My son, Kallon,” Marsh announced with the stiff flick of a trembling hand, “who I presume you have met before.”
Cassian did not bow his head. “I don’t believe we have met in a number of years.”
Piercing yellow eyes studied Cassian. “I don’t believe I would have had cause to, considering our General does not visit Ironcrest often, and given that I was not permitted a place on your war counsel.”
An insult already and one that was not entirely true. Cassian had visited Ironcrest a fair few times over the last four months, but Kallon had never been in the training ring or with his father at the same time.
Kallon’s luminescent yellow eyes moved from Cassian’s to the female beside him. They stilled and then, painstakingly slowly, they deliberately raked a path over every inch of Nesta’s body. The movement was purposefully claiming, and Cassian suppressed the growl that came roaring to the forefront as Kallon dared to flex the claws on his wings. “And who is this bewitching female?” he asked.
Nesta had turned preternaturally still, and not one part of her body moved save for her eyes, which slid to the talons at the apex of the princeling’s wings. In fact, Cassian noted, Nesta’s posture had not changed since she had entered the house; her spine stacked tall, her chin slightly raised, those beautiful eyes lined with silver shimmering mercury blue. But there was something in her stillness that made Cassian wonder if Nesta, too, had dissected that Kallon’s good looks had a cold and unreachable quality that hinted at something far sinister. As if he used them as a way of luring in victims, much like sirens tempted sailors to the rocks at sea.
Nesta would have felt distant and otherworldly if she had not been holding his arm. If he could not feel her, ever so slightly, down that bond thanks to her lowered walls.
“This is Lady Nesta Archeron,” Cassian replied, forcing all malice from his voice.
“Oh, yes,” Kallon mused smoothly, his irises flaring as if they were an extension of his nostrils. No doubt trying to scent whether Cassian had claimed her. “I have heard of you. I can feel your power. I’ve heard others call you a witch, but I have also heard that you have taken a power that is ancient beyond reckoning. Something that is not yours.”
The princeling’s voice had dropped into a purr and a snarl roared inside of Cassian as Kallon closed the distance between them to take Nesta’s hand. His signet ring flashed in the faelight as he placed a slow, deliberate kiss to Nesta’s knuckles—the exact same spot atop Nesta’s ring finger that Cassian had kissed moments earlier.
“Such a touching story,” Kallon continued, his voice unbelievably even as he looked up at her, “about how you defended one another on the battlefield.” His gaze intensified and sharpened on Nesta as he lowered her hand from his mouth. “Rumour has it that your dedication did not last long, but who can blame you for deciding not to settle for a lowly bastard?”
The way in which Kallon straightened was slow and deliberate. He did not let go of Nesta’s hand, his yellow eyes continuing to stare pointedly at the female before him, as if he had been privy to every night she had fucked someone else and Cassian had perched outside on the rooftop.
Hot and cold washed over Cassian’s body with such ferocity it felt as if he had jumped into both ice and fire. Rage and humiliation battered against his shields, but he did not lower them. Would not allow Nesta or anyone else in the room know how much those words affected him.
But then he felt Nesta’s anger fling itself hard down their tether, the sensation not akin to a blow to the stomach. It pierced through his fire, his heart, and for a moment he felt as if he had been set aflame. He knew she had lowered her shields so she could sense others' emotions in the room, but to be reminded how much she truly felt when she let every barrier fell away was astounding.
Even so, when Nesta spoke, her voice was icy and level beyond reckoning. “Evidently that is not true, otherwise I would not be here.”
She retracted her mist-wrapped hand from Kallon with such care Cassian knew that she was considering smacking him round the face.
A low, sensual laugh that was more fitting for jovial conversation than it was here. “Do not try to convince me that you, a High Fae, has settled for the lowest born faerie? Just how poor was the offering back in Velaris? I hear there was no shortage of males in your bed…”
Cassian had stopped breathing for fear that if he did he would launch towards Kallon and use his fists to beat him bloody and blue. His shield had faltered, the fire sputtering as the words hit home like a spear to the heart.
Nesta did not rise to the bait. She only clipped, “It turns out that the only male I found to be worthy was an Illyrian bastard, so that is no longer relevant.” That chin of Nesta’s rose defiant, and with it, she grew even taller; a vengeful mighty queen looking down on her subjects with pure loathing. “And I may have been Made High Fae against my will, but I am human at heart. I believe you think them to be at the bottom of the chain, so perhaps that will help you sleep easier at night.”
Kallon blinked at Nesta, momentarily stunned. His gaze slid to her fingers, where mist was still seeping from them, curling around Cassian’s bicep. The heat was a welcoming lick rather than hot enough to burn, but the way her fire started to take form, the mist turning into a rope which blazed in coils around her forearm was enough to insinuate otherwise. And there was the fact that Nesta could will it to burn hotter if she liked. Cassian did not doubt that she could incinerate the room with a mere flick of her fingers.
The thought thrilled him. Stacked up the fire inside of his own body, his internal shields answering to hers as his flames licked higher.
Kallon did not step back, although Cassian saw the muscles in his body tense as if to fling himself out of range. He cocked his head to the side, contemplative, as if Nesta were a puzzle he wanted to figure out. And then, he slipped. For a fraction of a second his right hand fell to his hip, where a sword or knife usually hung from his weapon’s belt. But the way his fingers remained there, lingering… it was enough to tell Cassian that he was hiding something. That he was armed, even though he was not supposed to be.
And the knowledge clearly gave him courage, because he stepped towards Nesta, his eyes gleaming—
Nesta snarled, her whip uncoiling itself, the tip lashing out across the clearing with such speed Kallon recoiled.
“It’s true then,” Kallon said, his eyes bright as he took a step backwards. “Silver flames—”
But his father interjected, as if he had endured enough of his son’s games. “I do not remember inviting two witches and an Incomplete to this luncheon,” Marsh snapped.
“Scared of what we’re capable of?” Frawley asked, speaking up for the first time since they had stepped into the room. Her voice was quiet but chilling, and her ice-blue eye levelled Marsh with such a glare that Cassian found himself tensing. Frawley was not irresponsible enough to start a fight, but she had been known to provoke the war-lords when she saw fit. Usually when they insulted her husband.
“To think that you would be in the company of two females more powerful than you,” Frawley mused with the deathly sort of calm that Cassian usually harboured for himself during battle. “And that’s not to mention that one of us beheaded the King of Hybern.”
That lip twisted and contorted, but Kallon spoke before his father had the opportunity to do it himself. “I do not think that we need to thank a witch for ending a war where Illyrians were treated as disposable,” Kallon said.
A murmur went through the crowd. But that did not deter Nesta, who levelled Kallon with a gaze which had him stilling as a slow, cruel smile crept across her face. “I’m not a witch,” she vowed. “I’m something much worse.”
True silence. So quiet that Cassian could have heard a pin drop.
And that was when, without waiting to be dismissed, Cassian chose to steer Nesta away from the war-lord’s table and into the watching crowds.
Nesta moved beside him as if she were floating, as if gravity did not apply to her. Cassian challenged every stare and every curling lip they passed. When they reached the large windows farther down the room where it was less crowded, he drew them to a halt.
Begrudgingly, he dropped his arm, but then he felt couldn’t resist the temptation this partnership had granted him, so he dared to raise a hand to touch his fingers to the nape of Nesta’s neck. As well as being self-indulgent, it was also a gesture of intimacy that he thought would make Nesta least uncomfortable. It was a self-indulgent move, something that sung intimacy and was designed to stake a claim. Because he had seen the way in which Kallon had stared at Nesta. The way he had tried to scent for a bond or claim on her. The gleam in Kallon’s eyes had told Cassian he was not wholly convinced about their claim of being partners, enough for him to prod and poke about Cassian’s bastard status and Nesta’s bedding habits. To see what they said and how they behaved.
And whilst Illyrian males were not overly affectionate with their partners in public, Cassian never intended to take a wife who he did not openly cherish.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked softly.
To his surprise, Nesta did not flinch. Instead, she turned into his touch, lifting those smoky blue eyes to his as if this impromptu dance they were orchestrating was as natural as breathing. That she hadn’t just been called out on her promiscuous behaviour and her continual rejection of him.
She gave a short nod. “Please.”
Her expression, Cassian noted, might be carefully blank, but her eyes were readable to him. He had spent four months living with her. Had learnt to dissect every hollowed out stare and every dulled light whenever she was unguarded enough to let him. And whilst Cassian had expected Nesta to wear the mask she so habitually wore, her eyes were open enough for him to know that she was still angry.
Sweeping up four goblets of wine from the closest servant, Cassian tried not to mourn the loss of Nesta’s skin beneath his fingertips. Frawley flicked her hands casually at both Lorrian’s and Nesta’s drinks, turning the wine to juice before either of them had a moment to comment.
“I could do with some wine,” Lorrian confessed to Cassian in a low, bitter tone as Nesta turned to respond to something Frawley had just said. His friend’s face was wholly impassive to the outsider, but Cassian knew Lorrian well enough to catch the slightly mournful look in the Lorrian’s eyes as he glanced down into the depths of his goblet. “I give it five minutes until I have a war-lord upon me demanding for an update on the state of the aerial fleet.” He cast a slow, hard look around the room. It was a look that Cassian had honed himself over centuries of learning how to assert authority. “That being said,” Lorrian continued, “I think that could have gone a lot worse.”
Cassian grunted, the sensation making his chest jolt and his armour clink. “Speak for yourself.”
Lorrian shot Cassian an apologetic look. He watched Cassian take a deep sip from his goblet. At least the wine was good, Cassian thought bitterly, as if the silver lining would smooth over the battering he’d just received.
“If it’s any consolation, my brother has been sneering at me since we set foot in the room,” Lorrian admitted to Cassian, as if he knew what Cassian was thinking. “I’d sell my other arm in a wager that he’ll have strut over here by the end of this damn luncheon to give me hell.”
It was intended to be a joke but Cassian knew how sensitive Lorrian was about his missing limb. And understandably so. Illyrians were cruel at the best of times, but to have already been referred to as an Incomplete was enough to have a traumatised warrior drowning in a sense of underserved dishonour.
Like Cassian, Lorrian was resplendent today in his black scaled armour, and his right arm glowed a soft emerald from where he had used his magic to temporarily reinstate his limb. “At least we took Frawley’s poison blocker before we left,” Lorrian continued to mutter under his breath. “I bet the majority of this room would take great joy in our deaths.”
Another grunt from Cassian—this time one of agreement. He glanced down into his goblet which was now empty. It was not like him to drink so quickly in the company of the lords, but Kallon had Cassian’s anger pushing at his skin, ready to jump to the forefront with one sneering look.
He lifted his eyes to search for another servant, but the same female Marsh had snapped at earlier—Maya—appeared at his left-hand side with a silver pitcher of wine as if she had been watching him.
The first thing Cassian noticed about the widow was that she had large, almond shaped hazel eyes that were so light, they were almost amber. Her long, ebony hair was fashioned into a double bun at the nape of her neck—a style at odds with her servant status—and on the inside of her wrist, as she lifted her arm to pour him a drink, Cassian spied a tattoo of a sun and moon.
A twin.
Cassian was so distracted by the ink that he didn’t realise he had moved his goblet away until it was too late. The wine spilled over the rim of the cup and onto the flagstone floor, the red liquid splattering over his leg and onto the back of Nesta’s dress.
Maya’s eyes went as round as saucers and he saw the panic flood her expression in a way that told Cassian she was not treated well in the Marsh residence. Nesta turned around sharply, most presumably, from feeling the females terror with her magic.
“I—I am so sorry, my lord,” Maya stammered. Her eyes, which had been dutifully downcast, had snapped up in alarm to connect with his. “Please, let me clean this up. I—”
But Cassian only shook his head, wordlessly taking the handkerchief Lorrian passed to him and took a deliberate step backwards so Maya was deliberately placed in front of him. “I think you will find that it is me who should be apologising,” Cassian corrected kindly. “I moved my goblet.”
He turned to Nesta. “Are you wet?” he asked, holding out the handkerchief to her before even thinking about drying off his wine-covered hand.
“I’m fine,” Nesta replied, shaking her head. She had not made any movements to draw attention to herself like many other females would have done. It was as if she, too, had deduced that if Marsh was to catch wind of the incident, Maya would be cast out into the cold. “It’s only a little on the bottom of my skirts. It will soon dry.”
Maya’s eyes slowly fell to the floor at Nesta’s words. They widened in horror at the spatters of red that had already seeped into the light fabric.
“I am not wed to this dress,” Nesta assured Maya. Her usually clipped manner had fallen into something softer and more sincere. It was a voice she used with a fair few: Elain, Roksana and Mas. Sometimes him.
Sometimes.
Cassian pressed his lips together to stop himself from protesting. Because whilst Nesta might claim not be wedded to her dress, he certainly was. The floating material was the colour of dusky cornflower, a shade which made Nesta’s irises so light they shimmered ice blue. The effect was so startling Cassian’s heart had stopped when she’d opened her bedroom door that morning. If he hadn’t been so nervous he would have probably gone to hell with it all and bent his head to press his lips with hers. Instead, he had stared into those mesmerising eyes and, for a moment, forgotten the silver chain that was burning into his fist.
Avoiding the puddle of wine, Nesta stepped deliberately closer to Cassian, using their bodies to shield the spillage from the war-lord’s table. She touched his arm with her fingertips and looked up at him. “It’s nothing our housekeeper can’t fix. Isn’t that right, amore?”
For a moment, Cassian stared at Nesta, unable to process that she had not only spoke a word of Illyrian, but the term of endearment he had used earlier. Her voice was matter-of-fact, but there was something lacing the words that made him, for a stupid second, believe she meant it.
“Our housekeeper is very skilled,” Cassian assured Maya, allowing a rare smile to slip across his expression. “It won’t be an issue.”
But Maya was still pale. Her eyes slid past them, to the war-lord sat at the far end of the room.
“He can’t see you, Maya,” Cassian assured the servant evenly, as he finished wiping the wine away from his arm and sleeve. When he was finished, he wound an arm around Nesta’s waist, intending to pull her closer to his body, but she moved for him, moulding her curves against his hard lines, blocking Marsh completely from view. Jasmine and vanilla washed over him, the scent a relief. He rubbed a thumb over the fabric of her dress in thanks for playing along. For the blessing of having her pressed up against him.
“I can take care of it.” Frawley took a small step forward to close their circle.
She held out her goblet purposefully outwards, as if she were in need of a refill, and Maya tentatively topped up her a drink as Frawley subtly flicked her fingers. The puddle of wine and the stain on Nesta’s dress vanished.
Again, Maya’s eyes widened, but she was clever enough not to make any kind of movement to attract attention.
“Th-Thank you, my lord. My ladies,” Maya said gratefully, the clear relief in her voice enough to make Cassian angry. When would the injustices inflicted on Illyrians by Illyrians stop? Cassian had no doubt Maya had been mistreated, despite the fact that her twin status must provide her with a certain amount of protection. Illyrians were a superstitious race and would not risk the wrath of the Gods for casting a twin out into the cold.
In fact, Cassian was surprised that Marsh dared to keep her as a servant at all. Usually twins were the only low-born Illyrians that were established into civil society. And they were always low-born and always unbelievably rare. More often than not they were the product of lords unable to keep their cocks in their pants outside of their marriage bed.
Holding back a grimace, Cassian made himself nod at Maya as she bobbed a perfect curtsey to each of them, her golden eyes downcast and submissive, before she took leave.
Curiously, Cassian cocked his head at the widow as she quickly disappeared into the crowds, no doubt to find solace in the kitchens for a moments reprieve.
“Do you know who that was?”
Lorrian’s voice brought Cassian out of his thoughts, and he dragged his eyes away from Maya’s retreating figure to look at his friend. He continued to slowly rub his thumb over Nesta’s ribcage, the curve of her bone beneath the his skin a comfort, somehow.
“No,” he admitted to Lorrian, because he didn’t.
“That’s the widow of Halias Marsh.”
Cassian caught the eyebrows that wanted to disappear into his hairline just in time. “Marsh’s younger brother?”
Halias had not been alive in Cassian’s lifetime, but he knew that he had been a cruel male who had made Anguis Marsh look positively sweet in comparison. Whilst Anguis was known for his sharp, cunning intellect, Halias had been made of a brute strength which had led to an arrogance and dominance both inside and outside the sparring ring. It had been no secret that the brothers had an ongoing rivalry, with Halias believing he was best suited to the role of prince. When Halias had died in a fire, there had been rumours that Marsh had orchestrated his brother’s death, but those sorts of whisperings weren’t uncommon amongst the Illyrian camps, where everyone was out for glory at the expense of others.
“Yes,” Lorrian confirmed in a low voice.
“What happened to her twin?” Cassian asked with a frown.
As Cassian and Azriel’s self-appointed guardian, Rhys’s mother had done her best to teach them the history of the Illyrian camps and the war-lords family trees. They had been lessons which Cassian had found inanely dull at the time, usually because he had been exhausted from a rigorous day of training. But he did remember learning that the Ironcrest brothers had secured twins for brides. He also recalled that it had caused uproar amongst the clans at the time. Twins were rare in Prythian and a symbol of fertility, power and good luck. As was usual for twins, they weren’t of high status, but had been plucked from the mud and inserted into elevated society from birth—reared for the two princelings for when they came of age.
The tattoo Cassian had spied on Maya’s wrist was a part of Illyrian culture. When twins were born, they were marked with the tattoo of a sun and moon: separate yet integral to one another, forever entwined. They were said to be a gift from the Gods: fertile and harbouring power beyond reckoning which would be passed down to their offspring. Their wings were cut at birth. Twins were too precious to risk flying away when they could produce offspring with hearty Killing Power.
“Her twin died in the fire with Halias. I believe she was called Lyanne.”
It was Frawley who had spoken and Cassian looked at her with a frown on his face. “With her twin’s husband?”
“It was quite the scandal at the time,” Frawley said in low tones. “Her twin sister was married to Marsh but sleeping with his brother. I’m surprised you have not heard of it before.”
“Marsh loved his first wife.” It was Nesta who had spoken, and Cassian instinctively tightened his arm around her. “I felt his pain when he looked at Maya. It ran deep, as if he could not bare to look at her.”
That would explain why Marsh had not taken Maya as his wife, Cassian thought. To be wed to a replica but know that they were not the Fae you loved… The heartache would be too much, especially if the female you had given your heart to had bedded his brother, and whilst Marsh was cold beyond reckoning, it was interesting to know there was a side of him that was warm-blooded.
“I bet there’s a reason she’s not in the widows camp,” Lorrian said quietly, and Cassian’s eyes snapped to his friends so quickly his neck cricked.
His neck burned but he was too busy processing what Lorrian was saying. To think that Marsh had kept his wife’s sister in his residence so she could warm his bed when he willed it… the hairs on his arm stood up and something inside of him recoiled, even as he knew that it was incredibly likely. It would explain how well-kept Maya was. How, like Lorrian had said, she had not been turned out into the widows camp and into the cold.
“How long have you known that?” Cassian demanded quietly.
Beside him, Nesta had turned rigid. He didn’t have to look at her to know her skin had turned pale. And despite their constricted bond he felt an unfathomable icy rage force its way down the tether of twisted rope to meet his own.
He did not look at Nesta as he sent an emotion to soothe. A heat to lick against their anger until it had thawed.
He dragged his thumb across her rib cage in a slow, deliberate motion. He felt her let out a long, measure breath.
“I don’t know it,” Lorrian corrected Cassian smoothly, as if he were discussing the weather, not wanting to raise his voice so others could hear. His eyes burned when they connected wth Cassian’s. “But it would be interesting to find out, wouldn’t it?”
By the time Cassian and Lorrian headed into the Rite meeting, Cassian wanted to leave Ironcrest so fiercely that he had almost refused to leave Nesta behind. As usual, as the lords consumed more wine throughout the luncheon, they seemed to overcome their disdain at approaching rival clans. It result in the pursuit of a kind of hostile, verbal swordplay that reaffirmed why no-one had been permitted to enter the residence with a weapon.
Not, Cassian thought grimly, that it would stop any of them from magicking one with their siphons anyway.
Icor Condor—Lorrian’s brother—had been the first to stride over to them and interrupt their conversation to publicly sneer at his sibling
Despite being the eldest of the two, Lorrian had lost his right as princeling heir when he had left the camp for Frawley’s heart. When their late father had died, his brother Icor had inherited the status of war-lord, much to his pleasure and Lorrian’s disgust.
Icor was Lorrian’s sole sibling, and at a first glance, the two of them were almost identical in looks. It was only on closer inspection that one noticed the unrelenting hardness to Icor’s dark features—something that was due to the constant state of stark displeasure that hung across his expression. He was also slightly broader in build, the twisted cords of his muscles pushing against what Cassian suspected was too-small armour, and whilst Icor’s eyes were technically hazel, the majority of the time they were a light, unnerving jade.
To the untrained eye, it was Icor who appeared more formidable. But outcast or no outcast, Lorrian was the finest cut of Forktail princeling, made for the skies in a way his brother was not. And whilst Icor was undeniably an exceptional warrior—his primary skill was with the spear—Forktail’s ancestry boasted formidable warriors from the skies, and Icor had been loath to forget it.
To his credit, Lorrian had appeared completely unaffected as his brother barrelled insult after insult his way, but when Frawley’s ice eye had glowed brightly with threat, Icor had taken sudden leave, claiming that he couldn’t stand to breathe the air of someone who was not only Incomplete but a defector of his race, as well.
Nesta had dug her fingers so hard into Cassian’s armour at that point that Cassian had thought her fire might beat Frawley’s own magic to throwing itself across the room and hitting Icor square in the chest.
Now, Lorrian and Cassian followed the rest of the war-lords as they made their way to the war-room, which was situated in the right-hand wing of the residence.
They had barely had time to say goodbye as Frawley and Nesta were ushered into the parlour with the war-lords and Rite representatives partners. Frawley’s eyes had gleamed as she and Nesta floated from the room, and Cassian knew that the witch hoped to wheedle out some information from the females whilst their husbands weren’t by their sides.
The issue of oppressing others, Frawley had said the evening prior, when they were hashing out their plans, was that oppressors had a tendency to become over-confident and over-trusting in their tyranny; so sure of their unwavering power over others that their mouths became loose. And if the females did prefer to keep quiet due to fear of being found out by their husbands, Nesta would sense it.
It was, Frawley had insisted, a win-win situation, and Cassian would have been inclined to agree, if the Illyrians didn't harbour such a fear of outsiders, especially those that were not only powerful but looked terrifying, as well.
Lorrian, Cassian had noticed, hadn’t pointed that out to his wife. Nor had he reminded her that her independently moving eyes had a tendency to put Fae on edge rather than at ease.
Which, Cassian thought with a near huff of laughter, probably made Nesta the most approachable out of the two of them.
That knowledge grew inside of his mind until he wanted to howl, and he clamped his lips tightly together to stop a sound from escaping.
He supposed it was a good sign that he could still find humour in things, especially when he had a looming sense of dread that everything was about to go southward.
“She will be fine,” Lorrian told Cassian, frowning at his friend as they walked through the dimly lit corridors which were darkened all the more by heavy tapestries. “Nesta is more than capable of looking after herself, and she has Frawley with her. They are probably safest with the females, anyway.”
Cassian didn’t want to explain the reason for his expression, so he just nodded. It wasn’t as if he liked being separated from Nesta. The more time they spent together, the more he dreaded their time apart. It was a constant sort of worry that gnawed at his insides and made him feel as if someone had ripped a limb clean off his body. And since Nesta had nearly died healing Mas, Cassian had started to experience incandescent, sporadic flashes of panic that Nesta was dying and he did not know. That she was suffering and he was not there to ease it, even as reason told him that anything that urgent would fly down their shared tether.
“That’s what it was like with Frawley,” Lorrian added to Cassian, his hazel eyes discerning as they followed the hulking, retreating backs of the other war-lords.
“What it was like?” Cassian repeated, feigning confusion. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to partake in the discussion.
But Lorrian only dipped his chin. “It’s when I knew we would be chroí . After we were joined, it felt like the greatest relief, as if a spool of yarn had been pulled tight between us but now it could just… exist. Relax a little.”
Cassian thought of the constricted tether between them and the way his light was desperate to push against the inner walls, until that rope had widened into a tunnel clear of brambles.
Not once had Cassian spoken with Lorrian or Frawley about Nesta. About how he was in so deep that sometimes he thought that if she were ever to reject him again he wouldn't be able to climb out of the pit he had fallen into. Both of his friends were sharp enough to have dissected his feelings, he wasn’t naive enough to pretend otherwise. He had never introduced them to a female before, had never allowed them to get to know someone so intimately that was clearly not a friend.
Not that Cassian knew what he and Nesta were. Wouldn’t dare to ask for fear of ruining it all.
And his friends had not pressed him for more information or, to his knowledge, asked Nesta about the two of them. The latter of which he was immensely thankful for.
Yet, that didn’t mean that Cassian hadn’t felt Frawley’s ice blue eye swivel carefully between the two of them, or Lorrian’s knowing smile as Nesta joined in with his friend to torment him.
In fact, the only thing Frawley had commented on was her fondness for Nesta.
“I hope we get to keep her, Cassian,” the witch had said sternly when he had arrived at the cottage earlier that week, as if, ironically, the decision was up to him. Then, without commenting on how premature his arrival was, Frawley had waved impatiently to the back door, “She’s training with Lorrian.”
Having been thoroughly dismissed, Cassian had headed into the backyard to find the paddock to the left of the barn had been cleared of its usual horses. Instead, Nesta stood at a shooting line that Cassian suspected had been made by Lorrian dragging the toe of his boot through the mud. At the far end of the ring —20 metres or so away—stood an archery target.
His friend had not turned as Cassian drew up beside him. Instead, they had both watched in silence as Nesta pulled back the bow string with a strength that no other Illyrian female possessed before releasing it.
Together, they watched an arrow fly across the clearing and hit clean into the outer yellow ring of the target. Lorrian had still not looked at Cassian, had only kept his arms crossed firmly over his chest as they watched Nesta stride over to the target on her long legs to collect her arrows.
“You’ve met your match,” was all Lorrian eventually said, shaking his head in disbelief, before he went over to correct Nesta on her stance.
Now, Cassian glanced sideways at his friend. Lorrian’s eyes were full of a shared understanding that Cassian could not bear. So he looked away, and before he could stop the words, he admitted tightly—quietly, “It’s going to be the death of me.”
Ahead of them, the heavy double doors of the war-room came looming into view, and with it, another layer of dread. Cassian flared his siphons, breaking the sound bubble Lorrian had encased them in, and stalked into the room.
Marsh was already seated at the long, wooden table. He had left the drawing room well before the rest of them, no doubt to hide the extent of his illness, but Cassian could almost taste death on the war-lord.
The others could, too. Those sharp, beady eyes never missed a thing. And if they had not gleaned it for themselves, the way in which Kallon seated himself beside his father was enough of an indication of who was truly intending to run the meeting.
There was a growing expectancy in the air. The deafening kind that was almost like a ringing silence, even as chairs scraped against flagstones and war-lords muttered to their Rite representatives, who took a seat beside them.
It did not escape Cassian that one of Ragar’s friends was seated beside Devlon. That beside the other war-lords, Cassian recognised lordlings who had been reported to have met with Kallon all those weeks ago.
That sense of apprehension intensified, but Cassian settled his wings over his chair and waited for the first war-lord to break the silence. Even as his mind worked at a hundred miles per minute, trying to piece together what he was clearly not seeing.
Unsurprisingly, it was Icor who finally broke the silence. “A representative can’t take place in the Rite,” Lorrian’s brother sneered from where he sat opposite Cassian and Lorrian, his lip already curled as he narrowed his eyes at Kallon.
The princeling did not rise to the barb. He only settled back into his chair with an unrivalled arrogance and smoothness that made Cassian want to smack him in the face. It was an action that almost reminded Cassian of Rhys when he was playing wicked, but there was something impossibly cold and threatening beneath the movement which set Kallon apart from his brother. It made Cassian want to sit up straighter, but he did not allow himself to do it. To let others know that Kallon held his attention so fiercely.
“I am aware of that, Icor,” Kallon replied, once he had taken his time getting comfortable. “I do not intend to partake in the Rite this year.”
Not a murmur ran down the table, but the air became tight and pregnant again. Expectant. It was almost unheard of for a princeling not to partake in the Rite past a certain age, and Kallon was near twenty-five.
It meant that he would not earn siphons of his own for another year.
It was an unusual move, especially given that Kallon was trying to stake authority amongst the Illyrians. Siphons were the quickest way to earn respect amongst Cassian’s race. It was why they begrudgingly accepted Cassian.
Kallon’s birth as a princeling meant that he was born with a natural amount of Killing Power that superseded low-born foot soldiers. Azriel’s information had detailed that Kallon usually trained with three siphons in the sparring ring. That although he was green, he was better than most with the Illyrian saber. That since he had been training with the sword he claimed to be Enalius’s, he had taken to using a fourth siphon to contain the Killing Power that seemed to still be growing within him.
That, in itself, was a worry. Cassian’s Killing Power had reached its maturity at the age of twenty-five, training with seven borrowed siphons in the sparring ring until he finally earned his jewels after the Blood Rite.
The Siphon Master had not hesitated in giving Cassian siphons the colour of blood.
For the blood glory you will earn in battle, ratnik, the Siphon Master had said at the Rite ceremony, as he placed red siphons atop Cassian’s hands, on his knee caps, his upper arms… And across his heart, a flawless star ruby. Even now, Cassian remembered how the jewel had beat a deep, dark red that took on a blueish hue, as if it were kicking into life for the first time. Cassian remembered the gratification that had flickered over the Siphon Master’s face as the ruby did not shatter but became an additional heart, pulsing gently in the spring light.
“Shall we begin, Father?”
This time, every war-lord bristled as Kallon spoke. Somehow, the air became even thicker. A princeling did not order a prince. Yet, Marsh only raked his shrewd eyes over every single male in challenge, before he waved a trembling hand at his son, commanding him to start.
Kallon stood with a confidence that superseded his age; as if he were a messenger sent by the Gods and had the intention of delivering a fucking sermon. Cassian’s stomach dropped leaden to his toes at the same time that his blood began to boil beneath his skin.
Beside him, Lorrian stiffened, as if he too knew that they had been foiled, even though neither of them had yet learnt why.
“Many of you are probably wondering why my father and I have called this meeting early,” Kallon started. The princeling stood tall, his feet slightly apart, his shoulders squared, his wings held up high… A warrior’s stance. But there was something infuriatingly relaxed about his posture, as if commanding an audience was all completely natural to him.
“Tradition states that the first Rite counsel is not held until the new year, but given that Ironcrest is hosting the ceremony this year, we thought it made sense to arrange for this meeting to coincide with the Solstice luncheon.”
There was a pause in which Kallon looked around the room. His voice was too cordial for an Illyrian, especially a princeling, and if it were not for that unfathomable chill to his voice—a carved out emptiness—Cassian would have been willing to bet that he would have been sneered back into his seat. And of course, there was arrogance, too. An entitlement that came with those born into wealth.
“Since Enalius gifted our ancestors with a drop of his power and we were able to mine siphons, the Blood Rite has become the most important tradition in our culture,” Kallon continued. “Illyrians produce the best warriors Prythian has ever seen. Our bloody history shows that whilst we are perceived by High Fae and many others of our kind to be the lowest of faeries, we are triumphant in battle and far supersede not only the Night Courts forces, but the forces in every other court. We Illyrians are relied upon for our gifts, but we are treated as disposable when our talents are not required. The recent kerit attacks on our camps has highlighted what we have known for centuries; that the Night Court does not care about our race to provide sufficient protection.”
Another cessation of speech for what Cassian expected was not for Kallon to catch his breath, but to allow his words to settle. All of the war-lords and representatives remained eerily silent, and whilst they had originally sat forward as if they were waiting to jump in and protest, they were now stock still, drawn in by the words that they all already believed to be true.
“We suffered many losses in the war against Hybern,” Kallon pushed on. “Forces across all of our camps are drained and depleted. Whilst the Rite is an important part of who we are, the loss of more Illyrian lives would be the greatest sin. Enalius gifted all of our families with a drop of his blood so we could ensure that the Illyrian lines did not die out. That we could continue to perform our duty to honour and protect. My father and I have called you here today to consider a hiatus on the Blood Rite. To focus instead on strengthening our troops rather than inflicting more bloodshed upon our kind.”
Silence fell again as Kallon stopped talking. As, with a sweeping look around the table, the princeling sat back down and leant back into his chair with a superior expression on his face. No doubt a sense of achievement that he had captivated the hostile war-lords for enough time to say exactly what he intended. To plant the seeds in the minds of those who already did not look favourably towards their High Lord’s rule.
Lord Alcathoe was the first to snap. The war-lord from Swallow’s Ridge leant forward, his expression dark and openly aggressive. “The Blood Rite has been performed every year without fail. What claim do you have to suggest a hiatus?”
“We have not ceased the Rite in the aftermath of war before,” Lord Hamel added. Hamel’s voice was monotone and bored, but Cassian had learnt from his many visits to Craggs Peak that the war-lord was as vicious as any of the other males around the table—worse than some, actually. One misplaced word and the war-lord was known to explode.
Cassian thought it only a matter of time until everyone at the table witnessed it.
“I don’t think a young whelp who has not fought in a war or earned his own siphons should be leading a discussion in which he has no place.”
“Watch your mouth, Hamel,” Marsh snarled in warning. “My son is smarter than all of your offspring, both the bastards and your true heirs. If you have any true heirs, that is.”
Hamel’s answering snarl had him rising out of his seat. The war-lord’s face had turned purple with rage and his teeth were bared. Spittle flew across the wooden surface of the strategy table. “If you weren’t already on your death bed, Marsh, I’d—”
“It is true that I do not yet own my own siphons and that I have not yet fought in a war,” Kallon interrupted, standing again with a flare of his wings. The sound snapped around the room, like a nine-tail whip cracking against skin. “But I see what our race has suffered at the hands of the Night Court. We are treated as expendable and as bodies rather than being valued for who we are and what we stand for. To put a hiatus on the Blood Rite will allow us to become stronger. It will allow our warriors to become proficient in the art of battle and for our numbers to rise. We cannot afford to lose any more warriors.”
The blood in Hamel’s face was slowly draining from purple to red. Still angry, but not as if he was going to self-combust. The war-lord had sunk back down into his seat, and it was clear that an internal conflict was going on in his mind; as he decided what held greater importance, his hatred of Anguis Marsh and his son, or his opinions on Night Court affairs.
And the issue was that whilst there were statements of Kallon’s that were wrong—namely that the war was not an Illyrian cause and that Rhys saw the Illyrians as disposable— the princeling was also right. The Illyrians could not afford to lose any more warrior blood in the upcoming Rite. It was an issue Cassian had deliberated over repeatedly. One he had brought up with Rhys and Azriel. A problem they had decided not to interfere with for fear that it would set the Illyrians against them even further.
But what Kallon was doing… it was clever. It played on the Illyrians sensibilities and the ever-growing notion that they should not be ruled by Rhys’s hand. And if Kallon could get the war-lords to agree… he would be seen as a martyr, whilst the Night Court would be viewed as complacent in further deaths of the Illyrian race.
It would gain him support amongst the most influential of the Illyrians. It would strengthen the dissent. And if the war-lords made it clear that they were openly opposing Rhys’s rule, then many more Illyrians would follow their example.
As if Kallon knew he was triumphant, he pinned Cassian with a stare. “Do you not agree, General? We have suffered the death of an entire aerial legion, plus many of our strongest warriors against Hybern. Surely you cannot argue that we should go ahead with the Blood Rite rather than strengthen our forces before we allow ourselves to suffer any more losses?”
Cassian and Lorrian were rabbits caught in a hunters snare and Kallon knew it.
“The Night Court agrees that we cannot afford to lose any more males in the Blood Rite,” Cassian replied, his voice so deep and commanding that he did not recognise his true self—the part of him that was not General but Fae. “Should another war come to Illyria, we need to ensure we can protect our kind and those throughout our court. A reprieve from the Blood Rite is the best way to prevent further bloodshed.”
A growl sounded from Icor. It was an abrupt, guttural sound that sounded too much like a temper tantrum. He had no doubt been expecting Cassian to side with him. “You have not answered the question, princeling. What right do you have to suggest a hiatus?”
Across his cruel face, Icor looked briefly triumphant. A petulant child believing he’d won a game rather than contemplating the life or death of his best warriors. “So tell me, what right do we have to interfere with the will of our warrior Gods?”
“My son has been chosen by the Gods. By Enalius himself.” Marsh’s grating voice was deep and commanding. Forceful.
A dismissive snort. “I do not think—” Icor started, but Marsh dismissed Forktail’s war-lord entirely, and looked towards his son. His heir.
“Show them,” Marsh ordered Kallon with a wave of his hand.
The princeling turned his head in a way that was more automaton than Fae. He looked towards the doors, where a male steward wearing Ironcrest colours stepped out of the shadows.
In that moment, Cassian wished Nesta was in the room with them, if only to sense the emotions of every single war-lord as their lofty expressions turned carefully blank. As their eyes fell to the sword laying atop a velvet-crushed cushion the colour of mustard.
Enalius’s sword. Or at least, a sword with ancient magical properties.
Cassian could feel the hum of it in his blood—his magic—turning over inside of him, pressing against his skin as if it was trying to leap from his body and join with the steel. His siphons pulsed, his star ruby beating like a star-blessed heart. And from the look on every other males face, they could sense the magic of it, too.
The sword looked exactly as it did in the drawing printed in Heroicis. The sword Cassian had committed to memory as a youngling, as he stared at that inked drawing—the only thing he could understand as an illiterate bastard trying to make sense of a book full of words. The blade was arced, the steel etched with the Illyrian marks of glory that each of the war-lords wore on their own skin. The curved bone pommel gleamed as if it had been recently polished, even though the handle looked well-worn and cracked.
Just as Frawley had reported, the oval jewel was missing from where it should sit on the wide guard.
Cassian knew without Frawley having to confirm it—with a certainty that was completely devoid of doubt—that Kallon was presenting them with Enalius’s sword.
And worse, that the princeling would gain the begrudging respect of the males around this table for it.
Notes: I’ve had a few of you asking for Cassian’s POV when he saw Nesta dressed for Solstice, so I cobbled this quickly together. As usual, let me know if you’d like to be tagged in any of my fanfic updates (or untagged)...
You can read the original chapter from Nesta’s POV here.
As usual, sorry for any typos!
Each rap of Cassian’s knuckles against the wood of Nesta’s bedroom door magnified his apprehension. His nerves had started to fray as soon as he started to dress in his usual black pants and shirt — his go-to outfit for fancier occasions. Even after years of hounding from Rhys and Mor, Cassian couldn’t bring himself to pin down an extortionately priced tailor to fashion his own clothing. Instead, he was wearing what Mas had lovingly made for him with Illyrian fabric. He had paid her handsomely for it and it had made him feel all the better knowing that she desperately needed the money whereas an over-priced tailor did not.
Cassian had been back in Velaris the evening previous, celebrating the coming of Solstice with his family, and Azriel had winnowed him back to the house in the early hours. Thankfully, the ramifications of Cassian’s one-too-many glasses of wine had bled away with his third plate of breakfast, but to his dismay, the disappearance of a hangover had only paved the way for a heavy sense of dread that he could not shake.
It wasn’t that Cassian wasn’t looking forward to Solstice with Lorrian and Frawley. It was more the memories the day dredged up. Namely Nesta sitting as silent as a ghost during last year’s festivities, and his feigned joviality throughout, which Cassian suspected had done little to fool his family. And then, later, Nesta had become so sharp and so dismissive that his heart still twisted at the recollection. At the memory of his anger when she had rejected him so effectively. When he had hurled that damn box in the Sidra…
The contents of which was now nestled in the front pocket of his pants. Its mere presence was enough to make his heart thump against his ribcage, and knowing he intended to give it to her today… that she might reject it once again…. It made Cassian so nervous he almost contemplated retreating from her door and disappearing into the camp altogether.
But then footsteps sounded across the carpet. The door handle turned. And then Nesta appeared in the doorway in all her devastating glory.
So devastating that heat flushed through Cassian with such intensity his words burst forth in a way that was not at all casual and aloof, “Are you ready?”
An exquisite frown twisted across Nesta’s features. It was one of Cassian’s favourite expressions, namely because of the arrows that formed at the base of her nose. “Am I late?”
She was eyeing him strangely. One hand was held purposefully to the back of her head, holding her braid in place, and the other joined it so she could secure the ends with a golden pin.
Too late Cassian realised he was standing as if he were waiting to fend off a forthcoming opponent in the sparring ring rather than to remind her that they were supposed to be leaving.
He wanted to change his posture but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not as those mercury eyes slowly raked over his body. Instead, he remained stock still until her eyes flitted to his wings. To his dismay, his wings widened without him bidding them to, as if he was enduring a fucking military inspection and she was his superior.
Never in his life had Cassian been so thankful that neither of his brothers was here to witness him making an utter tit out of himself. They would never let him live it down.
“Am I late?” Nesta asked eventually, when he remained silent.
Cassian watched her hands drop from her hair to smooth down her dress, before she knotted them calmly at her front. Today, her hair was fashioned into a loose half coronet, and golden brown waves fell past her shoulders to give way, not to leathers, but a midnight blue dress that he recognised as one she had worn in Velaris.
But what had really made him breathless, was that Nesta looked healthy. More than healthy. As with anything Nesta wore, the fabric accentuated her flawless curves, but rather than the sharp angles and jutting bone her starved body had lent itself to, the material showcased the weight she had gained. Even her skin glowed because of it, and her eyes… they were bright rather than vacant. She looked so, so beautiful that something turned over inside him, as if everything was clicking into place.
Too late Cassian realised he had been staring. He expected he could only count his lucky stars that his gods damned mouth wasn’t hanging open, too.
Or, Cassian thought grimly, that he had not given in to temptation and slanted his mouth on hers. Not that he thought she wanted him to do that. A knowledge that only served to upset him, so much so, that he did not notice Nesta move until she had swept past him.
“You‘ll need to shield my hair,” Nesta clipped. She floated to the door as if she was walking on nothing but air and lifted her coat off of the hook.
If Cassian was a gentlemale, he would have helped her into her coat. But then again, Nesta had a tendency to snap at him for the slightest wrong manoeuvre and his ego was already damaged today as it was.
“Aren’t we going to be late?” she snapped impatiently, when he continued to stand there.
She sounded irritable and Cassian wondered if she did not want to be celebrating Solstice at all. That she had perhaps only accepted Lorrian and Frawley’s invitation because she did not want to be impolite when they were both training her.
The thought did nothing to dampen his insecurities, so Cassian did what he did best; he looked for the easiest opportunity to rile her. “Are you going to wear those shoes?”
Nesta’s glare would have had lesser males scarpering. “Yes.”
“They’re not practical for flying,” he told her shortly as he strode to the door.
“I’m not flying, I’m being carried,” Nesta snapped in response. “And is it not custom to dress nicely for Solstice?”
A cruel satisfaction thrummed through Cassian as he felt her power rush beneath her skin. At the opportunity she had provided him with to study her some more.
Slowly, he dragged his eyes over every inch of her, delighting in her hiss of anger.
He bit back a groan.
Fucking hell, she was a divine temptress and he was a complete and utter gone. And to make things worse, he was now going to hold her for the entire journey to Lorrian and Frawley’s and do his best not to give in to that irresistible pull.
“It is custom,” Cassian agreed eventually - tightly - because that was all he could manage without revealing that in over his five hundred years of living, he had never been so completely consumed by someone in his entire life.
A short nod from Nesta as she wound a scarf around her neck. “Don’t set me down in any mud or snow and I won’t find it in myself to set you on fire.”
At that, Cassian snorted. He had no doubt she’d be setting him on fire very soon. Especially when she realised that tomorrow they would have a pretence to upkeep. That she would be sharing a bed with him whether she liked it or not.
Hauling the front door open, Cassian stepped outside. The weather was so cold it was like a slap to the face, but he merely flared his siphons and allowed his armour to click into place scale by scale.
When he held out his hand to Nesta, she took it with little more than a glare, and he dared to pull her closer, moulding her to his body as if they were two puzzle pieces that slot together.
For a fraction of a moment, Cassian paused, allowing himself to relish in the steady beat of Nesta’s heart and the scent of jasmine and vanilla. To marvel over the way her hand closed around his arm rather than acting like a lifeless, vacant doll.
Then, Cassian spread his wings wide and sprung them into the air.
Notes: Chapter 24 - can you guys believe it?! I have brought you a lot of angst in the last few chapters, but there is a lil fluffy moment in this chapter which I hope you enjoy. Plus protective Cassian (one of my personal favourites).
As ACOSF draws nearer, I wanted to ask you guys a question. I initially was hoping to finish this fic before it came out, but I just don't think it's going to happen. So if you would still read E&L after ACOSF comes out, could you let me know? It will help me to make a decision on whether I need to start wrapping this all up sharpish, or whether I can continue to move along at my current pace.
Enjoy :) And I hope you all are having a lovely festive period.
p.s I’ve been having issues with tagging blogs lately. Let me know if you get a notification?
Chapter 24
Nesta
Nesta was drowning.
Drowning in the dark; in the unfathomable cold that bit at her ankles and dragged her down by invisible, insistent hands and sharp, pointed claws. Down, down, down Nesta went, into the inky blackness that sung of ancient horror, fighting for a breath that she could not take.
Inside her head, Nesta was screaming; the sound an echo, as if she were detached from her body and she were listening to someone else. It was a scream of rage and unmeasurable pain as her body was torn apart and rearranged: her bones cracking and reforming into solid steel; her ears stretching into points; her limbs elongating. And with that fire a burning cold that was deeper than the gap between stars. Nesta screamed from the agony of it, but cold water rushed into her lungs and stifled the sound. Pain licked at her skin like the flames of a fire, until her blood was bubbling with rage and a thirst for revenge that ran so deep it became woven into the very fabric of who she was — of who she was being moulded into.
Nesta should have passed out from the pain but instead she fought to remain conscious; wholly awake and wholly a witness as she tore at the edges of the blasted Cauldron. The sides were made of nothing but canvas, Nesta’s nails ripping through it as the Cauldron bucked and shrieked, like an animal caught beneath her paw.
Bright light poured through the gaping holes, blinding her new born eyes that had not yet seen.
She felt the power of it, the piece she carved out for herself in fury and with revenge singing in her blood. She made it hers, let that power sink into her bones, her skin, as they snapped and cracked and reshaped themselves…
The Cauldron continued to thrash and struggle. The water took on a thicker quality like tar, but Nesta did not relent. She ravaged that power until it was a part of her; stolen and consumed. Impossible to take back.
And then Nesta was no longer drowning but falling.
The pocket of air hit her with such force that Nesta found herself with the irony that she could not breathe, even though it was what she needed more than anything in the world. But then her lungs were spluttering, her stomach lurching, and inky blackness — ancient death — was regurgitated onto crystalline rock. Nesta heaved until her stomach had no more and she was gasping for breath — cold, bracing fresh air that tasted like freedom — before she rolled onto her back, her hair plastered to her face.
She shivered from the cold and the unquenchable fury that would not see her yield.
Above her was midnight black, the stillness of what Nesta wanted to believe was sky but she knew was only an illusion. It brought her comfort even though she wanted to hate it; wanted to sob and scream until she was so exhausted that she couldn’t muster any more strength.
And she should have been terrified but she also felt deathly calm, even as a voice spoke out of the darkness. It was a voice that was ancient; old and superlunary with a strength that whispered of unimaginable power for better or worse. “I have been waiting for you, Nesta Archeron.”
Words like ice fire. Of steel and reserve. Of power beyond Nesta’s wildest reckoning.
It hurt to move but Nesta scrambled to her feet, slipping on loose rock and craggy stone. The sound that beat in her ears was an insistent, terrified rhythm, and it took Nesta a moment to piece together that it was her heart, throwing itself with a repetitive boom against strips of bone — a flimsy cage for something so fierce.
Whirling around, Nesta tried to source the voice but found only that endless stretch of deep velvet, and in the near distance, a towering shadow that rose up, up, up into the darkness until it blended into the canvas, like something disappearing into the clouds.
Nesta made herself take stock. Made herself stand still. To dampen the terror and focus on that spiky, deep-set anger that still consumed her. Her back stiffened, her chin rose, and when she spoke for the first time with her new lungs, Nesta did not let her voice shake.
She clenched her fists until her new nails bit into the meat of her palms. “Where am I?”
A sensual laugh as smooth as marble echoed around her — perfectly rendered. “Do you hear the wind? It moans your name, Nesta Archeron. Your twin can hear it. They’ve always been able to hear it. Your history written into the night sky where you only need join the dots. So easy to ignore until now.” A pause and Nesta felt that being move. Her head snapped around as the voice mused from behind her, “And your destiny: a sacrifice and a gift in the same moment.”
Nesta tightened her fists in an effort to ground herself and willed herself to lean back into that odd sense of being rather than the fear that was making her heart race. She felt her nails break through her skin with a pop. She scented blood; metallic and salt. She was so cold she wanted to shake until her teeth chattered, but Nesta would not show weakness. She would not break down.
So Nesta rose up tall and made her voice ice cold; strong rather than brittle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Another long, sensual laugh. A caress akin to a brush stroking the softest of bristles over her skin. “No, you don’t,” the voice agreed. “Not yet. But you will.”
A moment in time stretched out, the pause pregnant and awesome. Then a soft light in the darkness above, growing in size: a fleck, a star, a luminescent ball of light…
“What do you want, Nesta Archeron?”
“I want revenge,” Nesta replied, her voice full of a sudden vigour as vengeance lashed out on a forked tongue.
Again, more soft laughter that licked over Nesta’s body in a shiver. “You have already got that, have you not? Do you not feel that deathly power in your veins? That hum of primitive power that you have stolen, that has been woven into who you now are.”
“I will end him. I will end everyone who has caused my sister harm.”
“Of that, I have no doubt. But what will that take from you?”
Hysterical laughter wanted to burst forth from Nesta’s lungs, as if she could only feel the sharpest of emotion and everything else were muted.
“Everything has already been taken from me,” Nesta spat, balling her hands into harder fists, her nails digging into her crescent shaped wounds.
Pain flared, fresh and sharp but Nesta paid it no heed. She was no stranger to pain and she would rally. Every. Damn. Time.
The light above Nesta continued to grow until it became distinct; a fiery palm emerging out of the dark. Nesta did not flinch. Did not scream or back away. Did not bow or yield or grovel. She only let pearlescent fingers close around Nesta’s own, the touch like a near-scalding bath that settled only when your blood thrummed beneath raw, pink skin.
“So much sacrifice,” the voice pondered, turning Nesta’s hand. Nesta’s fingers unfurled from her palm without her willing it, until her palm lay open, the half-crescent moons bloody tears in her otherwise new skin. “But what about a gift?” the voice asked. “A gift for the girl who lives with such anger and guilt. The girl who sees the world in all its terrible glory and feels too much. What do you say to that?”
“I only want revenge,” Nesta repeated, her mind assaulting her with images of Elain as she was pushed under the inky water, as she emerged drowning and wholly new — wrong.
No laughter this time. Only that hand rising, fingers coming together until they were pointed and pinching something out of the dark.
A pearl of pure light hovered millimetres from those shining fingers, as if it were attached by an invisible string. It sung with such radiant brilliance that Nesta wanted to look away: it was the pure, unfathomable brightness of a midnight star. A melody that sung of promise and hope.
“What is revenge worth if it does not emerge from the desire to protect?” the voice asked, letting go of that drop of light. It did not fall like water; it floated down slowly, until it nestled in the crook of Nesta’s palm like a pearl that shimmered as it caught the light.
Nesta remained deathly still, staring at the drop of possibility in her palm.
“Revenge is choice, Nesta Archeron. It can be a wish for death and pain or to protect and defend.”
“Both,” Nesta said fiercely. “It can be both.”
“Multi-faceted and complex, as all decisions are,” the voice agreed. “And there are so many strands in you, aren’t there? Already you have felt one of them, although I do not think you have truly placed the puzzle pieces together. But here is another choice; something to cherish and use wisely on those who are worthy. Everything is cyclical. Day and night, birth and death, love and sacrifice…”
The luminescent hand closed Nesta’s palm, but rather than the drop of light bring dampened by shadow, it sank into Nesta’s skin, until it too became a part of her.
“I don’t want a gift.”
But even as Nesta spoke she knew she did not truly mean it.
She also knew it was too late. She felt her blood spike and thrum as that light channeled into her, twining around that deathly power that she had already stolen and forced into her remaking.
A low hum vibrated the ground beneath Nesta’s feet. “Don’t want it or do not deserve it?”
And then Nesta was drowning again with such startling speed that she hadn’t the time to take a deep breath. Terror gripped her, and with it power sung in her blood, the sensation like boiling water, as if her very skin were bubbling with it even though that dark water bit with a cold akin to the fiercest frostbite.
As if fear had summoned it, silver fire began to glow at Nesta’s palms. Water rushed into Nesta’s lungs and with it, that power surged.
Up, up, up Nesta went, like an arrow unsheathed from a bow until the inky black was no longer concrete and colour swam on the surface.
Everything tilted as the Cauldron tipped, jerking the water and Nesta out onto the cold flagstones of reality.
Nesta took a desperate, ragged breath through the gag that was suddenly back around her mouth, and cast a look around the room: to Cassian who was sprawled unconscious on the ground, his arm outstretched and his wings in tatters; to Feyre who was kneeling in her own vomit tucked into Rhysand’s side...
And on her sister’s face, Nesta could see what she was: ravaging, deadly, awesome. A face and figure to stop males and females in their tracks. A face and figure that would make humans and fae alike think twice.
But that was nothing of the forged steel in Nesta’s bones, in her blood, as she scrabbled across the floor to Elain on her long, unnatural limbs and tore the gag from her mouth.
It was a steel that no-one could see but that they could all sense as Nesta locked eyes with the King of Hybern, that promise of death still swimming in those mercury eyes that moved.
She would have her revenge. Of that, she was sure.
***
Nesta gasped.
Her hands flailed, her body screamed with agony, her lungs were hoarse and raw, her abdomen set with a pain that went so deep she knew something was gravely wrong.
And through her veins… no whisper of her magic. Not a drop.
It was that which made her thrash, her lungs suddenly unable to breathe from the agony that wrangled through her body.
She heard her name. Again and again; the high-pitched desperation of a female. Feyre. But then something much lower. A caress. A rumble that quelled her fear and kicked the breath back into her with a force that had her gasping.
Nesta’s hand found a rough, calloused palm across the mattress. Fingers curled unbelievably gently around hers. She heard the rustle of wings. Smelt pine and musk and the bracing fresh air of the Illyrian skies.
“Nesta. You need to take your medicine. The morphine has worn off.”
Cassian.
Even with her eyes submerged in the dark, Nesta knew that Cassian had turned his head to murmur something in low tones to her sister — her senses heightened in the wake of the fear that was still bitter on her tongue.
Then light retreating footsteps. The click of a closed door. A large hand on her temple. A wet rag against her lips. Nesta opened her mouth despite the foul tasting tincture which burned her throat and flooded her tastebuds; swallowing it down, begging it to soothe over the pain which she could not describe for its wrongness, even though she had been told that she would heal.
Frawley had come to visit her the last time Nesta had resurfaced. Had explained why she was there and what had happened. That Nesta had the gift of healing. That she had over-healed Mas's traumatic injuries and moved on to older ones. That she had sacrificed her wellness for someone else’s. That she would have died had Cassian not got her to stop.
Another power Nesta needed to train. As if she didn’t have enough to wrangle under control.
Nesta did not remember much after dropping to her knees at the widows camp. She remembered the click of a lock inside of her; the way her power had flipped from silver to startling, brilliant white. That she had known what to do as she lifted her hands over Mas and started to use her magic for something wholly good.
“What did you feel for your power came to the surface?” Frawley had asked before she took leave.
Nesta had bitten back a whimper of agony as she shifted uncomfortably on the mattress. She had been swamped in heavy blankets and consumed in Cassian’s scent. His bed not hers. But the scent of him… it comforted her. She was too tired to rally against it. Had woken knowing that she was immeasurably safe even though memory tried to persuade her that she was not.
Eventually, when she realised that Frawley’s second eye had come to rest on her along with ice blue, Nesta had supplied, “I felt grief.”
“And what else?” Frawley had urged, her ice blue eye glowing with intensity.
Nesta had been too tired to answer. Her eyelids heavy from the sedative she had been given, despite the energising tea Frawley had administered to attempt to speed up the act of replenishing her magic. To fight the fatigue one felt when they had been drained of power.
And now she was waking again and Frawley was gone.
Braving the light, Nesta cracked open an eye. Her head throbbed, as if her brain were growing in her skull and it was pressing against bone.
Cassian was hovering over her, a crumpled frown twisting his brow as he dripped the medicine past her lips. He caught her eyes opening a fraction too late and she catalogued worry slide into relief before it was pushed back and a light was forced into those dark irises. When he smiled at her, it was too tight and anguished to ring true. She must have been in a bad way — very bad — for him to lose sight of his tendency to arrange his expression into that casual playfulness. For her sister to still be here, hovering by her bedside unsure how to act or how to behave. For her mate to be in the room next door, his star-blessed magic permeating Cassian’s bedroom even through stone and plaster and wood. She could even sense Azriel’s shadows moving like an agitated fog.
No Amren. No Mor.
Something to be thankful for.
“Mas?” she asked. Her throat was dry despite the tincture and the word came out scratchy and raw.
Cassian pressed a glass of water to her lips.
She drank.
“Mas has left to help relocate the widows and orphans,” Cassian told her. “I had her checked over by Madja and Frawley. She is perfectly fine. Roksana too,” he added when Nesta frowned. “Mas hasn’t flown yet,” he continued. “She wanted you to witness it.”
Something tightened around Nesta’s throat. It was not panic but… deep twisting affection for the housekeeper. It must be agony for Mas not to launch straight into the skies. Yet… Nesta was touched beyond imagining that she would wait for Nesta to witness something so precious. A moment in history that was not tainted in blood and death but joy.
Cassian had paused as if he were checking himself. He had moved away from her, to the dark dresser to the left of the bed. There was a clink of glass which Nesta supposed was him stoppering the medicine. “I know you do not like it here and I understand that. You were given no choice and Illyria is…” he trailed off, as if he were searching for the right word. “It’s brutal, in both harsh reality and its beauty. But the widows and orphans… they will not forget what you have done for them — how you fought for them. Mas has been shackled in so many ways throughout her life, but her wings… You have given her freedom, Nesta. She will never forget that ,and neither will those females who witnessed you healing her.”
When Cassian turned back to look at Nesta, his eyes were glowing with such intensity she did not know what to say. He seemed to understand that, breaking their gaze to stare out of the window.
It was snowing again. The scent of it was in the air and on Cassian’s clothes, from where Nesta imagined he’d been in the throng of it all, establishing order where there was chaos. She imagined that was why his family was here.
“Azriel has some information about the kerits,” Cassian said. He remained staring out of the window, his gaze fixed on the snow falling from the thin sheets of grey cloud strung in the sky. “About where we think they came from. We would like you to be a part of the discussion.” A pause. “If you would like to be, that is.”
Nesta held back a snort partly because she knew it would hurt too much. “I don’t think your High Lord wants me to be a part of any discussion.”
“Rhys specifically asked me to fetch you before we began,” Cassian replied, not flinching at her ice-sharp words. Nesta supposed he had become immune. “You are integral to the conversation.”
Noise caught in the back of Nesta’s throat. “I thought I was just a stain you all wished you could rid yourself of.”
No, not immune. Cassian flinched as if he had been burned, his wings spreading instinctively before he could catch them. He retracted them back in with a slow huff of anger. It was not a disparaging or exasperated sigh, more… defeated, as if it were a remark that brought him pain.
Still he did not turn to her. If anything, his focus became more intent on the scenery outside. At the bustle of Illyrians as they fought against the flurry of snow that promised to kiss everything white at the worst possible time.
Cassian’s jaw feathered. “If I remember correctly, it was always you trying to rid yourself of me.”
Nesta blinked at the coarse words that held no lightness, no mockery, no teasing. That were honest and unhappy. Twisted with a rejection which hit her to the bone.
You rejected me first, Nesta wanted to say, as she watched the taut muscles in Cassian’s back. They were vibrating with an energy that usually told Nesta that he needed to fight with his fists until his body was sated.
“We believe the attacks might be orchestrated,” Cassian continued. “Azriel went to scout the perimeter to see if there was any evidence. He has only just arrived back.” Finally, those amber eyes rested back on her. They were burning with a rage that had been purposefully dialled back, but Nesta knew how much Cassian cared about his people. “Will you come?” he asked.
Shock wound through Nesta at the confession. At the brutality of what Cassian was suggesting. Anger spiked through the exhaustion with such ferocity her magic should have been roaring, but it only remained quiet. Yet… a determination solidified in her mind. She did want to be a part of the conversation. Not just to be useful, but because Nesta cared about the widows and orphans. She longed to hold Roksana close and see Mas fly. To lay the dead to rest, to check in on the injured. To see if she could use her healing magic to mend their wounds. To show that she was not an observer but a fighter - a protector. That she would lay her life on the line to protect the females who had nothing and were helpless against every threat, just as she had once been.
She did not say all that. Instead, she just said, “Fine.”
A short nod as if Cassian understood. “We can do it in here or out there.” Cassian jerked his chin to the living room. “Frawley said you are not to move if it can be helped, but something tells me you’d sooner have died than be crowded on your sick bed.”
There. A small lace of lightness that had not been there before. Forced, maybe, but there all the same.
Nesta scowled. “You thought rightly.”
“It will hurt,” Cassian warned her. “For me to lift you.”
“Then do it gently.”
A soft snicker as he moved off the many, many blankets, and then strong, corded arms slid beneath her body.
Cassian’s voice was rough in her ear. “You’re the most stubborn female I’ve ever met.”
Gritting her teeth, Nesta tried to overcome the sharp, deep-set pain that made her want to cry out.
The way Cassian gathered her to him was pain-achingly careful but it was still too much, her wounds too fresh and Nesta gasped a high-pitched cry, digging her fingers so hard into his tunic that she knew they must have bitten into the skin of his shoulders. Cassian did not indicate that she had hurt him, he only cradled her closer to the hard planes of his body, his huge wing curving around her as if he could partition off the pain and keep her safe.
The glow of the membrane was not unlike that of rusty, glowing embers. Beautiful.
Cassian remained stock still, waiting for the pain to ebb and then, slowly, as if he were hesitant to do it, his forehead came to rest on the top of her head; a bowing gesture that was almost like a confession, folding her into a protective cocoon that smelt of pine resin and warmth.
If Nesta could move without crying out, she would have traced a finger down his wing, following the spider webs of his capillaries. She had never had the opportunity to study them this close up. They were as mesmerising as fire flames as they danced their way up into the sky; as captivating as woodsmoke as it were tossed about on a breeze.
“I thought you were going to die.”
Cassian’s voice was a low, deep rumble that she felt in the pit of her stomach. In her bones. In her heart.
“Not yet,” she replied drily, but the hoarse words were muffled by the embrace.
She knew what he was trying to say. Had felt it before. The way in which history had tied the two of them together. Had made them terrified not just of dying, but without the other. An immeasurable panic that clawed at her throat and tore at her lungs.
To end up on death’s door without her lying over him was unimaginable. They had vowed to go together and even now, when they were separate rather than entwined, she would still lay her body over his broken one and refuse to live.
“Don’t say that,” Cassian clipped, his voice suddenly sharp. Broken.
Even though it hurt to move, Nesta rolled her head to press against his chest, shifting his forehead so it was lower, his lips almost brushing her skin. Nesta could not bring it in herself to care. Cassian smelt just as his sheets had — pine, musk and untamed air. Comforting.
Hesitantly, as if she had surprised him, Cassian’s large hand came to cup her head.
For a moment, they stayed like that, until the burning question that had hung in the back of her mind became too much. “Why am I in your room?” she asked.
“I had to put Mas in your bed,” Cassian confessed. She felt him smile small against her — a promise of mischief. “It’s not the way I imagined I’d first have you beneath my sheets, but I guess I should just be thankful you’re alive.”
A quiet snarl from Nesta had Cassian lifting his head to laugh. The sound was a low rasp which did not hold its usual vigour.
He was still worried. She could feel it. The sensation was relentless as a crashing tide.
“Reign in your worry,” Nesta snapped weakly. “I can feel it and it’s making me nauseous.”
Another laugh, stronger this time, and then Cassian’s emotion vanished, as if it had been carried away on a sea-kissed breeze.
“I’m going to move now,” he informed her. “Best brace yourself for the pain, sweetheart.”
It was agony. The pain so awfully deep that Nesta could hardly breathe, even as Cassian moved as smoothly as possible. She wanted to cry out, to whimper, but she would not show weakness in front of her sister’s mate.
By the time she was settled on the couch, Nesta had broken that vow; distressed sounds escaping through gritted teeth as she panted desperately for breath. With a click of Rhys's fingers, the nest of blankets that Nesta had been swaddled in appeared on the couch, just in time for Cassian to lower her onto the cushions.
Nesta did not have it in herself to be angered that Rhys had helped.
At the sound of her sister's stifled shouts, Feyre rushed out of the kitchen. She was holding a steaming mug in her hands, which Cassian plucked from his High Lady and planted straight into Nesta’s palms.
Feyre allowed him to do it without a word of protest, anxiously wringing her hands as she studied what Nesta imagined to be her too pale face, the sweat that had broken out on her forehead…
They had not spoken properly since the attack, but Feyre had been there, hovering on the periphery; anxious and sick with worry that she did not know assaulted Nesta until she too became nauseous with it. Nesta’s icy guard had been down since she had dropped to her knees beside Mas, and she hadn’t the power to stack it back up. Not when she was as exhausted as she was, her power utterly diminished and her body focussing on healing.
Finally casting a glance around the room, Nesta saw that the flames in the log burner were raging mute. She wondered who had magicked them to become silent. She hoped it was Frawley rather than Rhysand.
Rhys was positioned to the right of the fireplace, and when Nesta’s gaze purposefully passed over him as if he were little more than part of the furniture, she felt his violet eyes flick to her, his expression no doubt hard and unyielding. But Nesta was too tired to battle today.
Cassian was watching her too, glaring with such intensity at her hands that Nesta was surprised they hadn’t moved involuntarily to raise the mug to her lips. Wanting him to stop, Nesta took a slow sip of tea even though it hurt to swallow. It didn’t work; those hazel eyes remaining unwaveringly fixated. He was standing right by her head, scrutinising everything she did, his wings spread as if he were contemplating launching into flight.
Nesta wanted to hiss at him, but then Feyre sat close beside her, and that made her want to hiss more.
At his place to the left of the hearth, Azriel’s lips twitched. He had been standing as still as a statue, like marble carved out of the finest stone, his shadows stolid, but now he shifted to face her.
Nesta guessed the shadowsinger could sense her emotions with her guard down completely.
She supposed there had to be a first.
When Nesta took the last sip of her drink, Cassian’s hands were immediately there, taking it from her, his siphons winking in the firelight. Nesta barely noticed. She only felt an overwhelming sense of relief at the first whisper of silver and brilliant white that twisted through her veins like two coiled serpents; intertwined yet separate.
Easing backwards with the intention of settling into the cushions, Nesta tried to ignore the pain that suddenly stabbed through her as her stomach muscles tensed. A sharp gasp escaped her, her breath knocked out of her lungs, but then cool, shadowed hands gripped Nesta’s shoulders. They took the weight off of her abdomen, slowly lowering her backwards until she was resting comfortably.
Behind her, Nesta heard Cassian’s wings snap in and out, clearly agitated at her pain.
When Nesta turned her head to Azriel, he dipped his head to her in acknowledgement. Black tendrils of shadow whispered back to him, curling around his arms and face, waiting patiently to be bent again to their master's will.
Then the shadowsinger turned to Rhys, as if seeking the order to begin.
“Thank you for joining us, Nesta,” Rhys said tightly. “Especially given the circumstances.”
Nesta did not reply, could not find it in herself to do it, but she finally stared at their High Lord with unflinching determination.
As always, Rhys was irritatingly immaculate, leaning against the hearth as if he owned it. Already Nesta felt like he was tainting her space — her sanctuary — and although she wanted to spit at him to leave and not come back, she only gave a stiff nod.
It would appear both of them were going to be forced today. Circumstances that were greater than their feud were at work, and neither of them was going to be petty enough to undermine that.
“Feyre allowed me to view her memory of the kerits attack,” Rhys said. “Three males flew over the mountain minutes before it happened. They can’t have been a part of the usual patrol as they weren’t doing the scheduled circuit. Instead, they flew straight over the mountain pass. Do you remember that?”
Nesta frowned, reaching back into the far depths of her memory… The three dots that coursed across the sky, the winking flash of silver from steel.
Sharply, Nesta craned her head to look at Cassian, not thinking of her injuries. She gasped. The movement had twisted her abdomen in a way she was not ready for.
Cassian’s large hands fell briefly to her shoulders before he moved to perch on the left of the U-shaped couch, close to the corner where he had lain her down.
“Ragar—” she started.
But Cassian only shook his head, leaning forward so his elbows were resting on his broad thighs. His wings were held in high and tight to his spine. “Accounted for,” he told her. “And his friends. They were in the sparring rings with Devlon and countless other witnesses.”
His smile was grim. “It’s one of the first thing I checked,” he confessed. “But it made us start to wonder if perhaps the attacks have been orchestrated. One attack can be passed off as a freak accident, but three attacks across three different camps is suspicious, especially given that kerits do not venture into populated areas.”
Nesta’s expression sharpened. “You think somebody purposefully led those beasts to the widows camp?”
Rhys’s nodded. “We think it’s a possibility.” He pinned his brother with those violet eyes. “What did you find scouring the perimeter, Az?”
The shadowsinger’s expression did not physically change, but Nesta felt his shadows chill. “Carrion,” he said coldly. “A trail of it leading to the mountain pass. Morsels of it. Not enough to feed a starving pack, but deliberate enough to tempt them out of the depths of the mountains.”
“This winter has been especially punishing,” Cassian interjected. “I bet food supply has been scarce. They struggle to survive as it is. The sounds they made as they hunted probably alerted other packs who joined the hunt.”
Feyre sat forward so she was hovering on the edge of the couch. “That would be why they were so vicious. They knew they were competing with other packs for food.”
Nesta’s stomach turned as she thought of how the widows and orphans had been seen as as a meal. How they had huddled to the Eastern point of the camp with nowhere to go and no means of defending themselves.
“The carrion was well hidden,” Azriel continued with a nod, his voice as smooth as cold marble. “Frawley examined the remains. They weren’t killed with siphon magic and there were no visible wounds to the bodies. We also found boot prints in the mud; different prints ranging in size in two separate locations within a miles range of the camp. They were fresh.”
Everyone’s expression tightened.
Nesta didn’t ask if the carrion was human or animal. She didn’t want to know.
“Frawley has taken samples to analyse them,” Azriel added. “She said she will show her sisters, as well. To see if they can sense an insignia.”
“So that means the attack was orchestrated,” Feyre said. “Someone deliberately led those beasts to the camp?”
Rhys nodded. “The attack was certainly pre-meditated,” he replied, pinning Cassian with a look. “The real question is who would arrange an attack on three separate camps.”
Cassian snorted. “You know what the lords are going to say. What all of the Illyrian’s at Windhaven are going to say.”
“That it’s an attack from another war camp,” Azriel supplied, his voice chilled midnight.
“War lords usually have no issue in taking responsibility if they played a part in an attack,” Rhys countered.
“I know that,” Cassian interjected, impatience lining his voice. “So will the lords when they stop to see sense, but the moment we tell them that we suspect wrong doing, all hell will break loose. We can’t afford to lose any more lives to petty feuds. We’re still reeling from the loss of males since the war and the Rite is already looming over the camp.”
Rhys nodded to show he had heard. Nesta wondered if he mourned the loss of lives like Cassian did. The High Lord looked tired, as if he had been torn away from his mate for too long. Yet nobody looked as ravaged as Cassian did. Nesta did not know if his brothers knew of his recurring nightmares, but she hoped they learnt of them. Sometimes Cassian looked so exhausted that Nesta vibrated with a concern she could not shake. In the past, she had bitten her lip one too many times to prevent herself from ordering him to go to bed.
Nesta knew how awful it was to force someone to do something they desperately wanted but were too fearful to surrender themselves to.
“We will manage the lords,” Rhys assured Cassian. “We can decide how we are going to play that consul, but for now, we need to get to the bottom of how the kerits managed to get past Windhaven’s patrols. You and I both know how meticulous Devlon is when it comes to security around the camp. Those males shouldn't have been able to pass over the camp without being stopped by the warriors on patrol.”
“Whoever they were, they must have known that Cassian wasn't going to be in the camp today,” Azriel offered, the spymaster in him coming to the forefront. “The only good news is that they clearly had no idea that both Feyre and Nesta would be at the top of the mountain and able to fight. And," he added after a beat of consideration, "they certainly underestimated Nesta’s ability to slay the pack if she had been alone today.”
If Nesta hadn’t been white from pain, she would have had to freeze the blush that dared to grace her cheeks at the shadowsinger’s compliment.
An abrupt snort came from Cassian. When he spoke, his voice was brimming with anger, “Of course they underestimated Nesta. Even though they have witnessed her fire daily and sensed the enormity of her magic, they still can't fathom that a female could be more powerful than them. It has to be Illyrian’s at the root of it. Only they would be chauvinistic enough to fail to see what is right in front of them.”
“Which,” Rhys interjected, “has worked unwittingly in our favour. Rather than fuel hatred towards the Night Court and cement the growing opinion that we do not protect the Illyrian community, we had two High Fae slaughtering the pack well before any warriors arrived on the scene. And then Nesta brought Masak back to life — someone who the Illyrian males in this camp do not see as worthy to live amongst them.”
Through the exhaustion, anger heated Nesta’s blood. She felt her magic whisper. If Nesta looked inward, she could see the two strands. Could now sense the promise of healing magic in her veins amongst her silver fire. As if she had been granted the key in the face of Mas’s death and she had turned it over in the lock, setting that power free.
Yet, even as Nesta grazed that healing power, it was her silver fire that promised to roar.
“I didn’t do it to stop a Civil War. I did it to protect the females who cannot protect themselves,” Nesta snapped weakly. She was too tired to muster enough vigour into her words, but she was annoyed at the false implication behind her actions. That she had not done it out of love for the housekeeper, but because of politics.
“That may be,” Rhys said, his voice forcibly light, “and what you did was honourable, but we cannot ignore how the Illyrian’s might interpret the action.”
“What Rhys is trying to say,” Azriel interjected smoothly as Nesta’s nostrils flared, “is that the females already respect you. The way you defended them today will not strengthen the dissent, only highlight that there are fae outside of the Illyrian communities who have their best interests at heart. You, for example.”
“You know they like you,” Cassian said quietly. He did not look at Nesta. Instead, he remained fixated at the hands that were clasped tightly in front of him, his elbows resting on his broad knees. “You know they have accepted you since you defended them against the males.”
“I protect them because nobody else seems to bother,” Nesta said coldly. “How many innocent females died because of the cruel intentions of males today? How many were injured?”
“Thirteen dead, thirty plus injured,” Cassian told Nesta quietly. “It would have been many more if you and Feyre not been there. You moved so quickly you managed to slay the majority of the packs before they reached the females.”
Nesta’s expression hardened as she thought of the trailing guts that had glistened in the grey light of day; the way Roksana’s hands had slipped in Mas’s wet, sticky blood, and how she had croaked for help. Her first word aloud since Nesta had met her.
“That is still too many,” Nesta insisted, her voice betraying her — shaking with the anger and horror of it all. “Why would they target the widows first? Why not lead the kerits down the other side of the mountain pass where they would could reach the main camp and weaken Windhaven’s forces?”
“Perhaps the kerits were never intended to weaken Windhaven’s ranks at all,” Rhys mused. “Perhaps they were intended to prove a point.”
A shocked, prolonged pause.
“Are you saying,” Nesta said, her voice shaking, “that you think the rebellion could have orchestrated the attacks. That they might have specifically targeted the defenceless females because widows are seen as disposable, but their deaths would be enough to fuel dissent amongst the camps?”
Rhys stared at Nesta for a moment. His head tilted slightly to the side, in the same way that Cassian’s did when he was trying to puzzle her out. But Nesta barely saw it. All she saw was the twisted body of the kind cook who had fed Nesta every morning… Of lovely Durkhanai, with her beautiful curly hair and bright green eyes. A female who had been dealt the harshest of fates. She had not deserved her end. None of the females had.
Feyre’s hand crept over the blankets to Nesta’s. Her sister’s slim fingers wrapped around her own. “Surely they wouldn’t kill their own race?” Feyre said, her voice shaking. Nesta wondered if she, too, was thinking of the discarded limbs and pools of blood. “There were children in that camp. The females didn’t even have weapons…”
But her sister did not understand just how harsh the camps were. Unlike Nesta, Feyre had not lived amongst the widows for months. She did not know just how willing the Illyrian’s might be to offer the widows camp as a sacrifice for the sake of politics.
“I would not put it past Illyrian’s to see widows as a necessary sacrifice,” Rhys admitted eventually after a long, pregnant pause. His violet eyes had softened with grief. “If this is orchestrated by the rebellion, I suspect that by targeting the widows camps Kallon was hoping to fuel the anger amongst the Illyrian’s that they are not protected. That the Night Court does not care for Illyrian’s and offers them no protection. The widows would have been seen as a necessary sacrifice. They are outcasts in Illyrian society with no families to mourn their deaths.”
A ringing sounded in Nesta’s ears. The noise tuned out the room around her. It took her a while to realise that it was fury. It burned. It was not hot, but cold - enough to give her frostbite - as if her magic was not replenished enough to fly but was trying its best to rally itself. Inside of her chest, something cracked. It sounded like bone. With it, came creeping fingers of light, reaching towards her...
With all her strength, Nesta clamped down... until shadows ate away the approaching light and the room righted itself.
When she came to, Cassian was growling low in warning, his wings stretching as far as they could without hitting her square in the face. At who, Nesta did not know. Did not care for his territorial display when there were bigger matters to discuss.
“And why isn’t there protection?” she asked.
Nesta’s words were as cold as the chill in her veins. Rhys stilled, and with it, his magic trembled. The growl was still rumbling from low in Cassian’s chest — deeper even — and he sat forward, bracing his weight onto his thighs as if he were getting ready to launch himself at… someone. Nesta wasn’t sure who.
Feyre was still gripping Nesta’s hand tight, her grip firm enough to hurt. If Nesta had cast a look to her sister’s face, she would have seen that tell-tale glaze over Feyre’s eyes. It was the kind of far off look which told Nesta that her sister was speaking to her mate mind-to-mind. Or trying to, at least.
“Why was there no protection around each of the Illyrian camps given that there had already been two kerit attacks?” Nesta continued, ignoring the rumbling sound that had her heart wanting to beat that little bit faster. “I have seen the protective shields the fae used in war — around your City of Starlight. Why is that courtesy not extended to the Illyrian communities?”
A long, drawn out silence of star-kissed eternal and a whisper of ancient silver.
“I have offered protection numerous times to each of the war lords,” Rhys replied eventually, his voice too measured to be casual. “Each of them have turned it down. They see it as a criticism on their duty as warriors to protect and defend.”
Nesta’s snort was harsh but the hard quality to her eyes did not change. “They are stubborn Illyrian bats. Get them to change their minds. Or are you not their High Lord?”
A flicker of amusement passed across Azriel’s face, his shadows lightening the sharp, beautiful angles of his face. “Nesta is right,” he said, causing everyone to turn. “The war lords don’t have the luxury of turning down our help when it looks as if there will be more kerit attacks. There shouldn’t have been a gap in today’s patrol. Windhaven has always prided itself on its security — all the camps do. Have we found the soldiers who should have been patrolling the perimeter? I think it wise to consider that they may have been compromised by whoever tempted the kerits to the camps. Recruited, even. They could well be the males that flew over the mountain pass.”
“Nobody can find them,” Cassian growled. “We have males out looking for them as we speak. As soon as they are found we will interrogate them.”
“Cassian and I will interrogate,” Rhys told Azriel as a rare flicker of surprise fell across the shadowsinger's expression. “I need you to visit your most trusted contacts in the camps and tell them that we believe the attacks might not be random. We need all eyes and ears to the ground to find out as much as we can, not least to anticipate where the next attack might be.”
A tense nod, but Azriel folded into shadow and disappeared.
Cassian’s fists curled into fists on the tops of his thighs. “We need evidence. We cannot assume this is the rebellion without it.”
“Of course not,” Rhys admitted smoothly. “Which is why we need you to try and snuff out as much information as you can when you and Nesta go to the Solstice luncheon next week. Accept the offer to stay overnight.”
Nesta hadn’t thought Cassian’s expression could turn any stonier, but it did. “No.”
“The more time you spend at Ironcrest, the longer Nesta has to pick up any untoward emotion, especially surrounding conversation about the camps. It gives Frawley time to look and identify the origin of the sword, and it gives you and Lorrian time to pry out any information. Insist on you and Lorrian overseeing the aerial and ground units that next morning, it will ease away any suspicion. A trip there is long overdue but it is time to act on this rather than gathering information, which we have been doing up until now.”
Cassian blew out a long, steadying breath. Then he conceded, “With the Rite meeting been moved forward to that afternoon, it shouldn’t be hard to extend our stay."
Rhys nodded. “Good.” Then his violet eyes rested on Nesta. “You are willing to go with Cassian?”
A raised chin. Defiant. Strong. Despite the pain and exhaustion that wanted to pull her down, down, down. “Yes.”
“Then we have a plan,” Rhys said with another nod. “Azriel will continue to train you. If he is not available, I will travel to the camps and train you myself .”
At the edge of her periphery, Nesta saw Feyre’s eyes widen. In her stomach, Nesta felt Cassian’s surprise, a sensation which grew as Rhys said, “Welcome to the Court of Dreams, Nesta Archeron.”
***
By the time the meeting was over, Nesta was drained; her eyelids unbelievably heavy, her limbs aching. She desperately wanted to sleep, so she took the tincture Feyre brought her without comment and didn’t protest when Cassian carried her back to his bed rather than hers; agony fogged the rational part of her brain.
She was practically asleep as Cassian lay her onto his mattress. She felt his fingers coax hers away from where they were clutching his leathers. Blankets were pulled over her, the weight a comfort. A sedative was dripped into her mouth.
And then she slipped under.
When Nesta next woke, the taste was still bitter in her mouth but the room was dark; the light having receded even from the gap between the curtains.
In the armchair beside her bed was Feyre, her feet curled up beneath her and her freckled nose buried in Love in Velaris. A bobbing faelight hung overhead, willed by her sister’s magic. It illuminated the pages.
From the dent Feyre had made in the book, Nesta guessed she had been asleep for hours. Beyond the room, the bungalow sat still — the way it did when Cassian was not home — as if it too were sleeping, waiting for its owner to come back and breathe life into the rooms with his presence.
A few seconds passed until Feyre noticed that Nesta was awake. It gave Nesta enough time to catalogue the concern etched on her sister’s pale face; the tight expression which made Feyre’s sharp cheekbones even more prominent.
Nesta did not usually see the similarities between them, but now, as Feyre’s serious steel-blue eyes snapped up at the rustle of blankets, Nesta knew why others had said they looked alike.
“You’re awake.” Feyre spoke slowly — unsure — as she unfurled her long, lithe legs. When Nesta winced as she tried to get into a more comfortable position, Feyre jumped up and moved to the dresser. “Here,” she said, pouring some tincture onto a silver spoon.
Nesta hated the way she needed assistance to lift her head, but she allowed Feyre to do it in a rush of pear and lilac. Nesta was not proud enough to deny that she needed the tincture to smooth away the pain. And whilst the pain wasn’t as agonising as hours prior, it was deep-set enough for Nesta to consider whether she could persuade Feyre to allow her to swallow down the whole damn bottle.
After some water to chase down the foul taste, Feyre stepped back. “How are you feeling? Frawley seemed to think she could speed up the healing Madja did, but you were so sick…” Her sister trailed off, setting back to examine Nesta’s face. “You look a little less pale...”
“I’m fine,” Nesta said hoarsely.
Feyre opened her mouth and then closed it again, as if she were contemplating what best to say. The action annoyed Nesta. She wanted to be alone and quiet. To fall back asleep and wake when the pain was gone and she no longer felt helpless.
“Don’t you have duties to attend to?” Nesta asked tiredly, turning her face to bury it into one of the pillows. It was a few seconds reprieve to calm the irritation that had started to hum through her.
Slowly, Nesta breathed in the scent of pine, musk and air that was so fierce Nesta felt as if she were almost a part of it. She had no doubt this was the pillow Cassian rested his head on. The scent soothed her, smoothing over that spiky, dangerous anger of hers to leave bone-lead weariness in its place.
“I wanted to be here,” Feyre told her. There was a subtle stubborn lift to her chin that Nesta knew Feyre had copied from her at a young age so many times that it had now become a part of who she was. “I wanted to look after you. To make sure that you were healing.”
“Well, I don’t need you to take care of me. You heard it yourself, I should be out of bed tomorrow. I just need to sleep.”
Nesta had intended to say it icily, but she was not well enough to muster the strength.
Feyre’s expression tightened, and for a moment, Nesta thought she might snap. But then she just straightened with determination; her tall, lean body rising to a height that called for attention. “Then let me say what I want to say and I will leave you alone.”
A long, stony silence and a blank, impenetrable mask that Nesta hoped with desperation conveyed the message she wanted to snap: Go away.
Instead, Feyre seated herself on the armchair and reached for Nesta’s ice-cold hand. “Nesta,” she started, the word practically a plea. “I know you and I - I know that our relationship has always been rocky. And you are right, there are many things that I hadn’t considered, not least when I sent you here. But… you almost died today and it’s made me realise what is important: I love you. I don’t think I’ve told you that before, but I always have. Even when we were younger and we were both so angry and bitter at our lot in life and we spent our days fighting. And I know you love me, too. Hiring someone to take you to the wall to find me told me that…”
Feyre let out a long, shaky breath and when she next spoke, her voice turned softer, dropping into a confession, “I forgave you and Elain a long time ago for when we were starving, Nesta. I want you to know that. I don’t — we were children. It was father that failed us, not you. I never saw it as your job to care for me and… I’m sorry that you were there when mother asked me to take care of you…. That must have been a horrible thing to overhear and… well, I would have felt resentment towards me, too, if I were you.”
More silence. Nesta would not allow herself to speak for the barbed words she knew would spill forth. About her sister’s mate and how whilst Nesta had tried to make amends, Rhysand’s obvious dislike of her had not disappeared with Feyre’s supposed forgiveness.
“I also want you to know that what you did in the war — you saved hundreds of lives. I know you witnessed unimaginable death and horror, but fae and humans are walking on Prythian because you struck down the male that promised to wreak havoc on our world. You did all of that and I never thought to thank you. And then I was so swept away by my duties as High Lady and recovering from Rhys’s near death that I did not give you the time I should have-”
Such careful tiptoeing around their father’s death. How Nesta had watched the life bleed out of his eyes, until they were nothing but glassy and wholly unconscious.
It was that which made Nesta cut her sister off. Even now, she had no desire to discuss his death. “I am not a burden you need to add to your list of priorities. I didn’t want your help. I explicitly told you to go away and instead you continued to force me to socialise when all I wanted was to be alone.”
Feyre let go of Nesta’s hand. Something akin to loss flashed through Nesta, piercing through the exhaustion and the pain in her abdomen.
“I think communication has always been an issue for us,” Feyre admitted, not backing down from the conversation. “I have spent time thinking over what you have said and you are right, I have not truly listened to you. But I was so scared for your safety I adopted drastic measures—”
“It is not your place to decide what is best for me,” Nesta said coldly. “I am not yours to command. And,” she continued with as much iciness as she could muster, “I do not think that an Illyrian camp is a place of safety.”
A deliberate pause to highlight how she were in bed suffering from major injuries.
“I thought if you were with Cassian that you would be protected,” Feyre said, her expression anguished. “I thought if anyone were to hold their own in an Illyrian camp it would be you. You are so strong, Nesta—”
“You thought a fae male could protect me when the protection I was promised by males has failed over and over again?” Nesta countered. “He is not even here all of the time. Sometimes he is away for days on end and I am left alone. You banished me to this awful place in front of an audience with no care for my feelings.”
But as Nesta spoke, something scrabbled in the back of her mind. Because it wasn’t fair to criticise Cassian for both leaving her and crowding her. Because Cassian had given her space and yet he had also been there, on the periphery if not right in front of her. Taunting her and encouraging her, but with so much space to grow. He had not made her train with him, dragging her spitting and screaming into the sparring ring. He had not thrown her out into the camp each morning and forced her to work or make friends. He had given her choices that she had more often than not denied over and over. And when she had done that, he had bought her more books or figured out the foods she liked to make the days a little less boring.
Cassian had not just protected her but allowed her to grow stronger. Had given her the space to decide for once in her life what she wanted to do and what she wanted to be. True, she might have been stuck in Windhaven, but she had never felt truly trapped. The skies made her feel unencumbered. The mud beneath her feet rendered her a part of nature rather than apart from it. The craggy mountains were a physical depiction of how Nesta was starting to see herself; sharp and angry but resilient and strong.
Outside the bungalow, Nesta heard the unmistakable crunch of boots in the snow. The low murmur of male voices floated through the bedroom window, which had been cracked open to circulate the stale air.
Feyre’s face crumpled in sudden irritation, and Nesta guessed that her mate had tried to speak mind-to-mind with her mid-conversation. From the way Feyre’s expression quickly cleared, Nesta got the impression she had banished Rhys completely or told him to go away.
The click of the magical lock from the front door rang through the bungalow, but Feyre’s attention was only on her. “Adjusting to the role of High Lady has been… a struggle,” her sister admitted. “Cassian, Rhys, Amren and Mor are my friends as well as my trusted advisors. But you are right, I spoke to you as a High Lady not as a sister when I told you to come here. I thought that using my new status would make you listen because my role as a sister had failed. It was a last resort and I knew… I knew that Cassian would look after you.”
Feyre stared up at the ceiling, as if the memory caused her pain. “As soon as you left I knew the way I had summoned you was wrong.” Feyre looked back to Nesta and sincerity swam in her eyes. “I did not consider that I had imprisoned you. I was selfishly only thinking of forcing you to be well.”
More silence.
Feyre got to her feet, her expression pained.
She waved a hand to the window, gesturing to the scenery outside. To the craggy mountains that stretched for miles and the sea beyond it. To the world that existed beyond Illyria. Beyond Prythian. “When you are healed, if you wish to leave Illyria you can. I don’t want you to feel imprisoned any longer.”
There was a finality to the words that rang true. Her sister meant them, even if it was obvious they caused her pain. Yet… Nesta did not want to leave. Not now, not when she had promised to attend the Solstice luncheon to see what they could discover about the sword and the kerit attacks. Not when the females here were so vulnerable. Now when they needed help rebuilding their community — to mourn for the losses that Nesta had vowed would not go unnoticed.
“I said I’d help, didn’t I?”
Feyre halted at the door.
“And your help is invaluable,” Feyre said slowly, “but you are not obligated to do it. So if you wish to leave, you can. Just… please tell someone before you do and let us know where you are going.”
Feyre looked weary and Nesta wondered if she had even bathed since everything that had happened. Her body was clean like Nesta’s… but her leathers were crumpled and her hair dishevelled. Nesta’s own body felt like it was covered in a film of oil and invisible dirt. Her skin itched at the thought and she longed for a bath, even though she knew she would not be able to manage it without more rest.
When Nesta closed her eyes, Feyre’s blood-streaked face swam into view. She remembered how Feyre had gripped her hand in the midst of battle and told Nesta to lead the way to the Eastern side of the camp, even though they were in the thick of danger. Her sister had not hesitated or balked. She had only been fierce and unwaveringly brave, ready to put her life on the line for those who needed protection.
For all of their problems, when the two of them had been fighting side by side, it was the first time that Nesta felt as if she truly belonged with her sister. For a brief moment in time, their issues and past mistakes had bled away, as if they were inconsequential.
“I’d love for us to start afresh,” Feyre continued quietly from her place at the door. “We have both made errors, but I do not care about yours. I hope that with time you might be able to forgive me, and if you do, I’d like to start over, you and I, with a blank slate.”
Notes: Guys, I’ve been poorly this week so I don’t know if I’ll be able to give you a chapter on Sunday. I’m going to try my very best, but because I feel bad, I give you the ultimate teaser from the next chapter...
Carefully, Cassian set Nesta down on the ground at a slight distance from Lorrian and Frawley. He did not allow her to step away. Instead, he tightened the arm that was still wound around her waist and curled a wing around them like a shield.
Already he felt territorial. Already he did not want to let her go.
“You stay with me tonight.”
Nesta’s head whipped up at the dead seriousness of his tone. His words were not up for debate, but to his surprise she did not hiss ‘no’ and he did not feel that silver power push against her skin. Cassian suspected that Nesta’s nerves had started to fray at the prospect of being somewhere that was not the bungalow or Lorrian and Frawley’s cottage.
He touched her hand to bring her back. She stared down at the fingers that clasped hers before she tightened her grip and turned to face him. As she met his gaze, that smoky blue latched onto him and he felt as if he was a predator who had crawled into the palm of her hand and rolled over in surrender.
Light sputtered at Nesta’s palms, as if her focus had been pulled away for a fraction of a moment. A part of Cassian chastised his habit for assuming that he could bring Nesta back, even though he wasn’t so sure he was wrong.
Pouncing at the respite in her power, Cassian dared to take a glowing hand in his. Her hand was ice cold as he placed it to his chest. His heart was thumping hard and his breath heaved from his lungs as if it were his last. He knew somehow that Nesta could feel it — that it would ground her — just as it had the other day.
His heart battered against his ribcage - against her bloody palm - and then Nesta’s eyes opened with a terrifying snap, as if the abrupt beat of him called only to her.
They connected with his for the briefest of moments — mercury on hazel — before they rolled back into her head...
And as if someone had cut a cord loose in her spine, Nesta collapsed like a puppet on a string.
Cassian caught her, rearranging her body into his arms with an urgency that he did not usually let himself show. But he was undone. He did not have time to master himself or decide how to behave. He was no longer the general of the Night Court, he was just a male watching his life disappear.
Nesta’s long hair had come free of her braid and the red of Mas’s blood seeped into the golden strands. The image burned behind his retinas as he begged, “Sweetheart.”
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Hi lovely readers, I hope you have all had a good week. Loved the comments from last week's chapter. It's so funny, because it wasn't one of my favourites, but it had so many of you feeling all the feels!
I know lots of you have been excited about the re-appearance of Az and I can promise that you get him first thing in this chapter.
For those of you invested enough to care, I'll be posting a few teaser sentences from the next E&L chapter every Wednesday here on Tumblr.
Enjoy! And as usual, let me know your thoughts :)
Chapter Twenty-One
Nesta
The next two weeks went by in an extended blur — slow yet fast — as Nesta was thrown into training with an intensity that left her mentally and physically exhausted. Cassian hadn’t been joking when he’d told her he’d have her ready to slay with the longsword soon enough. Never before had he been so critical and sharp, not a sliver of a smile on his face each morning as he warmed her up through the guard positions in the sparring ring. Cassian would make her practice those moves until there was not a step out of place, before moving onto footwork and then actual swordplay, which always ended with Nesta hissing in annoyance when she made an error and left herself open for attack.
Despite that, Nesta knew she was learning faster than others. Nesta saw it in the way Cassian would push her harder still, even when she knew her moves were perfect. On occasion, Nesta would catch his eyes gleaming, utterly thrilled, as if her vicious thrust with the steel were almost the equivalent of her peeling off her clothes until she was wearing nothing but skin.
Staying true to her word, Nesta had asked Azriel to harness her ability to sense others emotions. Not a flicker of surprise had flitted across the shadowsinger’s face when she had told him about the element of her power, he’d only bowed his head in such an earnest way that Nesta had wondered whether he was pleased she’d asked.
The shadowsinger’s training approach hugely differed to his brother’s. Azriel used quiet, calm words rather than barked, fiery orders, but they were no less effective. For their first lesson, Azriel had taken Nesta to a rocky ledge wedged into the right of the mountain pass. It was a viewing platform poised above the sparring rings, which Azriel informed her was used mainly by the war lords and high-status families for the Rite ceremony and major festivals.
The clang of steel on steel rose up to meet them as the males trained. In the centre of it all was Cassian — a larger than life presence — his towering frame and huge membraneous wings making even the largest Illyrian’s appear inconsequential. Even from their height, Nesta could hear his abrupt orders as he worked the males with an intensity that dared them to defy him.
They didn’t. There was a begrudging respect amongst the warriors where Cassian was concerned that was easy enough for Nesta to identify. They had not forgotten how Cassian had fought in the war; how his sword had easily sliced through males as if they were made of nothing but air. His movements were like an intricate dance, his body always anticipating the next move, cutting down opponent after opponent as he led his army to victory. The Illyrian’s might not like that Cassian was a bastard, but they could not deny that he was exceptional in combat. So whilst they might sneer at him, they would watch him fight with eyes as sharp as a hawk, and when he corrected a males stance, they listened and adjusted their own technique accordingly.
“You know Devlon?” Azriel asked from behind Nesta, snapping her out of her reverie. He was standing a little back from her, giving her the space to adjust to their surroundings.
Nesta wondered if he knew about her fear of being caged or the panic that consumed her when things became too loud.
Narrowing her eyes, Nesta searched for the war lord, eventually finding him at the edge of one of the far sparring rings. Two hulking tattooed males loitered by his side. Ragar was one of them, and even from a distance, Nesta spied the pink, raw scar that jagged its way up his jugular and suppressed a shudder.
“Yes,” Nesta said tightly. “I know Devlon.”
“He’s your target,” Azriel told her. “I want you to try and sense his emotions.”
If anyone other than Azriel had asked her to do something so enormous and unachievable, Nesta would have snapped, but there was something about his calm nature combined with his deathly stillness that had her doing his bidding.
To her credit, Nesta had tried, but the noises were too loud for her to retreat into herself, even with the headband snuggled tightly on her ears.
“I can’t feel anything,” Nesta had told him shortly after five minutes of silence. Then she found herself confessing, “I don’t know how.”
Azriel shrugged as if her failure was inconsequential. He was leaning against the craggy rock wall, the green and blue of the snowdrops a stark contrast to his body, which was perpetually thrust in and out of shade. “Try Cassian. You’re around him the most, you’ve probably adapted to sensing his emotions unconsciously.”
Nesta had thrown Azriel a sharp look, but she did not correct him. He wasn’t wrong, after all. So she clipped instead, “Some would say that’s an invasion of privacy.”
Azriel’s lips tugged up at the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps. Given that the Solstice luncheon is in three weeks time, I don’t think Cassian will mind.”
Nesta had studied the shadowsinger for a moment. His body was wreathed in shadow but his face was unobscured. It meant that Nesta could see the hard lines of his face. Azriel looked like he had been carved out of marble by the finest sculptor: his jaw perfectly chiseled, his cheekbones well-defined, his eyebrows elegantly arched to frame hazel eyes that were close to Cassian’s in colour, but not quite right.
“You already know what he’s feeling?”
The corner of Azriel’s lips had twitched again. “I can’t read subtle emotion, only a spike when someone reacts strongly to something and I need proximity to do it. But,” Azriel continued, a rare secretive light blooming behind his eyes as he looked out to his brother in the sparring ring where he was demonstrating spear technique with another Illyrian, “I don’t need to tap into Cassian’s emotions right now. I can already tell.”
He settled his gaze back on Nesta, but they were encouraging rather than hard. “Try,” he urged her, with a smoothness that reminded Nesta of the chill of the midnight blue sky.
Closing her eyes, Nesta forced herself to take a slow, deep breath. She knew the scent of Cassian like it was woven into her DNA — pine, musk and fresh air — and she flung herself out like a fisherman casting a net, searching for him amongst the crowd. Emotion crashed into her with the force akin to a final blow as she let that icy wall around her own emotions thaw. She wanted to curl up into a ball and howl from the intensity of it all, but she forced herself to remain standing, even though it hurt. Nesta flitted through it all — the anger, awe, fury, irritation, calm, jealousy, and begrudged admiration of others — until she located him. It came with such sudden ease that Nesta wondered if it had found her rather than the other way around — the concern and sharp anger — that settled like a weight in the lining of her stomach. The sensation was undeniably Cassian. She knew it in her bones.
“Stop.”
One quiet, chilled command had Nesta opening her eyes with a shuddering gasp. She clambered to stack up those ice blocks until she felt numb and completely devoid of any feeling. The contrast to moments before was worse somehow, as if she had been seeing in colour but now she only viewed everything in shades of black and white.
The first thing she noticed as mud, pine and grey sharpened her vision was Cassian looking at her with a wild sort of concern in his eyes. Despite the distance, Nesta felt as if he were there with her, reaching to rest his palm against her cheek and bring her back. He had spun to stare up at them, as if he had known where they were the entire time. In his hand, his spear was poised and ready, as if he were planning to launch it through the skies to put an end to an approaching attack.
Adjusting her gaze, Nesta stared over Cassian’s shoulder to stare at the warrior he had been sparring. The male was panting, his wings heaving as he took the moment’s reprieve to catch his breath before Cassian no doubt threw himself at the warrior again.
“Good,” Azriel praised after a beat. “Did you feel anything?”
“He’s angry,” Nesta replied shortly. She didn’t add how she’d felt his concern, she didn’t think it necessary and if Azriel was half as good as others had insinuated, then he knew that already.
Even though Nesta knew Azriel must have felt Cassian’s surprise, he did not voice it. He only asked, “And how did you do it?”
Nesta fought the pink that wanted to blush across her cheeks. Instead, she raised her chin as her eyes narrowed and her entire body tensed, prepared battle. “I dropped my protective shield.”
It was a huge concession but Azriel did not judge her for the permanent cage she kept on her emotions. There was no softened expression or gentle words, only understanding as the shadowsinger nodded. “To sense what others feel you have to let down your own guard. You can’t expect to feel others if you can’t feel your own. Magic is always a balance — give and take. For Cassian and I, our magic and siphons allow us to fight with more precision, but by doing so, we drain our energy reserves. With your ability to sense what others are feeling, you must give a part of yourself, too. It is the same for me; my shadows can filter through the darkness for the feelings others hide, but only if I allow myself to become vulnerable.”
That explained the expressionless face of marble and the shadows that hid Azriel from view. Like Nesta, Azriel preferred to fade into the background; to observe rather than to be observed. There were similarities between them that Nesta could not deny. Perhaps that was why he did not irritate her like others did.
“I have detected others emotions without dropping my shields before,” Nesta told Azriel, remembering Mas’s pain as she slipped on the mountain and Cassian’s guilt after the kerits had attacked.
Azriel nodded. “I suspect when emotions are particularly high they manage to pierce through whatever shields you have in place, especially those you interact with on a day-to-day basis. Basic, more subtle emotion will come at a price.”
Nesta’s expression hardened. To let down her icy shield that protected her from feeling too much had been an unwitting battle she had endured all of her life. One of the cruellest things from being Made was that Nesta’s ability to feel had increased two-fold. She suspected that was why her battle trauma was worse than others: why the deaths of loved ones pierced her heart and rendered it with holes whilst others appeared in tact; why Cassian made her want to rend the sky apart. Nobody had ever made Nesta feel as much as he had.
“You’re clever to have put a protective shield in place,” Azriel told her, breaking her out of her train of thought. “When I was younger, I struggled with my ability to feel more than others. It took me many years to understand how to master my shadows and accept them as an extension of myself. Now, I would not let them go, not for anything.”
His expression had hardened. Nesta knew a little of Azriel’s upbringing — the bare bones from Cassian, who had mentioned it in passing during their training sessions — but not enough.
Azriel had endured cruelty beyond Nesta’s wildest imaginings. His scarred hands were testament to that. And to think that for years the shadows had been his only friend; until he had decided that he would allow them to wind through his magic, like two strands of a rope. Was that not what Nesta had done when she carved a piece out of the Cauldron to take for herself? When she had heard that awesome, archaic voice call to her in the dark, her body churning up inky water onto the rocky ground, her lungs heaving. When that flicker of light had grown in the midnight black, shining like a newborn star.
“Do you think it’s possible,” Nesta had asked, wanting to push that memory far, far away, “for me to learn how to read others emotions well enough before the luncheon?”
The way in which Azriel was wreathing shadows between his open fingers indicated to Nesta that she had not been wholly there for a while. He did not comment, only gave a curt nod of the head. “With some determination, I believe we can have you reading others emotions in three weeks time.” Azriel came to stand beside Nesta. He smelt of night-kissed mist and cedar. “I do not envy you going to that luncheon.”
Nesta raised an imploring eyebrow and resisted crossing her arms over her chest. “What does that mean?”
Hazel eyes scanned the sparring rings below them. “Cassian tells me you experienced first-hand how unpleasant Devlon can be.” His lips quirked up at the sides. “I wish I had been there to see it.”
Nesta’s snort was soft as she remembered how Devlon had recoiled at her flames. “The other war lords are really that bad?”
“It’s not how I would choose to spend Solstice,” Azriel admitted. “The tensions between the war lords are always high, but putting them all into one room together, especially at Ironcrest…” He grimaced as he trailed off. “Lord Marsh has not hosted the Solstice luncheon for at least a century. It has us all wondering whether it was him that decided to hold the event at his premises or whether it was his son’s influence.”
“Brutes,” Nesta said darkly. Azriel’s eyes lit with what Nesta dissected as amusement. “Cassian says they have pulled forward a meeting? About the Rite?”
Azriel nodded. “Yes. The Rite is in the Spring. Every year the war lords come together to talk through arrangements and for each camp to put forward their contenders. It is not normally held until the new year, but Marsh has suggested hosting the meeting after the luncheon, especially given that Ironcrest are hosting the ceremony this year.”
“You think there’s something untoward going on?”
Azriel shrugged. “Perhaps. It’s an unusual move. Illyrian’s are steadfast in their habits and are not usually open to change. The good news is that it gives you more time to hunt for the sword and identify whether it’s authentic.”
Nesta noticed that Azriel had not associated himself with the Illyrian’s. She did not blame him given how he had been treated. Nesta did not like to spoken of in relation to the Cauldron either.
“I want you to repeat what we have practiced every day,” Azriel told Nesta just before he had melted into shadow, his gaze on the horizon; at the sun which was a line of orange before it disappeared entirely to give way to dusk. “Find a target and work on only engaging with their emotions. I will be back in three days. Make them count.”
Nesta had refused Azriel’s offer to take her back to the bungalow. Instead, she had walked down the rocky steps to the training rings, only to find a sweat-soaked Cassian waiting for her.
They had walked back together in companionable silence, Nesta pondering Azriel’s advice; that it would be difficult to allow herself to feel everything all at once. Little and often was the key, he had told her with an apologetic smile, with lots of rest inbetween. Lowering her guard after a lifetime of shielding them was akin to a deaf person suddenly gaining their hearing back — overwhelming.
Azriel was not wrong. Drained from the intensity of the practice, Nesta had been so exhausted that she had all but crawled onto the couch once they had arrived back to the warmth of the bungalow before she had fallen straight to sleep.
She had dreamt of Cassian. Not of the their final moments in the war, but flashes of moments from the day of the kerits — thoughts that she would have usually pushed to the far reaches of her mind: of the way Cassian had looked down at her on his knees after they had defeated the beasts; the comforting scrape of his callouses as he rested his palm on her cheek; the feel of his fingers winding around a tendril of hair; how he had stared down at her with an intensity she should not have allowed, let alone felt…
But Nesta had been unable to look away as those bright hazel eyes had darted to her lips for a second too long. Between them, Nesta had heard his heart beating too fast against his ribcage; the insistent thump against strips of bone resonating in her ears, wrapping around her own wild rhythm. A phantom hand had wound through her hair, and she’d had to catch herself as her chin started to tilt upwards of its own accord…
The pull had been so intense that Nesta had been relieved when he had broken the spell. It was the draw that she had once accused of being Faerie magic. Now she knew it was not that at all, but a magnetism strung between them that she still could not shake. It called her name, begging her to close the distance, and Nesta had woken from the relived moment panting, her fingers slick with desire and a flood of relief when she realised that she was in her bed with the door firmly shut rather than in the living room.
Nesta had been having that dream regularly ever since, amongst others. Males with no faces, large calloused hands dragging over bare skin, lips and tongues pressing kisses into her skin… The visions kindled a gentle fire in her that licked pleasantly through her core, and Nesta often woke humming with a different sort of energy that had previously had her pinning down the nearest male to chase that waving crest of an orgasm.
“I thought we should head to Spearhead for training today,” Cassian told Nesta that morning, as they stood by the front door ready to leave the house.
Nesta caught the headband he tossed at her with ease and settled it over her ears. She never left the house without it.
Cassian looked unusually well-rested, the dark smudges having all-but faded beneath his eyes. He must not have had any nightmares recently if he was sleeping well, but Nesta knew it would be short-lived. Since they had been co-existing together, she had witnessed Cassian flit between wellness and sleep deprivation within the blink of an eye.
Nesta pulled on some long, knee-high boots that would protect her in the snow drifts. “We don’t have to go there,” she told him.
Cassian shot Nesta a sideways glance. “If your power is influenced by emotion, we need to practice in a place that effects how you wield it.”
He cocked his head at her, trying to dissect the inner workings of her mind. Something swept over his expression that looked like disappointment. “Do you not want to fly?”
Refraining from rolling her eyes, Nesta said shortly, “I thought you might prefer to train somewhere else.”
The way Cassian’s eyes softened was so slight Nesta nearly missed it, but she felt it in her core. “I make a point of going back from time to time,” Cassian assured her. Then he added, “It serves as a reminder.”
They stepped out into the frigid cold. Windhaven was covered in a fresh blanket of snow, a storm having hit days before and rendering the mountain pass sparkling white. They had literally had to dig some of the tents out of the snow and Nesta had been so terrified for the orphans and widows that she had made Cassian fly her up as soon as weather had eased up. They had spent the day helping the widows camp to function again. It had pained her that she could not control her fire enough to melt the snow for them, but Cassian had warned her that it could only be used on certain parts of the camp anyway. So Nesta had picked up a shovel instead and helped to shift as much of it as possible whilst Cassian disappeared to melt the path that ran up the mountain.
Later, she had braved the camp fire to curl up with Roksana and a few of the other orphans, using her body warmth to thaw their frozen limbs as she recounted story after story until Cassian had come to take her back to the bungalow.
She had kept her promise to him about venturing out into the camp after dark.
The wind stung as Cassian got them airborne, but then he slid a shield over them in a sheath of red light and the air became still and quiet. It didn’t stop it from being any less cold and Nesta held back a shiver, not wanting him to notice how weak she was being.
But after ten minutes of being in the skies, that resolve had all but faded. Her fingers and toes were so numb she considered that they might fall off.
She scowled. “Are you going deliberately slow?”
Her accusation rang up between them but Cassian only cast a slow look down at her. The movement was deliberate and it had her temper spiking. “Why?”
Nesta’s scowl deepened. “Because it feels as if we are barely moving.”
Cassian cocked a taunting eyebrow. “Be careful Nesta, I’ll throw you into a dive if you keep goading me.”
A snarl unleashed itself from her throat but Cassian only barked a short laugh. “Is this your convoluted way of telling me to go faster?”
Nesta made an unimpressed sound. “All I’m saying is that despite your fancy magic I am still freezing and it would be nice if we made it to Spearhead before noon.”
Another laugh — delighted this time — and Cassian picked up the pace with a few strong flaps of his wings. His eyes were begging for some verbal sparring as he looked down at her. “I’m starting to think you’re getting used to being in the sky, sweetheart.”
Nesta shrugged, refusing to rise to his taunt. Instead, she cast her gaze down to the snow-kissed landscape. Up this high, it looked stunning rather than brutal; a glittering, blank canvas. “It reminds me of riding,” she admitted.
That peaked Cassian’s interest. He flung his wings out wide so they soared for a moment longer. Even still, the movement was faster than it had been before her accusation, and the wind roared around the shield he’d put in place. “You used to ride?”
Staring down at the feathered snow-capped pine trees of The Steppes, Nesta dipped her chin. “Before we lost everything,” she said vaguely, but as the memory of it hit her, she found herself snorting abruptly.
Cassian’s lips twitched. “What?” he asked.
He was concentrating on the path ahead of them, and from her view point, Nesta could see every one of his dark eye lashes. They were crusted with ice. This high up, the cold was even more punishing than in the mountain pass. Nesta had no idea why Cassian didn’t extend his shield to cover his entire body. It probably had something to do with the Illyrian’s tendency for self-punishment.
In order to distract herself, Nesta snorted again. “My mother only wanted me to learn side saddle — to ride like a lady,” she explained shortly, “but I used to sneak down in the mornings and gallop across the fields before she was awake. It made me feel alive. Flying is the closest I’ve come to that feeling — the rush and freedom of it.”
It was true. Not at first — not when Feyre’s arrogant mate had sped fast enough to make her vomit — but much later, with Cassian, Nesta had come to hunger for the skies. Flying was exhilarating, Nesta had found, and she wanted more. She wasn’t sure she’d ever like it when Cassian dove, but when he speared through the air, his wings tucked in tight… it made Nesta feel awake.
“And nobody knew?”
Cassian’s voice broke her out of her reverie. She gave a disinterested shrug, making sure the movement was small so Cassian didn’t lose his hold on her. “My father, I think, but he never told anyone and he was often travelling. I bribed the stable boy to teach me to ride properly.”
Wicked amusement loosed a hand over Cassian’s face. “What did you bribe him with?”
“He used to frolic in the hay with a girl — I caught him when he was supposed to be working.”
A sound of amusement rang in the back of Cassian’s throat, as if he were imagining a young Nesta bargaining and threatening a stable boy years older than her to do her bidding. But he only asked carefully, “You were close to your mother?”
That was not a subject Nesta wanted to discuss, so she shut him down. “I wanted to be.”
Cassian nodded in a way that told her he understood. “And would you ride now, if you could?”
Nesta cut him a quizzical look. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Although I would need to relearn. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the saddle.”
The attention had been on Nesta for too long and her skin was itching with interrogation. Even though it was her who had brought it up, she felt exposed in a way she no longer felt comfortable with. Mentally, she stitched up the wound until she felt calm again. Cassian remained silent, as if he knew that she could not continue.
Eventually, she turned the tables — a deflection and… curiosity. “Do you remember your mother?”
A surprised pause but no sensation lined Nesta’s stomach. He was getting better at catching them; reigning them in so she would not sense them. Sometimes he managed it, other times he didn’t.
“Barely,” Cassian said finally. He did not look down at her and Nesta wondered if speaking about her was precious to him; something he did not usually voice out loud but preferred to keep inside. Nesta understood, so she stared resolutely at the landscape rather than him. “I remember her voice and her hands as we sat around a camp fire. She used to sing to me. This… Illyrian lullaby. I can barely remember it, only a few lines.”
“What were they?” Nesta’s voice was too soft, too quiet, but she knew somehow that Cassian had never told anybody this before. That this information was just as precious to him as Heroicis.
She sensed rather than saw Cassian’s frown. “It sounds better in Illyrian than in translation.”
“Say it in Illyrian then,” she said. Her voice was not demanding but encouraging. A rarity for her.
Cassian seemed to sense it too, because after a slight pause, he dropped into Illyrian with an ease that made her shudder. She listened to the quiet intensity in which he spoke; the gentle lilt in his voice that was almost trance like. She had no idea what it meant, but she felt tears rise to her eyes before she could stop them.
Cassian didn’t notice. She could tell he was still frowning as he finished. “It doesn’t sound right,” he said, slipping back into the common tongue. “It’s supposed to be sung not spoken, but I don’t remember the tune.”
But Nesta would not allow him to taint the words — the words that clearly meant so much to him. She reached her hand up to curl around his shoulder. He looked down at her in surprise.
“It’s beautiful,” she told him with a reverence she reserved for no-one. “Will you translate it for me?”
Nesta wasn’t sure if Cassian saw the silver lining her eyes as his dark eyes scoured her face. Eventually, he nodded simply in answer, and when he spoke, all of the hairs stood up on her arms as a shiver ran down her body.
“Goodnight my warrior heart,
Soon Mother won’t hold you fast.
One day she will watch you go,
But she’ll search high and low,
For the twin stars in the night.”
The moment afterwards stretched between them as Cassian banked slightly to the right, his eyes flitting up to view the course ahead. Forest green in dusted white made way to craggy snow-capped mountains, and then beyond that, a pointed stretch of flat mountain pass — Spearhead.
“Have you tried to find out the rest of the lullaby?” Nesta asked when she was certain her voice would not waver.
“Not really,” Cassian admitted. “I asked Rhys’ mother but she didn’t know it. Some lullabies are native to camps and the females… well, they’re scared of me, because of what I did. And… it’s something that I’ve kept for myself for a long time. To speak of it too often made me feel as though I had to part with a piece of it.”
“But would you like to know? If the information was there?”
“Yes,” Cassian said quietly. “I’d like to know.”
Then, as if he too has exposed too much of himself, he said in a voice that was far more conversational and indicated an end to their discussion, “Other than that, I don’t remember much of my time before Windhaven.” Cassian started their descent. He was still moving with greater speed. The rhythm seemed natural for him, and Nesta wondered just how often he had been holding back from tasting the skies as he liked for fear she would give him hell. “All I have in my memory is cold, mud, hunger and too-small fires.”
Nesta nodded even as a lump formed in her throat. She knew what it was to starve and feel unimaginable cold, but to think of Cassian as a little boy cradled against his mother’s chest made the ice want to crack inside of her. She knew what it was to huddle against bodies for warmth so you didn’t freeze to death; she had done that with her sisters night after night, even though the gesture had only ever brought the knowledge that she would never warm up.
Cassian glanced back down at her, and in his eyes she saw a shared understanding that bound them together: You know what it’s like to be starving and cold with no promise of warmth.
“The snow will be deep,” Cassian warned Nesta as he set her down on the boulder in the clearing she had previously burned. “Let me clear some of it so we can spar. I will not be responsible for your frostbite, not when I know how much hell you’ll give me for it.”
Nesta snorted but did not disagree with him. She watched Cassian carve out a training ground for them and tried not to shiver. It was obscenely cold this high up and the wind was so sharp it stung her skin with a ferocity that made her thankful her headband was tight around her head. She was wearing sheepskin leathers, with thermals underneath and knee high boots that Cassian had eyed a little too long when she’d first worn them.
Despite all of her clothing, Nesta’s body still wanted to shake.
She had been slowly and surely been putting on weight, and whilst her cheeks had started to fill out, Nesta wished she’d taken Cassian’s many offerings of second helpings — the extra body fat would be a blessing right now…
A flare of Cassian’s siphons caught her attention as the air hung quiet around them yet again.
“We won’t hear one another otherwise,” Cassian said in explanation. “And,” he added with a feral grin that did nothing to hide the concern layered beneath it, “your lips have turned blue.”
His grin widened at Nesta’s hiss, but he held out a hand to help her down. She batted him away before reluctantly realising it was too far and allowed him to bear her weight as she jumped into the sludgy snow. From the first impact, Nesta felt the cold seep through the thick soles of her boots and creep into the fur lining.
“I want to try something new today.”
Nesta narrowed her eyes. “If you are about to make a sexual advance as a disguise for warming me up, I advise against it.”
Cassian’s canines flashed at the same time his hazel eyes sparked. “Don’t give me ideas, Nesta. I could think of some fun ways to warm you up.”
Nesta snort was unimpressed as she flicked her eyes to the sky. “So predictable,” she sniped. When she held her fingers up, they sparked silver fire. “I can think of some ways to warm you up, too.”
Throwing back his head, Cassian laughed. It was a rough sound, but Nesta heard it for what it was — a distraction. The last time they had visited this mountain pass, Cassian had been in a foul mood and Nesta had been no better. It hadn’t been helped by the memory of pain and suffering that had wound its way from the ground and into Nesta’s blood, until her stomach had been churning with it. Already Nesta could feel the same thing happening; a vibration in her limbs as the energy of years-worth of torment rushed to meet her power. And Cassian… well, being here must be awful for him. Just the knowledge that his mother dwelled here in an unmarked grave made Nesta want to rend apart the sky from the agony of it.
Unclipping a siphon from his armour, Cassian cradled the jewel in the heart of his palm. “I want you to wear this.”
Nesta stared at him in disbelief. She couldn’t have heard him right. “Excuse me.”
Cassian’s lips briefly tightened into a thin line. His mood was darkening by the second and from the slight sensation lining her stomach, she could sense trepidation. This was not a decision he had made lightly.
Yet he stretched his arm out towards her anyway. “Take it,” he ordered, in a way that told him he would not change his mind.
Nesta took the siphon from Cassian. She expected the stone to feel heavy and lifeless in her hand but it pulsed as she touched it; warm, as if it were a steady, beating heart. That heat travelled into her palm… into her veins… until it met her singing power. The siphon glowed as deep as blood as her silver mist curled around it in greeting.
Nesta’s head snapped up to look at Cassian in shock. His eyes had turned hard and unyielding but there was also a light in them that had not been there before. The siphons on his armour were also glowing, as if they too could feel the thrum in its counterpart.
“Siphons store magic,” Cassian told Nesta. His voice had dropped impossibly low — intense. “I’ve wondered for a long while if your magic would be compatible with them.”
Nesta’s eyes widened at the confession — at the gravity of what he was admitting. Once, when she had been very bored and had run out of books, Nesta had dipped into the first few pages of Cassian’s book on siphons, so she roughly knew how they worked. She also knew that Cassian had needed seven to hold the enormity of his power — that if he were to have too few, his Killing Power would blast them to nothing but red dust.
“I could have shattered it,” Nesta snapped. “Are you insane?”
“But you didn’t,” was all Cassian replied. His hands came to her shoulders, steering her so she was facing the clearing of ashen tree stumps and black landscape that should have been pine and stone before she had unleashed hell on it. “Your magic works differently to mine. It is not designed to simply kill. How does it feel?”
“Fine.”
More than fine. Nesta felt as if her skin were singing, her power flowing into the stone as if it were running through a filter. It did not clamber or claw like it usually did; it only filled up the stone like it were an extension of herself. The rest of her immense magic remained in her veins. And Nesta felt stronger… much stronger.
“Illyrian’s use siphons to make our raw magic more precise,” Cassian told her. His voice vibrated against the shell of her ear. He was still holding on to her shoulders, his hands warm despite the immense cold. “We know that you do not need siphons to master your magic, but I thought you could practice using one of mine so you can feel what it is to be in control. If you get a sense of how it feels, I am hoping that you will be able to slip into it more easily when the time comes to practice without one.”
Sensing Nesta’s confusion, Cassian elaborated, “Think of it like the training wheels of a bike. You use them to get a sense of balance, but eventually you have to take the wheels off and master it alone.”
Cassian reached over Nesta to take the siphon from her outstretched hand. Without it Nesta felt light — untethered. The loss was too keen for something she’d only just touched, and from the way Cassian tensed behind her, she wondered if he had sensed it too. Blinking, Nesta turned to see Cassian reaching into his tunic pocket. He brought out a thin corded rope and thread it between the two hooks at the top of the jewel before tying the rope tightly at the ends. He looped it over Nesta’s neck before she realised what was happening.
Nesta stared down at where the ruby rested against her sternum and then back up at Cassian.
“Tuck it beneath your leathers to keep it safe,” Cassian told her.
Nesta didn’t argue. Somehow she knew the gravitas of the moment. Without Cassian’s siphons — his refined Killing Power — he believed himself wholly unworthy. Yet despite the importance of those stones, he was lending one to her. He had risked her shattering it. So Nesta coaxed the makeshift necklace beneath her leathers until the stone touched bare skin.
“This is the closest you will ever get to touching my chest,” she clipped coldly, trying to ignore how the heat from the ruby was seeping into her skin, the sensation deliciously warm.
Cassian’s laugh was deep and rich. “We’ll see.”
“You will not,” she snapped, even as her skin burned with the intent behind his words.
Cassian dared to wink at her as he stepped back. With a flare of ruby, a target appeared in the ashen clearing ahead of them.
“We’ll use the siphon as a way for you to practice settling into a sense of calm,” Cassian told her, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. The change in his voice told her that he was done playing. “Us Illyrian’s call it the Killing Calm; when everything goes deadly still in your head before you enter battle. Does that sound familiar to you?”
“Yes,” Nesta admitted begrudgingly. It was what had happened with both Devlon and Ragar and his cronies.
Cassian nodded in understanding. “I thought so. When you’re angry or overwhelmed, you expel your power in one go. By settling into a sense of calm, we can teach you to master your magic. The siphon will allow you to do that. Let’s practice.”
Nesta hit the target every time. She started by striking the outer edge, but by the end of their practice Nesta’s power was burning holes through the bullseye with a precision that even had Cassian nodding in admiration.
“And all the trees are in tact,” Cassian mused after he’d told her to rest. “We need to work on finessing your flames, but that was a good start. I suspect the memory of emotions from the camp is effecting your control.”
It was true, whilst Nesta had hit the target every time, she had also blasted it to smithereens with each impact. Cassian had replaced them with a casual flare of his siphons, and although Nesta had become a little better over the course of the session, the pain and agony that hummed through her veins had overloaded her magic so that it roared.
Slamming up layers and layers of shield had done nothing to mute the sensation. Despite the siphon, Nesta’s power was constantly replenished and raring to be expelled. In the end, Nesta had given up, allowing her power to blaze through the air with a precise sort of havoc that had Cassian’s eyes gleaming and a muscle feathering in his jaw; as if he was waiting in thrilled anticipation to see what she was capable of at the same time he was hoping she would master it.
As if sensing that Nesta still felt restless, Cassian magicked some longswords and put her to work.
Fighting with the longsword made Nesta feel powerful and strong, but today she was unstoppable, an endless energy pounding through her veins. A month ago, when they had first started training with the sword, Cassian had made her begin with a wooden replica. He had quickly realised that her enhanced strength meant that she could wield the real thing with little difficulty. For all of her starvation, Nesta found that eating regularly had allowed her to slip into her inner strength with an ease that had astounded her. It had not surprised Cassian. He had only observed her bring the sword up into ochs before switching through the guard drill he had taught her with a fierce sort of respect that had made her take stock.
After Cassian could no longer critique her guard drills, they began to spar. Each clang of her steel against Cassian’s only made her feel stronger. Today, on this agonised land, Nesta was faster in every sense of the word — her body as sharp as her mind — and she and Cassian fell into a rhythmic sort of dance, their puffs of breath clouding the air around them.
That’s when it happened. Somehow Nesta forced Cassian into the defensive, and when he had thrown her off of him and feinted to the left, Nesta had read him like the page of a well-worn book. She seized the opening, thrusting forward to strike him clean in the side. Cassian’s eyes widened just as her steel struck his armour.
They stopped abruptly. Nesta’s lungs were burning with the effort but her veins hummed, and the siphon beneath her leathers pulsed as Cassian’s flared. The sensation was like another heartbeat.
Her mouth twisted into a wicked smile of its own accord, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction as Cassian’s jaw went slack. She had struck him. She had struck him. And in her stomach wasn’t Cassian’s sense of disbelief, but admiration and pride.
“I believe that was a clean hit, Lord of Bloodshed. Remind me, how long have you been training as a warrior?”
The snicker that left Cassian did not mask the awe that had fallen across his dark features. “A humble warrior doesn't gloat, sweetheart.”
Nesta snorted. “Then it would seem I am not a humble warrior.”
Cassian laughed. His pupils were still blown wide; light brown interspersed with green, like forked lightning through chocolate. This was not like the laughter she usually heard. This was completely unchained and joyous. It melted into the atmosphere, into the stone; a fraction of light within the dark.
“I should have known you wouldn’t be modest,” he told her. “Will I ever hear the end of this?”
“No,” Nesta replied.
Her lips had fallen slightly, but a rare amount of amusement remained across her features. The sensation made her feel lighter… less heavy and manicured. It was not something she’d let anyone privy to. But she supposed Cassian had seen all of her now. And he had not run. He had made mistakes, just as she had. Both of them were stumbling on new legs after the war but they were trying to find alternative paths for themselves. When Nesta searched deep inside herself she found that there was no resentment, not today. Maybe tomorrow… but for now. She looked around them at the unencumbered view; the sky streaked with pastel hues, the sun glowing impossibly large so that everything sparkled, making the snow appear as if it were alive.
Cassian was watching her with an expression that she could not dissect. So she wrinkled her nose and asked, “What now?”
With a wave of his hand, the longswords vanished.
She quirked a questioning eyebrow at him, but Cassian only winked at her with a devilish grin that made her blood boil beneath her skin.
Instinctively, she glared at him. Anything to get rid of the unwanted heat that felt like a brand.
“Training with the longsword is essential, but every Illyrian chooses a speciality in combat depending on their strengths,” Cassian told her. His smile had turned smug, which told her that he knew she was flustered. He waved a hand and a weapon’s rack appeared out of thin air. “Choose a weapon,” he ordered.
Nesta crossed her arms firmly over her chest. It was a small act of defiance. “I’m not Illyrian.”
Cassian shrugged. The gesture was relaxed, but his next words were serious, “Then who are you, Nesta?”
“You should be asking, what am I?” she parried, hoping to deflect the question — to watch his eyes gleam.
But Cassian only snorted and waved a jewelled hand. “What are you? Who are you? Who do you want to be? How will you stake your legacy? These are all important questions in Illyrian culture. Illyrian’s believe that you carve your own individual fate — that you can decide how you want to be remembered. Every mistake in the sparring ring is a valuable life lesson. They look forward not back.”
Cassian loosed a breath at the stubborn expression on her face. “You don’t have to choose a weapon if you don't want to, but I have a feeling that the longsword isn’t your calling.”
Nesta’s nostrils flared. “Are you saying I’m bad? I just struck you, if you don’t recall.”
“No, if you continue your training you could be excellent if you wanted to be,” Cassian replied. The remark was off-hand but Nesta knew that was a compliment beyond reckoning. Cassian might be kind, but in the sparring ring praise was hard to come by. Ok, Again and That wasn’t half bad, were the best Nesta usually received during their training sessions. When he was particularly pleased, he might throw in a Good, but for the most part Cassian was hard-faced and serious.
Nesta tried and failed to hide how the praise affected her, even as her skin started to heat.
But for once, Cassian was not paying attention. He shook his head, as if he were emptying his head of thoughts. “I just have a feeling that there is a better weapon for you,” was all he said eventually. “Would you like to choose?”
Nesta studied him for a moment. There was no mockery in his gaze, only sincerity. She did not respond, she only stood up to the rack and took in the weapon’s before her
Her eyes slid over the knives, her gut only twisting slightly in response — a sign of how far she had come — the spear, the mace, the crossbow, the war hammer, and sword after sword after sword, until finally her power leapt and rubies pulsed. Reaching out, Nesta traced the curve of the bow with her fingertips, feeling the intricate carvings similar to the black tattoos that marked Cassian’s skin. It was beautiful and deadly and hers.
She turned to Cassian with an expression that told him he was not to argue. “This one.”
To her surprise, Cassian just nodded. There was no mocking, he only nodded to the bow, urging her to take it.
Her skin hummed as she picked it up. The bow was larger than any weapon she had handled before, but somehow it did not dwarf her frame. The wood was polished and smooth, the curvature of it similar to her upper lip. It felt like an extension of herself, just as Cassian’s siphon slotted into a carved out piece of her that had remained empty, waiting unknowingly.
“How does it feel?”
“Right,” Nesta said simply.
Cassian nodded. The movement was short and decided, as if her words set it in stone. “Good. We’ll incorporate it into your training.” He waved a hand and the bow vanished along with the weapon’s rack. “Let’s go back to Windhaven.”
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