00 WHERE THERE IS SMOKE

—THE boats come from the west without warning.

At the first sign of their grey flags on the shining cyan sea, a tremor runs through the land.

The stench of dread smothers the air like suffocating smoke. "She's come back!" they weep. "The Witch has come back to slay us all!" A world still tormented by memories of war cries together, "Mother save us!"

Fate demands the sky to be storming when the ships arrive. Roaring thunder booms as the sight of the wretched Witch on her prow comes in sight. Her hair is a ruby flame, magically untouchable out in the pouring rain. Steam billows around her slender body, blurring everything except the black and beady eyes trained on her target.

The western shore is lined with grim warriors, each one poised and ready to defend their land against this threat for a second time. Some are veterans. Some have seen this wicked face before, have dreamt of it in their worst nightmares. Others have only heard the stories, the terrible tales of this evil face. All are trembling behind their leaders, ready for the charge or the retreat.

As the Witch raises a hand to the sky, they prepare for the very worst. Perhaps she has brought an army of sea monsters from legend, or perhaps this summer hurricane is of her own making, and she plans to wipe them out with a 100-year storm.

But her bony hand remains in the air, and she begins to speak.

"Friends," she starts, her voice amplified across the short distance between them, and a collective rumble rolls through the assembled force along the beach, "please, I only wish to talk. Peacefully."

A confused silence descends on the gathered soldiers and the generals. "Peace means nothing from the mouth of a Witch," they murmur amongst themselves.

"My crew is weary after such a long trip. If you'd be so kind as to offer us warm shelter out of this storm, we will repay you generously." The world is standing still, waiting on baited breath. "I bring only goods from Hybern—"

She quiets abruptly as an uproar of growling shudders up in her audience; the name is its own enemy. Her blood red lips offer a complacent smile as she carefully continues, the name of her king noticeably absent this round.

"Only cargo to be traded. I've brought merchants, all of them hoping to find business here if negotiations allow it."

The first of the assembled force to dare steps forward, followed immediately by a companion. The male at the head, their leader known as Nostrus, grabs his helmet by its pearl studded crown and removes it. Pale white hair tumbles down his armor clad back and the dark skin on his face is drawn in a serious expression. The female at his side, his guardian by the name of Anahera, wears no helmet; instead, she proudly displays a scalp of swirling tattoos. A spear is in her right hand, a shield clenched in the other. The painting of a loyal protector.

Nostrus hands his helmet to another member of their small contingent before turning back to the Witch. Her smile has grown two sizes.

"You will forgive our cold welcome. Your sudden return has caught us by surprise. As you can see," the High Lord of the Summer Court says through the sheets of falling rain as he gestures to the army at his back. His soldiers stand straighter as her gaze travels among them. "Considering how things were left the last time you were here, surely you will not mind if we ensure you speak true before allowing you within our borders."

The Witch shows no sign of hesitance or frustration at his request. Only that unreadable grin. "Of course. We have nothing to hide."

Nostrus considers her for a moment longer before turning to Anahera. They share a few hushed words before she shakes her head, face set sternly. He places a strong hand on the rim of her shield, fingers curling around it delicately. A battle wages in her brown eyes, but she finally relents after a few more pointed words. She lowers the shield slowly, her conflicted stare flashing to the Witch and back to the male she is supposed to protect.

He nods, satisfied, and ushers a few soldiers forward with little more than a glance. They listen to his orders, fear subtly growing in their hearts as he points to each ship in the surf. He pats each of them on the shoulder where the skin peaks through a gap in their armor, bidding them safe passage. They nod as one and disband to organize a small fleet of skiffs to travel the short distance to the Witch's armada. The waves try to crash against their hulls, but a skilled hand from their High Lord back on shore keeps the boats steady on their trek.

Everyone watches as the Witch welcomes the party of soldiers aboard her ships. The blood red smile, along with everyone's shoulders on the beach, tense as one foolish foot soldier turns the spear on her in caution. He is shivering, and not because he is cold.

Trinius is old enough to remember the war. He is old enough to remember the suffering of his people. He is old enough to remember his loving family. But all of them are gone, all of them dead at the hands of this Witch.

Noticing his uneasiness, she merely raises her hands in front of her in a show of disarmament. Realizing his hasty mistake, Trinius lowers his spear and steps away. He does not apologize, for who would apologize to someone who is partially, if not mostly, responsible for the death of his brothers and sisters?

To further prevent himself from making another move that could possibly cost his home and remaining people, he moves to check below deck as he was commanded. His fellow soldiers protect his back, their spears up but not pointed.

It is a small lifetime before the Trinius is back on deck within view of the shore. There is a shared intake of breath as Nostrus, Anahera, and all who are present wait for his verdict. Either, the Witch has spun a tale of lies and a war is about to commence, or she is telling the truth and she will be welcomed ashore as per the shaky agreeance.

Neither option appeals to the masses.

Trinius, his eyes flickering to the female who tore his family apart, raises his shield and not his spear. It's clear, the message says plainly. And across every boat, his fellow soldiers echo the signal.

"The Witch has come back," the whispers say, "and she is here to stay."

—NEGOTIATIONS for open trade routes between the two lands are to occur within the private glass conservatory of the nearby palace the next morning. Fifteen chairs are brought in and arranged in a wide circle, all settled in pairs except for one. This lone placement is given a wide berth.

It is her chair, the Witch's.

Nostrus and Anahera are there to greet the first two arrivals. A lithe male with tawny hair, Thesan is his name, is escorted in by a silent female by the name of Tsavani. Her analytical eyes survey the room, taking special note of the distant chair. She pulls her heated gaze away and scrutinizes the building, instead.

"Glass in every direction," the invitation had mentioned, "to prevent an ambush or trap."

The High Lord and Guardian of the Dawn Court do not make conversation after they accept a brief welcome from their hosts, seemingly content with their own company away from prying ears. Tsavani does not speak; instead, she moves her hands in ways only the soft-spoken Thesan can understand. He nods along in solemn agreement to something her fingers convey in the direction of the chair.

Just as Nostrus is about to say something to the guests, two towering bodies enter the conservatory. Their white hair, while similar in hue to the male from the beach, is paired with pale skin and icy blue irises. By the way they stop just inside the entrance with frowns, it is clear they would rather be anywhere else, particularly away from the beating sun and humidity.

Kallias, the High Lord of Winter, is helped out of his fur-lined parka. Alistair, the male at his side, folds the garment over his forearm, not even bothering to remove his own.

Before any greetings can be made for them, another—more eager—couple finds their way inside. They are linked at the arms, comfortably pressed to each other's sides as they whisper eagerly with each other. Helion and his guardian, Serana, bask in the heat of mid-morning, smiling at the spacious greenhouse.

Nostrus breaks out into a radiant smile and finds its reciprocate in the High Lord of the Day Court. The room brightens considerably as the two embrace in a tight hug; Kallias and Alistair have to shield their eyes from the glowing reunion that ensues. Anahera approaches with a hand outstretched for Serana to clasp amicably.

The group laughs together, and it is almost blinding to the Winter visitors. There is a moment where everything is right, and nothing is wrong.

But the moment ends as they are joined by an older fae, one with a permanent frown on his severe and faintly wrinkled face. Beron, the High Lord of the Autumn Court, walks through the archway and does not stop until he is seated promptly in an open chair away from the luminous group. Behind him trails a male in a hooded cloak. The fabric is pulled up and over Nazir's eyes, completely blanketing his face in shadows as if it may detract attention from him. His feet are silent along the stone tiled floor as he dutifully makes his way to his High Lord's side.

They do not speak, and they do not look around. The one thing they seem capable of doing is staring at the empty chair across from them. It isn't until the arrival of two males in green, do they pull their attention away.

Without trying, the newcomers have attracted the eyes of every occupant in the room. Tamlin and Linden hesitate on the threshold of the conservatory, feeling the sudden shift they've created in the air. The one of smaller stature shuffles uneasily in his place, a pale hand coming up to adjust a buckle on his right vambrace to occupy his nervousness. The High Lord beside him does not fidget, he does not even move as he takes in the room with a clenched jaw.

Tamlin says something then, something that makes the whole room blink and look away with uneasiness. They do not look back as he finds a chair for himself and Linden.

Everyone is silent now as they wait for the final two members of their likeness. Even Tsavani, who speaks with her hands, does not move a muscle to say something in the quiet room. There is a charged stillness settled around them, like the calm before a storm.

They are felt before they are seen.

The room, once impossibly bright, dims as two forms appear beyond the glass doors. Twelve pairs of eyes watch as they speak privately, or rather, they do not speak and merely share thoughts with their gazes. Their lips do not move, but an understanding is clearly passed between them silently.

For a breath, they stand together, and it invites the ones inside to observe the interaction. Their dark hair and dark clothes stand out garishly among the sandstone buildings at their backs. It is hard to miss them here, but it would be hard to miss them anywhere. Their presence, like the weight of mountain, bears down on the occupants of the room despite not having stepped inside yet.

It is the High Lord of the Spring Court, the one who unsettled the room only a few minutes prior, who appears the most affected by the two outside the door. His fingers wrap around the arms of his chair until there is an audible pop and groan of the willow tree wood. Linden, eyes wide with anticipation and discomfort, leans over to say something but is only met with eyes of steely green contempt.

It is then that the two dark individuals make their entrance. And they come with cool indifference.

Nostrus bids a fleeting goodbye to Helion and makes his way to the newcomers. They watch him approach, blank masks held firmly in place as they're greeted with a surprising warmth. He smiles, and it's just enough to push against their encroaching darkness.

After another minute of idle chatter, the High Lord of Summer makes his way to the center of the room and announces their meeting's commencement.

—KAZIMYRAH knows change is possible. She's seen it, possibly even felt it in herself. But she also knows that no matter how many times it sheds its skin, a snake is still a snake.

Nostrus has only the best intentions at heart, she knows this too. His friendly reception towards her and Rhysand only moments ago is a testament to that. But she cannot help that shred of resentment at knowing she is back in Prythian, and he is the one who allowed it.

As of right now, the Witch must not even be far from their conference; the empty chair in their strange unfinished circle tells her enough. They'll be seeing her again.

Even after 400 years, Kazi does not think she is ready for it. For her.

But for now, though, it is just them. The High Lords and her fellow guardians.

It's an astounding achievement, getting them all here with only a day's notice. News of a common enemy-returned would take precedence over other courtly duties, she supposes. Rhysand, after having read the invitation over more than ten times, was none too eager to pile his own load of work onto Morrigan to attend this meeting. Even if seeing her meant facing a nightmare come to life.

And as Kazi chances a look around the circle, it's clear they are not the only ones who feel this way.

Thesan, for all his usual calm and composure, is a painting of nerves. His nose wrinkles every time a leaf falls from a branch around them, when one of them clears their throat or makes any sudden move. Tsavani has become a pillar of support at his shoulder. Her hand is resting on his own, those deft fingers of hers talking to him silently. He does not respond to her so Kazi is left to believe Tsavani is only offering words of comfort.

And Kallias has apparently forgotten just how easily his cool exterior can melt. Kazi has silently kept tally of how many times he's tugged at his ear or rubbed his temples. Alistair, the stoic guardian at his side, is no better as he clenches his fists tightly in short intervals.

Directly across from her, because of course they would end up on opposite sides of this circle, is Tamlin and Linden. The former is a perfect statue as he stares at the floor. The latter stares back at her with a face she wants to return. It's a smile, albeit a nervous one as he continuously tries to temper his High Lord. But he's smiling at her, and somehow, she feels guilty for it.

They should hate each other, really. It would be easiest. But their High Lords have reserved all the hate for themselves, and all that's left for Kazi and Linden is a fierce bond born from their paralleled stories.

She remembers the day they both became Guardians of their respective courts; it was the same day Rhysand and Tamlin ascended to High Lords. It was the day she lost a father and a mother and a sister. She remembers the dawn after when she and Linden received their tattoos. She remembers holding his hand as the pain of loss got to be too much. She remembers the feeling of his embrace, but not the other guardians who were there for her.

It's impossible to hate him when he did nothing wrong.

But still, she cannot bring herself to return the smile when he sits beside him. The one who is responsible for everything that day.

It is an effort to pull her eyes away from them. But she is glad she does when the discussion begins.

Nostrus, his tense smile still in place, clears his throat. "I would like to start off this meeting by saying how nice it is to see everyone in the same room again."

Nice is an interesting way to put it, Kazi thinks quietly. As she looks around, the others are finding his words amiss, as well. Tamlin's hidden scoff is her proof. Even Anahera rolls her eyes up and away from her High Lord.

"Thank you kindly for all choosing to attend on such short notice," the High Lord of the Summer Court continues. His smile falters as he swallows. "This...subject concerns all of us, and everyone's input should be considered."

Beron, always the utter joy that he is, leans forward to interject. "There wouldn't even be a subject to concern ourselves with if you had just turned the bitch away from your borders. Now you've allowed this Witch back into our lives after all she's done."

Anahera is a coil of tension in her seat, Kazi notices. It's instinctual, a guardian will prepare for anything once a threat has made itself known. Even when this threat is most definitely not going to get his hands dirty.

"Now, now," Helion's natural velvety voice chimes and Beron's eyes harden. "No need to get hostile. Nostrus couldn't very well turn away a known enemy without risking all-out war as soon as he turned his back. I'm not sure whether her word can be trusted or not, but I am all for hearing out her business proposition."

He returns to his lounged position and whispers something to his guardian conspiratorially. Serana, at his side, is beaming with an amused pride as she, too, relaxes.

But Beron is the face of fury, now angrier at the fact he was talked down to than the situation. "Fuck a business proposition. The Witch cannot be trusted for anything. I say we kill her while she's on this side of the sea and without her precious king's protection."

Kazi does not like agreeing with Beron, it leaves a long-lasting bitter taste in her mouth. Instead, she imagines that she is agreeing with Nazir, the Guardian of the Autumn Court. She looks to him and finds he is already facing her. It is hard to tell whether his eyes are on her through the shadows of his hood, but something tells her they are. She offers a subtle nod in acknowledgment and receives one a moment later.

"She was honest about the contents of her ships." Nostrus says. "After the preliminary check on the beach, we thoroughly combed for weapons and contraband last night. There is nothing except tradable goods. She says you are all free to inspect it yourselves, even."

Kazi glances to Rhysand to find him hiding a smirk. As soon as the letter and invitation appeared yesterday, he'd sent a band of spies to ensure the boats were as harmless as claimed. Nothing out of the ordinary.

"A smuggled army is one problem," Kallias speaks up next, "a powerful Witch is another. She can wreak havoc without the force of thousands behind her. That is the discussion we need to have."

There's a contemplative silence among them. They do not wish to give power to the thought, but she is capable of mass destruction all on her own.

"Turning her away now would be a personal offense." Thesan's dulcet tones ring about the room. "We've invited her in, sending her back is a message of distrust. That alone might be enough to shatter the tentative treaty we have with Hybern."

There's a loud and derisive guffaw from Beron. "Are we not justified in our lack of trust? Are we not entitled to our doubt?"

"You talk a lot about trust when you were neutral for most of the war," Rhysand says then, and the room stills. His voice is easy, unburdened with the topic of the meeting. It is a careful and delicate mask, Kazi knows. "And Nostrus, your court was a neutral fighting ground during the war, as well."

She is on high alert now, her spine tingling as she registers every enemy he's just created in the room. Beron remains an obvious danger, though Nazir does not, and Anahera is now a new one now that Nostrus has been named, but she can feel the waves of anger coming straight across the circle. There's another crack in a wooden chair. Linden's eyes flicker to her worriedly.

"This is preposterous," the High Lord of the Autumn Court snarls. "I am trying to save us from another war by getting rid of a threat before it can manifest. And you make me the villain for trying to save my court from more suffering."

Rhysand shrugs, utterly content with the pot he is stirring. "How do we know you aren't intentionally trying to start this war by sending her back or killing her?"

"What could I possibly gain from another war?" the older male asks, curiosity absent and bitterness present.

"I'm sure there are plenty of things you'd hope to gain, none of them honorable and all of them greedy." Rhysand brushes a speck of dust off his trousers. "You know how the balance of power tips in war. You know you have the largest fighting force of us all, and that would make you valuable. Do not pretend to be ignorant to what a war could mean for you."

Kazi's hand is inches away from a cinquedea at her thigh harness, wishing helplessly that her High Lord had a better sense of self-preservation.

Beron is deathly quiet as he allows the words to flood his system. When he speaks, it is strangely reserved. "I am aware of what my value is in this situation. But if you are trying to point fingers, why don't you point them to the ones who actually sided with the Witch?"

A load snap echoes against the glass panes around them, reverberating through bone and marrow. A chunk of willow wood falls to Tamlin's feet as everyone flinches. Kazi's hand is now on a hilt.

"My father sided with her," his voice is like hollow wind in a cave. "I am not my father."

"Perhaps not," Beron cedes, "but it still stands that you were the enemy for a time."

Tamlin does not respond, he does not defend himself. Because it is true. He was the enemy 400 years ago, whether it was his father's demand or not. Linden, as well, cannot defend his High Lord as per his duty. The war was before his ascension, before even his eleventh birthday. Anything that occurred in that time is not his to speak of.

Nostrus, unsurprisingly, has lost his leading hand. Instead, he defers to Thesan with a look to carry on the discussion.

"Before we make a motion to send her back to Hybern, I believe we should hear her proposition. This way," he says pacifyingly, "we can all gauge just how much trust can be placed on her head."

The idea is sound, Kazi admits, but the thought of seeing her...her heart races.

But the High Lords agree that it is the best course of action in order to proceed.

As Nostrus and Anahera leave the conservatory to retrieve her, the remaining occupants in the room are left to prepare themselves. Kazi recalls what Rhysand told her before they'd entered, what he'd said in her mind and how it made her feel.

Kazimyrah, you are strong. You are crushing mountains and crashing waves. You are swirling storms. She cannot and will not break you. If they must see weakness, Kazi, he'd said, let them also see you overcome it.

The words are still shaking her soul when she crosses through the door.

Amarantha's walk has always been a prowl, her teeth fangs, and her fingers claws. It is her innate nature to be the alluring predator to her unsuspecting prey. Even now, it is there beneath this veil of innocence. It's in the way she surveys the room, in the way she smiles with her cheeks and not her eyes, in the way her eyebrows twitch with nearly indetectable amusement at this congregation of power.

And Kazi can see it all.

Those black eyes turn on her, as if sensing the swell of resentment in her bones. And suddenly there's a dagger in her chest.

There's a roar in Kazi's veins as she feels the blade pierce through two of her ribs. She flinches away from the feeling of fire in her chest only to scream as the chains wrapped around her neck wring tighter. Tears of frustration finally fall as she realizes she's also lodged the ash bolts at end of the chain deeper through Rhysand's wings across the tent. He lays unconscious upon the dirt, a wound of his own trying to heal itself in his abdomen.

If she could only crawl closer...

"Ah, ah, ah," the voice is a penetrating sword of its own. "Another inch in that direction and the next place this dagger will go is his heart."

Kazi carefully raises her head, muscles in her neck and shoulders pulling painfully at the gash in her chest. She spits, and it lands its mark on the Witch's face. The female reels back and slaps her all in one swift movement. Darkness flares at the edge of Kazi's vision where the added pain blooms.

The Witch's hand comes up to wipe her cheek with a grimace and flicks it back onto Kazi's forehead. "You sure have some nerve. Was me killing the rest of your legion not clear enough?"

Kazi does not deign to answer her. She does not trust herself not to say anything intelligent at this point; her blood loss is making her head swim, and the blurry Witch in front of her is slowly becoming two. The idea of two redheaded beasts makes her gurgle blood, and the hazy Witches take a step back.

"Pathetic."

It is this raw memory that leads Kazi to reach for her cinquedeas at her thighs. It's Rhysand's hand that stops her before she can make her intentions known to the room. His steady palm is heavy on her wrist, a weight that simultaneously holds her down and lifts her up.

But all she can think of is his prone form on the opposite end of that tent in a foreign land across the sea. They hadn't even been Guardian and High Lord then, and still, she'd felt that undying devotion simmer in her blood. Like she'd do anything to see him safe, anything to protect him, even follow him into the claws of the Witch.

And now that she is soul-bound to him, it's a fight to remain seated when their worst nightmare continues to live and breathe a few quick strides away.

You are crushing mountains and crashing waves. You are swirling storms. She cannot and will not break you.

Kazi takes a deep breath, her hands inching away from her legs to rest on the arms of her chair. If they must see weakness, then let them see me overcome it.

Amarantha's keen gaze lingers on her before steadily taking Rhysand in. The flames ignite in Kazi's blood, and she tells herself, 'Another inch in this direction and the next place my daggers will go is her heart.' But the Witch does not move closer, both a relief and an unfortunate loss of opportunity. Instead, she swivels her head to face Tamlin across the circle.

Something is lit in her eyes at the sight of the High Lord of Spring. Linden seems to notice the change, as well, and his hands are now the ones fondling the string of his bow across his chest. But whatever it is in her eyes, it's strangely lax. With a quick upturn of her lips, she looks away and pads her way to the lone chair in the gap of their circle.

Even when she's seated, the Guardians and their High Lords have not eased. They all know that it's only a fool who lets their guard down in the presence of a wolf. Nostrus and Anahera make their way back to their own seats, settling into them stiffly, knowing they've brought this wolf into their home.

She is the first to speak.

"Thank you for having me."

Beron scoffs under his breath, his face turning away from the sight of her. Nazir's hood twitches next to him.

Nostrus resumes the head of the meeting. "We would all like to hear about this proposal of yours."

Seemingly mollified with his words, she smiles. Kazi's stomach turns at the sight.

"As most of you must remember, Hybern and Prythian once allowed for open trade across the borders. Unfortunately, those seaports were shut down 400 years ago." She frowns, as if it isn't wholly her fault trade was banned between their lands. "Hybern wishes to reopen trade with any of the courts who wish it. We've done some calculations, and we've decided even one court's interest in dealings would be worthwhile."

"And this couldn't have been done through letters?" Helion asks, an apprehensive curiosity bleeding into his velvet tone. "Forgive me, but your arrival gave us quite the fright. A message with your plans to visit would have been nice."

She ducks her head like a cloying lady. "We feared any letter sent east would be ill received and ignored so we took another approach. It was forward of us to attempt this journey without proper correspondence, but it's clear we had the right idea." She gestures around the room as if to say, see?

"And your king didn't think to send...someone else?" Helion continues. He rubs his jaw, wincing as he realizes how his words must sound. Kazi thinks he could have sounded more disgusted.

"I volunteered," she reveals, and the room is instantly putting up their walls again. If she notices, she does not say anything. "There are many things I...regret. Losing Clythia—" she looks genuinely grieved at the name of her sister. "Losing Clythia hurt, and I lashed out when I should have looked inside myself. But these years without her have brought me clarity. I wish to make amends with those I've hurt here in Prythian."

You can make amends with the dead after I stick my cinquedea in your neck, Kazi curses savagely.

"And your opinions on the humans?" Thesan asks. His eyes quickly flash up to Amarantha's before turning back down to Tsavani's hand in his. "Have those changed?"

"I may never be able to see them without seeing my sister—without seeing her desecrated body, but I can accept their free existence apart from our own."

Unfortunately, this answer seems to please not only Thesan but also Kallias, Nostrus, and Helion. They nod their heads in acceptance, and she beams with a delight that Kazi wants to burn off her face with fire.

It is clear where this meeting is headed, and Kazi does not wish to see it. She does not wish to hear the words that will invite this Witch to remain in Prythian. She wants to hear the ones that call for her execution, for her immediate removal. Anything that will get rid of her for good.

But those words do not come. The four who find her proposition reasonable are left to speak further, but the others cannot leave fast enough.

And Kazi feels that dagger press ever deeper into her chest. She feels it turn to ice and then to fire.

You are crushing mountains and crashing waves. You are swirling storms. She cannot and will not break you.

No, Kazi thinks, but she can chip away at me until there is nothing but dust.

NOTES ;

AM I COMPLETELY SATISFIED? NO
BUT I CAN'T JUST WORK ON THIS
FOREVER.

AMARANTHA'S DECEPTION HAS
ALWAYS BEEN SORT OF AN ENIGMA
TO ME. SHE WRONGED THEM...
TERRIBLY. AND THEY JUST LET HER
WALTZ BACK IN LIKE SHE OWNED THE
PLACE. THE ONLY EXPLANATION I
COULD REALLY FATHOM WAS THAT
SHE PUT ON THIS "I'VE CHANGED ACT"
AND PROMISED THEM GOODS IN A
TIME OF RECESSION. SO, YEAH

I HOPE THE MOTHER'S PERSPECTIVE
ISN'T TOO WEIRD OR CONFUSING.
I REALLY LIKE HER POINT OF VIEW.