𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙧 

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╰┈˚ · ° .  IT WAS A WEIRD SENSATION, TOUCHING something incorporeal but at the same time enough to feel it.

I almost gasped when the now familiar touch of Azriel's shadows caressed the skin of my exposed arm passing along the multiple scars pattern on them.

They moved slowly, wrapping their misty form around me with gentle touches. But nothing about it was innocent. And then, they were gone as if it had been there to begin with.

Breath caught in my throat, I turned my head towards the shadowsinger, who still continued walking towards the dining room as nothing had happened, but I knew— I knew from the way the corner of his lips tugged slightly upwards in a sly smirk, that he had been very well aware of it all. And he had done it on purpose.

My own smirk threatened to form on my face as I took in what happened like a challenge, but I covered it as quickly as it formed.

Two could play this game.

Mor groaned, slumping into a chair near the end of the table, and poured herself a glass of wine. Cassian took a seat next to her and wiggled his fingers for the wine bottle. As soon as he filled his glass, I snatched it from his hand and sat down in my seat exactly across from him.

Cassain glared at the loss of the bottle, and to spite him even more, I turned an eyebrow upwards in a challenging way as I continued to pour the burgundy colored alcohol.

"Your taste remains excellent, High Lord. Thank you." Amren said. Her voice was soft—but honed sharper than any blade. Her slim, small fingers grazed a delicate silver-and-pearl brooch pinned above her right breast.

Amren's love for jewelries and anything that shined— well, and puzzles— was something known to everyone. Rhysand loved to appease the being with pieces of expensive jewelries.

Rhysand waved a hand and bowed his head— even the High Lord couldn't phantom the magnitude of power that she had. "It suits you, Amren."

"Everything suits her." I commented. My lips formed a feline grin that matched the predatory smirk on the Ancient being's face. Inflating Amren's ego was funny— even more so when Cassian seemed to hate it.

And as soon as Amren shifted her focus away from me, I caught Cassian words mouthed in my directions that revealed true to my previous statement.

"Kiss ass." The illyrian had mouthed, and it only served to widen my grin even more.

Ameren took a step closer to Feyre, sniffing delicately. "So there are three of us now." She said.

Feyre's brows nudged toward each other.

Amren's lips were a slash of red. "We who were born something else—and found ourselves trapped in new, strange bodies." She jerked her chin at Feyre, gesturing to sit in the empty chair beside Mor. Amren claimed the seat across from my twin, Azriel, the one between her and me, and lastly, Rhys took the one on Feyre's right.

No one at the head of the table.

"Though there is a fourth," Amren said, now looking at Rhysand, "I don't think you've heard from Miryam in... centuries. Interesting."

Cassian rolled his eyes, "Please just get to the point, Amren. I'm hungry."

Mor choked on her wine at words, and Amren slid her attention to the warrior, "No one warming your bed right now, Cassian? It must be so hard to be an Illyrian and have no thoughts in your head save for those about your favorite part."

"You know I'm always happy to tangle in the sheets with you, Amren," Cassian said, utterly unfazed by the silver eyes, the power radiating from her every pore. "I know how much you enjoy Illyrian—"

"Miryam–" Rhysand said, as Amren's smile became serpentine, ready for her to strike, "and Drakon, are doing well, as far as I've heard. And what, exactly, is interesting?"

Amren's head tilted to the side as she studied Feyre, "Only once before was a human Made into an immortal. Interesting that it should happen again right as all the ancient players have returned. But Miryam was gifted long life—not a new body. And you, girl..." She sniffed her again, "Your very blood, your veins, your bones were Made. A mortal soul in an immortal body."

"What about Maiven. Wasn't she made too?" Feyre asked, confused by the interest the Ancient being was only directing at her.

"Your twin had an immortal soul in a mortal body. Her connection with this Court began even before she was born and it's interviewed in her own blood. Mortal or not, the land would have called her sooner rather than later."

"I was destined to endure Rhysand's arrogance for my entire life." I commented before taking a sip of the red wine.

"Don't underestimate your power girl." Amren spoke the warning, her eyes swirling like smoke.

"Oh, I certainly don't."

"Do you perhaps feel inclined to share a fraction of your power, dear Eardreor? " Rhysand said with a sly smirk, leaning forward to catch my eyes, "Not even with me being the most powerful High Lord in the history of Prythian seemed to be strong enough to endure you."

I grinned back at him, "Maybe you are not that powerful after all, did you ever think that?"

"Okay, I'm hungry." Mor said quickly, trying to avoid any more banter coming from Rhys and I— which would usually continue for hours if we could.

The blonde snapped a finger, and plates piled high with roast chicken that still fumed, greens, and bread appeared with her magic covering every inch of the table.

"Amren and Rhys can talk all night and bore us to tears, same with Rhys and Mai, if they continue, so don't bother waiting for them to dig in." Mor said to Feyre as she picked up her fork, clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth. "I asked Rhys if I could take you to dinner, just the two of us— maybe with Mai— but he said you wouldn't want to. But honestly— would you rather spend time with those two ancient bores, or me?"

"For someone who is the same age as me," Rhys drawled, "you seem to forget—"

"Everyone wants to talk-talk-talk," Mor said, giving a warning glare at Cassian, who had indeed opened his mouth to speak too. "Can't we eat-eat-eat, and then talk?"

"You are the one talking, though." I pointed out, only receiving a glare from the blonde.

I motioned with my hand closing my mouth, before I started to eat, sending a wink to my sister and nodding my head for her to do the same.

"Don't let these old busybodies boss you around." Mor said, clinking her glass against Feyre's.

"Pot. Kettle. Black." Cassian said. Then he frowned at Amren, who had hardly touched her plate. "I always forget how bizarre that is." He unceremoniously took her plate, dumping half the contents on his own before passing the rest to Azriel.

"I keep telling him to ask before he does that." Azriel said to Amren as he slid the food onto his plate,

Amren flicked her fingers and the empty plate vanished from Azriel's scarred hands. "If you haven't been able to train him after all these centuries, boy, I don't think you'll make any progress now." She straightened the silverware on the vacant place setting before her.

"You don't—eat? Feyre asked, slightly hesitant in voicing her thoughts.

"Not this sort of food."

"Cauldron boil me," Mor said, gulping down a sip from her wine. "Can we not?"

"Why not?" I was the only one who probably didn't really mind the diet of the Ancient being. Probably because of my powers but Amren still needed to eat— or more so drink— it was what sustained her, so I did not think it was anything to be disgusted by.

Amren's eyes shifted towards me, glistening with the power underneath it.

If Feyre wasn't here I would have definitely filled her a chalice with blood, but she was already receiving a heavy amount of information these days, that might have been a bit too much to add into her plate.

"Remind me to have family dinners more often." Rhys chuckled.

"They're called Siphons." Azriel said all of a sudden, his words directed at Feyre who was glancing at the power-infused gems on the two Illyrians' armors, "They concentrate and focus our power in battle." He held up his hands, both jewels were on full display for her to see.

Rhys set down his fork, and clarified "The power of stronger Illyrians tends toward 'incinerate now, ask questions later.' They have little magical gifts beyond that—the killing power."

"The gift of a violent, warmongering people," Amren added, and Azriel nodded, shadows wreathing his neck, his wrists. Cassian gave him a sharp look of warning, face tightening, but Azriel ignored him, keeping up his own thoughts about them.

"The Illyrians bred the power to give them advantage in battle, yes. The Siphons filter that raw power and allow Cassian and Azriel to transform it into something more subtle and varied—into shields and weapons, arrows and spears. Imagine the difference between hurling a bucket of paint against the wall and using a brush. The Siphons allow for the magic to be nimble, precise on the battlefield—when its natural state lends itself toward something far messier and unrefined, and potentially dangerous when you're fighting in tight quarters." Rhys went on, explaining with further details.

Cassian flexed his fingers, admiring the clear red stones adorning the backs of his own broad hands, "Doesn't hurt that they also look damn good."

Amren muttered, "Illyrians."

Cassian bared his teeth in feral amusement, and took a drink of his wine.

"How did you—I mean, how do you and Lord Cassian—"

Cassian spewed his wine across the table, and as I was sitting in front of him, it went all over me.

"Cassian!" I shrieked in disgust as I leaped up from the chair, already forming insults in my head to shout at the Illyrian.

But Cassian was howling with laughter, ignoring me whatsoever, and with him, Mor, even Azriel had a faint, wary smile on his face as he watched the commotion— or more so my face red from anger as I tried to not strangle the General. Rhysand tried not not to laugh out loud, but from the way his violet eyes gleamed in amusement or how he covered up his mouth with his fist, it was pretty clear.

I sat down again— keeping my hands to myself and away from Cassian's neck— and with a napkin, I tried to dry my face and dress— of course, doing all of that while keeping up the harsher glare that I could master at the Illyrian male.

Azriel, seeing the harsh treatment that I was serving myself with the napkin, took it from my hands, all as he tried to conceal his amusement— which he was doing a rather poor job at, might I add— helped me dry my face.

"I'm going to kill you." I said to Cassian, the asshole still had the guts to continue to laugh, and didn't look like he was stopping any time soon.

Azriel grabbed my chin successfully making me break the glare as he turned my head towards. Hazel met gray and I couldn't help but scowl as I noticed the flick of his lips into a smile, "And you stop being so amused." I had the opposite effect because soon, Azriel now was smiling freely, not even concealing it anymore as he put down on the table the napkin.

I like the way he smiled— even his eyes lightened up a shade when he smiled.

I waved my hand and the stains of wine that were on the dress disappeared.

"Cassian," Rhys drawled, signs of amusement still clear in his voice as tried to not catch my eyes— he knew I would have thrown the glass at his face otherwise– "is not a lord. Though I'm sure he appreciates you thinking he is." He surveyed his Inner Circle, "While we're on the subject, neither is Azriel. Nor Amren. Mor, believe it or not, is the only pure-blooded, titled person in this room." Rhys must have seen the question on Feyre's face because he said, "I'm half-Illyrian. As good as a bastard where the thoroughbred High Fae are concerned. And as we are on this subject, even Maiven is not full High Fae."

"I'm both. High Fae and Faerie." I explained, "Or at least that is what we think since all the other Bloodsingers before me had this genetics."

Feyre nodded, "So you—you three aren't High Fae?" She then asked Rhys and the two other males.

"Illyrians are certainly not High Fae. And glad of it." Cassian hooked his black hair behind an ear—rounded; as the ones of humans. "And we're not faeries, though some try to call us that. We're just—Illyrians. Considered expendable aerial cavalry for the Night Court at the best of times, mindless soldier grunts at the worst."

"Which is most of the time," Azriel clarified.

"I didn't see you Under the Mountain," Feyre said.

Silence fell. None of them, even Amren, looked at Rhysand. It was Mor who said, "Because none of us were."

Rhys's face was a mask of cold. "Amarantha didn't know they existed. And when someone tried to tell her, they usually found themselves without the mind to do so."

"You truly kept this city, and all these people, hidden from her for fifty years?"

Cassian was staring hard at his plate, as if he might burst out of his skin.

Amren said, "We will continue to keep this city and these people hidden from our enemies for a great many more."

Mor's voice was a bit raw as she explained, her golden combs glinting in the light, "There is not one person in this city who is unaware of what went on outside these borders. Or of the cost."

I looked down at my hands. I could still feel it. The blood that coated them. All those faeries, all the people that I had killed, tortured during those few months. Because it was true that being Under The Mountain didn't break me, but it didn't mean that the lives that I had taken, the skin that I had mutilated for Amarantha's own selfish amusement didn't weigh on my soul.

Their names. It was something that I had asked each one of them before they bleeded out or before the blade inflicted the last cut. They had spoken their names and now they were etched in my soul like a permanent mark.

Feyre cleared her throat, straightening, and she changed the subject as he asked Azriel. "How did you meet?"

Azriel merely turned to Cassian, who was staring at Rhys with guilt and love on his face, so deep and agonized. But Cassian seemed to process what she'd asked and his friend's silent request that he tell the story instead, and a grin ghosted across his face.

"We all hated each other at first. We are bastards, you know. Az and I. The Illyrians... We love our people, and our traditions, but they dwell in clans and camps deep in the mountains of the North, and do not like outsiders. Especially High Fae who try to tell them what to do. But they're just as obsessed with lineage, and have their own princes and lords among them. Az," he said, pointing a thumb in his direction, his red Siphon catching the light, "was the bastard of one of the local lords. And if you think the bastard son of a Lord is hated, then you can't imagine how hated the bastard of a war-camp laundress and a warrior she couldn't or wouldn't remember is." His casual shrug didn't match the vicious glint in his hazel eyes. "Az's father sent him to our camp for training once he and his charming wife realized he was a shadowsinger."

But as Cassian talked I looked at Rhysand. The light had dimmed out of his eyes and I knew he was still remembering Amarantha. Her touch.

I lowered the shield around our bond enough to make emotions pass through, gently hovering around his adamant shields that coated even his heart.

I sent him the feeling of safety and love. The type of love that I could compare that I had for my sisters.

As soon as I recognized them, I raised a shocked eyebrow and looked toward my chest as if I could see the bond with my own eyes. But it didn't matter, because Rhys violet eyes shifted towards her, and a new light was born in them.

"Like the daemati," Rhys said to Feyre with newfound calmness, "shadowsingers are rare—coveted by courts and territories across the world for their stealth and predisposition to hear and feel things others can't." he explained.

"The camp lord practically shit himself with excitement the day Az was dumped in our camp. But me... once my mother weaned me and I was able to walk, they flew me to a distant camp, and chucked me into the mud to see if I would live or die." Cassian continued.

"They would have been smarter throwing you off a cliff," Mor said, snorting.

"Oh, definitely," Cassian said, that grin going razor-sharp. "Especially because when I was old and strong enough to go back to the camp I'd been born in, I learned those pricks worked my mother until she died."

"The Illyrians," Rhys smoothly cut in "are unparalleled warriors, and are rich with stories and traditions. But they are also brutal and backward, particularly in regard to how they treat their females."

I looked towards Azriel, his eyes were nearly vacant as he stared at the wall of windows.

Seeing his far away look, slowly, ever so slowly, I moved my hand near his shadows that always buzzed around him— to make him recognize me and not startle him— before I lowered it on top of his hands that rested in his lap in tight clenched fists.

His fingers loosened the grip enough to cage it between his own, and I let the thumb move freely, creating circles, caressing the skin—which, with the burn scars felt rougher on the pad of the fingertip.

"They're barbarians," Amren said, and neither Illyrian male objected.

Mor nodded emphatically, "They cripple their females so they can keep them for breeding more flawless warriors."

Rhys cringed. "My mother was low-born," he told, "and worked as a seamstress in one of their many mountain war-camps. When females come of age in the camps—when they have their first bleeding—their wings are... clipped. Just an incision in the right place, left to improperly heal, can cripple you forever. And my mother—she was gentle and wild and loved to fly. So she did everything in her power to keep herself from maturing. She starved herself, gathered illegal herbs—anything to halt the natural course of her body. She turned eighteen and hadn't yet bled, to the mortification of her parents. But her bleeding finally arrived, and all it took was for her to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time, before a male scented it on her and told the camp's lord. She tried to flee—took right to the skies. But she was young, and the warriors were faster, and they dragged her back. They were about to tie her to the posts in the center of camp when my father winnowed in for a meeting with the camp's Lord about readying for the War. He saw my mother thrashing and fighting like a wildcat, and..." He swallowed. "The mating bond between them clicked into place. One look at her, and he knew what she was. He misted the guards holding her."

If I hadn't been so focused on the story, I would have noticed the way Azriel's hand squeezed my own at the mention of the mating bond.

"Misted?" Feyre asked, confused by the term.

Cassian let out a wicked chuckle as Rhys floated a lemon wedge that had been garnishing his chicken into the air above the table. With a flick of his finger, it turned to citrus-scented mist.

"Through the blood-rain," Rhys went on with history, "my mother looked at him. And the bond fell into place for her. My father took her back to the Night Court that evening and made her his bride. She loved her people, and missed them, but never forgot what they had tried to do to her—what they did to the females among them. She tried for decades to get my father to ban it, but the War was coming, and he wouldn't risk isolating the Illyrians when he needed them to lead his armies. And to die for him."

"A real prize, your father," Mor grumbled.

"At least he liked you," Rhys countered, "My father and mother, despite being mates, were wrong for each other. My father was cold and calculating, and could be vicious, as he had been trained to be since birth. My mother was soft and fiery and beloved by everyone she met. She hated him after a time—but never stopped being grateful that he had saved her wings, that he allowed her to fly whenever and wherever she wished." He explained, "Probably the only person that could stand my father and love him for exactly who he was, was Amaya. His Eardreor." He glanced towards me briefly before continuing, "When I was born, and could summon the Illyrian wings as I pleased... She wanted me to know her people's culture."

"She wanted to keep you out of your father's claws." Mor said, swirling her wine.

"That, too," Rhys added drily. "When I turned eight, my mother brought me to one of the Illyrian war-camps. To be trained, as all Illyrian males were trained. And like all Illyrian mothers, she shoved me toward the sparring ring on the first day, and walked away without looking back."

"She abandoned you?" Feyre asked.

"No—never," Rhys said with a ferocity, "She was staying at the camp as well. But it is considered an embarrassment for a mother to coddle her son when he goes to train."

Cassian laughed. "Backward, like he said," the warrior said.

"I was scared out of my mind," Rhys admitted, not a shade of shame to be found. "I'd been learning to wield my powers, but Illyrian magic was a mere fraction of it. And it's rare amongst them—usually possessed only by the most powerful, pure-bred warriors. I tried to use a Siphon during those years," Rhys said. "And shattered about a dozen before I realized it wasn't compatible—the stones couldn't hold it. My power flows and is honed in other ways."

"So difficult, being such a powerful High Lord," Mor teased.

Rhys rolled his eyes. "The camp-lord banned me from using my magic. For all our sakes. But I had no idea how to fight when I set foot into that training ring that day. The other boys in my age group knew it, too. Especially one in particular, who took a look at me, and beat me into a bloody mess."

"You were so clean," Cassian said, shaking his head. "The pretty half-breed son of the High Lord—how fancy you were in your new training clothes."

"Cassian," Azriel said, "resorted to getting new clothes over the years by challenging other boys to fights, with the prize being the clothes off their backs." There was no pride in the words—not for his people's brutality.

"I'd beaten every boy in our age group twice over already," Cassian went on. "But then Rhys arrived, in his clean clothes, and he smelled... different. Like a true opponent. So I attacked. We both got three lashings apiece for the fight."

Shivers run down my back exactly where the skin was marred with scars. Scars from lashes. Over the years they accumulated, forming over old ones. I strengthened my back and clenched my jaw to prevent the winch.

But Feyre let it out, her eyes landing on me as she remembered the scars on my back that she knew were exactly from the whips. "They do worse, girl," Amren cut in, "in those camps. Three lashings is practically an encouragement to fight again. When they do something truly bad, bones are broken. Repeatedly. Over weeks."

"Look at that, apparently Braken took inspiration from your war camps." I chuckled, flexing my right arm that pulsed under the memories.

They all turned towards me with various looks of concern at my joke— at least Cassian snorted.

"He broke your bones?" Feyre, with wide eyes exclaimed.

"A few times." I shrugged as if unbothered by it, "Let's get back to the story, shall we?"

So my twin cleared her throat, and asked Rhys, "Your mother willingly sent you into that?".

"My mother didn't want me to rely on my power," Rhysand said. "She knew from the moment she conceived me that I'd be hunted my entire life. Where one strength failed, she wanted others to save me. My education was another weapon—which was why she went with me: to tutor me after lessons were done for the day. And when she took me home that first night to our new house at the edge of the camp, she made me read by the window. It was there that I saw Cassian trudging through the mud—toward the few ramshackle tents outside of the camp. I asked her where he was going, and she told me that bastards are given nothing: they find their own shelter, their own food. If they survive and get picked to be in a war-band, they'll be bottom-ranking forever, but receive their own tents and supplies. But until then, he'd stay in the cold."

"Those mountains," Azriel added, his face hard as ice, "offer some of the harshest conditions you can imagine."

"After my lessons," Rhys went on, "my mother cleaned my lashings, and as she did, I realized for the first time what it was to be warm, and safe, and cared for. And it didn't sit well."

"Apparently not," Cassian said. "Because in the dead of night, that little prick woke me up in my piss-poor tent and told me to keep my mouth shut and come with him. And maybe the cold made me stupid, but I did. His mother was livid. But I'll never forget the look on her beautiful face when she saw me and said, 'There is a bathtub with hot running water. Get in it or you can go back into the cold.' Being a smart lad, I obeyed. When I got out, she had clean nightclothes and ordered me into bed. I'd spent my life sleeping on the ground—and when I layed down on the mattress, I balked, she said she understood because she had felt the same once, and that it would feel as if I was being swallowed up, but the bed was mine for as long as I wanted it."

"And you were friends after that?"

"No—Cauldron no," Rhysand said. "We hated each other, and only behaved because if one of us got into trouble or provoked the other, then neither of us ate that night. My mother started tutoring Cassian, but it wasn't until Azriel arrived a year later that we decided to be allies."

Cassian's grin grew as he leaned forward to clap his friend on the shoulder. Azriel sighed—the sound of the long-suffering. A new found warmth spread on his face, "A new bastard in the camp—and an untrained shadowsinger to boot. Not to mention he couldn't even fly thanks to—"

I could see that the spark of warmth quickly faded as The General continued to talk. I didn't need to know why he didn't like to talk about it. Just that he didn't. As I watched that warmth dissipate into his cold expression, my heart felt like someone was squeezing it.

So I cut in lazily, "Stay on track, Cass."

I felt Azriel's shadows slowly curling around my leg. Different from the touch that they delivered earlier. Now it was like a hug. Warm and safe. I dared look towards him but Azriel's focus was still on the conversation ahead.

"Rhys and I made his life a living hell, shadowsinger or no. But Rhys's mother had known Az's mother, and took him in. As we grew older, and the other males around us did, too, we realized everyone else hated us enough that we had better odds of survival sticking together."

"Do you have any gifts?" Feyre asked him. "Like—them?" she jerked her chin to Azriel and Rhys.

"A volatile temper doesn't count," Mor said as Cassian opened his mouth.

"Or the ability to make someone want to strangle you with just a few words." I also chimed in.

Cassian gave us two a grin, one that meant trouble was coming. "No. I don't—not beyond a heaping pile of the killing power. Bastard-born nobody, through and through." Rhys sat forward like he'd object, but Cassian forged ahead, "Even so, the other males knew that we were different. And not because we were two bastards and a half-breed. We were stronger, faster—like the Cauldron knew we'd been set apart and wanted us to find each other. Rhys's mother saw it, too. Especially as we reached the age of maturity, and all we wanted to do was fuck and fight."

"Males are horrible creatures, aren't they?" Amren said.

"Repulsive," Mor said, clicking her tongue.

"Disgusting" I added with a derisive snort.

Cassian shrugged, "Rhys's power grew every day—and everyone, even the camp-lords, knew he could mist everyone if he felt like it. And the two of us... we weren't far behind." He tapped his crimson Siphon with a finger. "A bastard Illyrian had never received one of these. Ever. For Az and me to both be appointed them, albeit begrudgingly, had every warrior in every camp across those mountains sizing us up. Only pure-blood pricks get Siphons—born and bred for the killing power. It still keeps them up at night, puzzling over where the hell we got it from."

"Then the War came," Azriel took over. "And Rhys's father visited our camp to see how his son had fared after twenty years."

"My father," Rhys said, swirling his wine once—twice, "saw that his son had not only started to rival him for power, but had allied himself with perhaps the two deadliest Illyrians in history. He got it into his head that if we were given a legion in the War, we might very well turn it against him when we returned."

Cassian snickered. "So the prick separated us. He gave Rhys command of a legion of Illyrians who hated him for being a half-breed, and threw me into a different legion to be a common foot soldier, even when my power outranked any of the war-leaders. Az, he kept for himself as his personal shadowsinger—mostly for spying and his dirty work. We only saw each other on battlefields for the seven years the War raged. They'd send around casualty lists amongst the Illyrians, and I read each one, wondering if I'd see their names on it. But then Rhys was captured—"

"That is a story for another time," Rhys said, sharply enough that Cassian lifted his brows, but nodded "Once I became High Lord, I appointed these four to my Inner Circle, and told the rest of my father's old court that if they had a problem with my friends, they could leave. They all did. Turns out, having a half-breed High Lord was made worse by his appointment of two females and two Illyrian bastards."

"What—what happened to them, then?"

Rhys shrugged, those great wings shifting with the movement. "The nobility of the Night Court fall into one of three categories: those who hated me enough that when Amarantha took over, they joined her court and later found themselves dead; those who hated me enough to try to overthrow me and faced the consequences; and those who hated me, but not enough to be stupid and have since tolerated a half-breed's rule, especially when it so rarely interferes with their miserable lives."

"Are they—are they the ones who live beneath the mountain?"

A nod. "In the Hewn City, yes. I gave it to them, for not being fools. They're happy to stay there, rarely leaving, ruling themselves and being as wicked as they please, for all eternity."

"The Court of Nightmares."

 ──── ⋅⋅•☽⟡☾•⋅⋅ ────

𝐅𝐞𝐲𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐯

╰┈˚ · ° .   I looked around the table till my eyes reached the familiar gray one of my twin sisters. It had been a long time since I had seen her like this with other people other than with me—- maybe never. Relaxed like she didn't need to be on guard every second, where she could just be herself. She was happy— I concluded.

Maiven had found her place within the Night Court. She wasn't an outsider. She wasn't with them because she was a Bloodsinger and tied to the Court. No, she was part of their family. And it was to her that I asked the next question. The most important question.

"And what is this court?"

Maiven's eyes shined with the force of the stars. The same one that gleamed in the night sky above Velaris, above the entire Night Court. Her voice was clear and without any doubts she answered my question.

"The Court of Dreams."

✎

˗ˏˋ 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ˊˎ˗

Hello everyone!

This chapter was LONG. I kinda hate writing chapters this long, ngl. And it's still not over!!

The last part of this tho, Feyre's POV, I thought it fitted well, and I love it.When I started this fic I wanted a character that wasn't just there because she was Feyre's sister, I wanted one that belonged with the IC as much as Feyre did. I hope you can all feel the bond and the familiarity with which she acts with the rest of the group, she is herself. 

I'm all here for the girls shitting on the guys, Cassian spitting wine on Mai, and cute moments with Az!!I hope you enjoyed it!!

Thank you for reading this chapter, I'll see you on Tuesday!

˚ · ° . 𝐔𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐞 . ° · ˚

𝐓𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲

𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞!

– 𝐋𝐨𝐥𝐚 ☾