01 THERE IS FIRE

—THERE is a male with hair of hearth fire, and he is screaming.

Lucien Vansera's knees are kissing the mosaic tiled floor below him, and they show no signs of stopping.

A female, the Witch, stands above him, her own hair a deep red wildfire and her eyes a piercing black. The whole of her right hand is soaked and dripping vile viscera down to the toes of her heels, and a small object is nestled delicately in the space between the nails of her pointer finger and thumb.

She inspects it closely with casual interest. All the while, Lucien continues to scream in agony at her feet. The sound is like music to her pointed ears.

"Please," he begs, and she decides this is the real music.

She's been longing for an outlet ever since that building came down around her days ago. She'd been lucky to escape that hidden Summer Court vault unscathed, but the threat on her life had been made and almost executed to completion. The anger still simmers beneath her skin as she thinks about how her 30 years of arduous work could have been all for naught.

"It was that large male, the one with wings of leather and the red stones," the Summer Court denizens had whispered around her as she snuck away, "from the Night Court. He must have been lost in his cups."

But the Witch knows better than to believe that nonsense. He'd been there, during her visit to the Night Court's palace only four years ago, clearly displeased by her presence. He'd also been there during the war; she can remember his legion well. Only a measly foot soldier then but leading his comrades as a general would.

It was no coincidence that he destroyed that building while she was snooping around inside it.

Her gaze falls back to her sticky fingers. She imagines for a moment that it is the Illyrian brute's hazel eye, and that it is his stocky body kneeling at her mercy instead of this fox. The thought brings her immeasurable joy.

"Please," he says again, disrupting the mirage. She rolls her eyes; begging is only pleasing for so long.

An emissary, she scoffs to herself, a clear offense from the High Lord of Spring. Well, she thinks, two can play at that game.

The russet irised eye rolls down her fingers and into her awaiting palm. Below her, Lucien looks up, his breath a heavy, strangled pant. His hands cover the gaping hole and mess of skin on the left side of his face, and blood is seeping through the crevices of the tanned and lanky fingers, pooling at his knees. The sight is ghastly, and she can't help but grin as she crushes her hand into a tight fist.

He whimpers now, horror painting the visible portion of his profile while he watches the remnants of his stolen eye ooze out of the cracks of her hand.

"Let this be a message to you and your High Lord, Emissary," she spits the title at him. "I will not tolerate insults."

She flicks her hand out and sends the debris of red and white into his already sullied lap. It is a clear dismissal, one he does not disobey. Lucien, despite the wreck he clearly is, is able to winnow away from her.

"Pathetic," the Witch mutters, and waves a hand through the air. The blood is swept away into water and the silencing shield she'd put up is lowered. She hates a tough cleanup, but if she needs to be messy to get what she wants...

Then so be it.

—KAZI wakes from one dream, only to find herself in another. This, it isn't real, her brain is quick to insist. No matter what her heart might say, what it might desperately want from her, it cannot be real. The truth is what she makes it, and she makes it so that this is the dream, and her reality starts outside the door.

It has always been this way, she thinks, and she knows it always will be.

The sky is still a soft purple when she slowly untangles herself from the warm body in her bed. Because this is just a dream, she lingers. Because this is just a dream, she allows her hand to journey that small distance between them to brush the hair that has fallen over his eyes back to the crown of his head. Because this is just a dream, she is careful not to touch his skin and wake him. Because whenever he wakes, the dream becomes a reality. And that cannot happen.

Her heart is heavy with dread as she floats about the room, as it always is in this second dream. Her heart dreads the moment she opens the door and exits the room. It dreads the moment her walls must come up. It dreads the reality. But dread is easy to ignore.

She opens the armoire and finds a midnight set of cotton trousers and a tighter full-sleeved shirt. On the nearby vanity, she grabs the leather cuirass and thigh harness she'd discarded the night before. Then, quietly, she moves to the adjacent bathing chamber.

The sound of every step in this room is smothered by the thump of her heartbeat. It always demands to be felt in this hazy dreamworld. It wants to be heard, wants to be listened to. But the heart does not command her.

She tightens the final strap of her day-to-day armor and waves a hand to send her night clothes to the wash basins a few floors down before entering the main chamber slowly.

This moment is her risk. This final moment in the room where she can simply bask in the twilight dream. It is a selfish moment that she cannot bring herself to forgo. But there are days where she takes too long to indulge in this feeling, or days he rises early. Those days are the risk.

This will not be one of those days.

The path to the door is both too long and too short. Both a stroll and a trudge. It is both a climb for the surface and a dive for the deep. She drowns in the sound of her seething pulse. The handle and hinges work quietly, for she learned long ago to muffle their sound with a nudge of magic.

Her heart is a raging monster when she takes the last step away from the second dream. But once she is across the threshold, there is only quiet.

The door clicks shut behind her, the need for silence gone now that she has woken up.

Inside, she hears the groan of a bed frame and the scrape of a taloned wing on the floor. Distantly, her heart tries to tell her something about it, something important, but it is simply white noise behind the surfacing thoughts.

Rhysand, Rhysand, Rhysand.

Kazi taps into that drumming connection, a buzz running up and down her spine where the swirls of her tattoo spans, and the answering tug at the base of her neck is strong: he is close, it says. Down the hall and to the right, she finds the dining room table occupied by the male she set out for. The fog in her mind clears away, satisfied with how she's found him.

"You're up early," she says, noting the sky beyond the gossamer curtains has barely turned a subdued pink as the sun crests the horizon.

His elbow rests upon the table, and he speaks behind a knuckle. "Up late," he corrects.

She sighs and waves a hand in his general direction. A steaming teacup and saucer clink down quietly next to his elbow. He blinks but does not take his gaze off the missive clutched in his other hand.

At first glance she thinks it is the same letter they received from Nostrus three decades ago that introduced the Witch back into their lives, but she recalls the way that letter turned to black fire and then to grey ash in Rhysand's palm. This one, as well, has a different seal than the wave insignia. The wax is a light grey, and that is all Kazi needs to know before she is striding over to read it over his shoulder.

She skims it. Once. Twice. Three times.

"We are not going," she says at once.

Lazily, he finally looks up from the letter. His temple rests on a fist he has propped up with an elbow on the table as he looks over his shoulder to her. The smile he gives her is lofty, and his timbre terribly sarcastic. "Now, Kazimyrah, I know the balls in the Court of Nightmares give you migraines, but this one might only give you a slight stomachache."

"You can't be serious," she deadpans. She's moved to the side of the table so he can see her best this-is-not-a-joking-matter expression. "The Middle Court? Does she think we're that simple?"

"No, but," Rhysand sighs and rolls his forehead into his palm. With his free hand, he drops one letter and picks up another, one she'd failed to notice in her heated adamancy to turn the invitation down. He slides it over to where she's standing, and she picks it up with trembling fingers.

This one she only needs to read once.

"Damn it, Cassian," she curses and flicks the letter onto the table as if it will grow a mouth and fangs and bite her should she hold it a second longer. It lands face-down with a faint crinkle on the cherry wood. "We shouldn't have let him on that spy mission."

"He would have convinced Az to let him tag along eventually," he exhales, defeated. "But now I've got Nostrus fighting for compensation over property destruction, an extra expense I really didn't plan for. And now this blackmail."

"The expense would probably seem like nothing if he had actually succeeded in killing her. He got so close," Kazi says quietly. "But she's like—like a cockroach."

In his exhaustion, Rhysand deliriously sputters into a boisterous laugh. Kazi, despite the letters and despite the tiredness in her own bones, huffs a laugh as well. It's easy, ignoring party invitations that are most definitely a cover-up and ignoring death threats when it is just them and the rising sun.

"What's so funny?" A rich voice made husky from a night of heavy sleep comes from the doorway. There's a far-off thump to Kazi's heart as her chuckles drop off.

She turns to face the archway just as Rhysand answers. "Just a silly appeal from Keir."

Kazi withholds a cringe, knowing his tiredness must be muddling his brain to concoct an excuse like that one. She gathers up the letter she carelessly tossed and the one in front of Rhysand, making sure to fold them away from snooping eyes. They are tucked away into a chink of her armor before an inky black tendril can reach out for it. She eyes the slithering rope until it retreats away to its awaiting family.

The Spymaster, analyst that he is, spots the lie and her deliberate motions immediately. "I don't think I've ever heard the words 'silly' and 'Keir' used in tandem before."

"Well, you should. He's silly, absolutely batty, if he thinks I'm going to cede more of the Hewn City to him." Rhysand takes a deep gulp of the tea Kazi conjured before pulling away to snicker uncontrollably. "Batty."

Above him, Kazi looks to the body at the door to find he is already looking at her, and she can't decipher anything from his expression.

"Is he drunk?" he asks.

She hadn't considered it before, but it's completely plausible that their High Lord got drunk after reading the damning letters and then hidden the evidence before her entrance. Her nose wrinkles as she sniffs the air around him. And there it is, the faint trace of ale. Classy, she thinks with an eye roll.

Her silence regarding the question is answer enough. The male sighs and shuffles closer, wings folding in tightly. She helps him to pull Rhysand from his seat before allowing him to fully take the weight over one shoulder.

"Just get him into bed," she says. "He'll be fine in a few hours." But nursing a major headache, no doubt.

"Excuse me, I make the orders around here," Rhysand interjects, and the Spymaster stops dutifully on their way to the exit. Their High Lord, while heavily inebriated, is still their High Lord. His head lolls to one shoulder to look Kazi in the eye. He attempts a suave wink, but only ends up blinking awkwardly. "And I am fine all the time. Now, take me to bed."

It is a fight not to laugh at his back as they leave the dining room. She's spent nearly 500 years dealing with Rhysand and the others in all their intoxication; this particular personality of his is a personal favorite.

An alarmed shout rises in the corridor. "Rhys, keep your clothes on!"

But it's also the biggest hassle to keep up with.

Kazi just hopes he finds his sober mind before the festivities commence tomorrow night. The last thing she needs is a hungover or completely tipsy High Lord challenging the Witch's honor amid an obvious coup. A trap they will be walking into with their eyes wide open, a trap they may not be able to prevent.

At the head of the table where Rhysand once sat, she rifles through the other correspondence. She will need to be the one to delegate the daily tasks now that he's put himself in a stupor.

A legitimate appeal from Keir concerning the status of Hewn City—her task, unfortunately. Three reports from Illyrian camps on different matters—Cassian's task. A band of naga and suriel spottings according to border patrol—the Spymaster. A furiously scribbled message from Scylla concerning her father, Lord Thanatos—her task again, unfortunately, because Mor had 'Scylla Duty' last week. Updates from the continent—Morrigan. And a note from Amren requesting a refill on her blood reserves—anyone but her.

She's separated the assignments into neat piles to be sent out, a separate pile arranged with new business for Rhysand to review later.

Morrigan's is sent to the townhouse where Kazi believes she spent the night. Cassian's goes to the House of Wind where he will undoubtedly stop in for a meal, now with the added note from Amren because he's still in the doghouse for what he did in the Summer Court.

Just as she is about to winnow down a few levels from the Night Palace to where Keir will hold his morning council, there's the gentlest of tugs at the gap in her armor. Her hand flies to intercept the sneaking touch, stopping the papers from escaping.

"Pickpocket is not a good look for you," she announces to the room, eyes searching for the culprit. She finds it in a wispy strand of darkness at her waist, and it dashes away at being caught.

From the gathering of shadows in the corner of the room, a tall form slowly comes into focus. The open-air window frames a stream of pink sunrise as it illuminates the planes of his body. He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, further accentuating the hard ridges and sharp angles.

"What is a good look for me, then?" There's a challenge in his voice; the same one she hears in the sparring ring. It dares her to make the first move when she knows it'll wind up costing her.

She does not rise to the bait. Instead, she picks up the small stack of dark faerie sightings and holds it out. "Spymaster looks good on you. These need to be taken care of before sundown tomorrow, can you do that?"

He takes a deep breath, eyes flashing with something she does not wish to think about. His foot kicks his back off the wall, and he walks forward to collect the papers. Quickly skimming them, his eyes narrow and glance down to the gap in her armor still covered with a hand. "Why the rush?"

Too observant for his own good, she curses.

"Can you do it?" she asks again.

"Yes," he says solidly after a moment. He wants to question her more, she knows, it's in his nature to interrogate. But diplomatic immunity saves her the effort of evading the questioning. "It'll be done by sundown tomorrow night. Anything else?"

There's that thing in his eyes again. It's a sliver of emotion that her heart is familiar with, but her heart is so far away from her in this moment.

"No, nothing else."

And the thing in his eyes disappears, along with the warmth in her chest.

The reality crumbles slightly when he finally turns away from her with a frown. It's unstoppable, the wave of sudden yearning to tell him that there is something else. His shoulders tense as she scrambles to grapple the walls back in place, as she tries to locate the weak link in her fortress. He is turning back to her when she finally identifies the fracture and repairs it as swiftly as possible.

He stops midturn, pausing briefly before continuing his way to the floor length window. He does not look back before sweeping the gossamer curtain aside and stepping off the ledge with a flap of his imposing wings.

It was in her gut, she realizes once he's gone, the slip-up.

She inspects the battering ram that was used to tear down her defenses, and it's a shock of fear that runs her through with an icy blade. A fear that she will not be seeing him for some time.

—THE sky is turning a warm and vibrant peach when Kazi ties a mask around her violet eyes.

Morrigan, a vision in emerald-green, ties a mask of similar make around Rhysand's head, a head now clear of hazy ale. His own hands are occupied with the cufflinks of his doublet. They work diligently together, but very quiet in comparison to their usual banter or pleasant conversation.

The female at Rhysand's back has seen the letters and has been sworn to secrecy over them.

Kazi has ensured the most valuable belongings she owns are on her person, strapped tightly to her thighs, three times when Mor finally opens her mouth to speak. It is not her voice that fills the room, but a voice with the might of rolling thunder.

"No, Mor."

She deflates but is ever insistent. "Let one of us go in your place. Please, you know she is planning something by bringing all the High Lords together."

"And chance having one of your eyes ripped out as Vanserra's was? Or worse? She has made it perfectly clear that she will accept no less than every High Lord present. I will not risk any of you in this way, so don't think of it anymore," he says firmly.

Kazi touches the edge of the mask that lines her left cheekbone, thinking of the grotesque scene that was described in Linden's letter to her a few days prior. She does not know much of the Emissary from the Spring Court, does not think ill or high of him. But to be assaulted so viciously, it turns her stomach in a way few things can.

The silence pulses as Mor finally relents. She gulps and begins brushing down Rhysand's sleeves and lapels. Kazi knows that the more things she finds to adjust or clean, the longer they'll stay with her. She straightens a button, tames a stray hair.

"I told him by sundown," she finally says in the quiet, not entirely sure why the portrait of a loving touch makes her think of him. Why it makes her look to the window in melancholy desperation.

Rhysand's eyes fall from the mirror to find the ground. "He came back earlier, while you were helping Scylla handle Thanatos. I...Kazimyrah, I sent him and Cassian to Velaris to check the patrols."

His gaze finally meets hers, and she can see something in them. She knows it's something because her heart is breaking in another world somewhere, in a dream. There's an ache blooming in the depths of her lungs, but it is so far underwater that chasing it means drowning.

"We'll be gone before they're done. They will need to be in the city when I bring the wards down. It is easier this way."

Distantly, she registers a shattering deep within her. "I see."

Mor looks to her then with eyes full of what she thinks is sorrowful understanding. She lets her hands fall from Rhysand's face and glides to Kazi's still form. And then those hands are in hers, squeezing tightly. "I will take care of them, of him...should things go wrong."

The words and what they mean, what they should mean to her, are something of a mystery to Kazi. But the pain in her chest subsides a small inch, enough to offer Mor a small smile.

The blonde female squeezes their palms together once more before sternly glancing over her shoulder to their High Lord. "Do not let things go wrong."

"I love this complete faith you have in me." Rhysand is able to wink appropriately this time, though it is clearly forced. He walks over to Kazi's side and gently pulls his cousin's hands away from hers. "We must be on our way. Don't want to miss the main event, do we? I expect you back in Velaris within the hour."

Mor rolls her misty eyes when she goes in to chastely kiss their cheeks in farewell. She steps back from them then, taking in their midnight black regalia. Kazi is about to ask her something, something about what she'd promised—but it is left hanging on her tongue as Rhysand wraps a hand securely around her stiff fingers and winnows them to the Court of Nightmares where their formally dressed embassy awaits them.

The grounding hand swiftly leaves her fingers cold, because showing that kind of familiar touch is a vulnerability they cannot afford in this company.

The High Lord gives an order that she ignores in favor of surveying the nobility. All of them, clear threats. When she is alone, dealing in the politics for the Court of Nightmares, she can overlook the obvious hatred. But it always sets her teeth on edge to be here with him, where he is in constant danger.

Everyone's shoulders tremble as his deadly voice reverberates around the room. Keir, who Kazi had the pleasure of conversing with the morning before, stands at the forefront of the mass. The look on his face is the same as it was yesterday, when she'd broken the news to him of Rhysand's answer to the 'silly' appeal, and then proceeded to tell him of the ball to take place only a day later. He'd asked her how in the hell he was supposed to gather everyone in time. She'd been grinning with fangs when she said figure it out.

She thinks this infuriated look is infinitely more amusing behind his feathered crow mask.

Rhysand does not take up her hand again for the next jump. She is grateful for it, knowing he would undoubtedly feel the shudder in her bones for what they are about to submit themselves to. He is gone in a swallow of darkness, and she takes a deep breath before winnowing herself to their destination, their destination so far from salvation, so far from home. So far from hope.

Kazi can feel it instantly, the impending doom. It begins in her tailbone and creeps up her spine to the nape of her neck.

Behind her, she can hear the faint footfalls of their people arriving in small groups. Those who can winnow aiding those who cannot; it is, perhaps, the only time they come together and do something with any kindness. In the foyer to the grand mountain, she allows them to gather and prepare for the entrance Rhysand is sure to organize. She walks forward to where he peeks in the ballroom between two grand doors.

She stiffens marginally at the glimpse she catches in the crevice. Pulling back, she takes a moment to spin on her heel and reevaluate the receiving area. It is almost an exact replica, she notices. The faerie lights suspended above ebony sconces, the marble statues of dark beasts made of night, the massive portraits of bloody battles. It is all an imitation of the Court of Nightmares.

Kazi returns to Rhysand's side. "I know," he says before she can mention anything about her findings. "I thought her interest in the mountain back home was strange, but it all makes sense now. She's been hard at work."

"She's defaced the Middle," Kazi hisses. "How can the High Lords stand in there, break bread with her, after this?"

His eyes are glazed over for a moment before he refocuses. "A lot of them are thinking about how another active court can work in their favor. Beron's thinking of how many legions he'll need to take her down and claim the Middle once she's gotten rid of the Weaver for him."

Kazi curls her lip in disdain, of course he is.

"They are getting antsy," he tells her, head nodding to the pack of hungry wolves behind them. She only wishes that unleashing them upon Amarantha would do any good.

"There is still time for you to go. I will stay, Rhys. An eye is no cost to me when I know you'll be safe," she says, and she means it in earnest. "My life is but a small price to pay for your protection."

And despite the swarm of Night Court denizens at their back, despite the appearances they must maintain before them, he smiles softly and brushes some loose hair behind her pointed ear. "My Myrah, your loyalty...it is a gift I do not deserve. But it is one I will cherish until I am just dust on the wind. For that, I simply cannot let you go it alone. I will not lose another sister to a monster."

It is impossible to ignore the rushing swell in her heart. Both the heartbreak and the love. The painful memories and the beautiful truths. A tear falls and disappears behind her mask as he pulls his hand away.

"Now, let's go hunt a Witch."

NOTES ;

SO IT RECENTLY CAME TO MY
ATTENTION THAT THE MOTHER'S
POINT OF VIEW WAS A LITTLE
HARD TO FOLLOW, WHICH I
TOTALLY UNDERSTAND. SO I'VE
GONE AND MADE SOME CHANGES
SO THAT IT'S MORE JUST ... THIRD
PERSON INSTEAD OF THE MOTHER.

SOME STUFF TO UNPACK HERE:

I HOPE YOU DON'T HATE
ME FOR PUTTING THAT SCENE WITH
LUCIEN IN, I JUST LOVE HIM.

ALSO!!! DID YOU SEE THAT I ACTUALLY
GAVE CASSIAN A VALID REASON FOR
DESTROYING A SUMMER COURT
BUILDING??? HE WAS *TRYING* TO
KILL AMARANTHA ON ONE OF
AZRIEL'S SPY MISSIONS. THIS IS A
LITTLE BIT OF CANON DIVERGENCE
SO IT WILL BE BROUGHT UP AGAIN
IN DIFFERENT WAYS THAN IT IS IN THE
BOOKS.

HMM...KAZI AND AZRIEL'S RELATIONSHIP?
IT'S A LITTLE CONFUSING, BUT IT'S
SUPPOSED TO BE. AS OF RIGHT NOW,
KAZI LIVES IN TWO DIFFERENT WORLDS.
THE ONE WHERE SHE CAN BE WITH AZRIEL
AND THE ONE WHERE SHE CAN DO HER DUTY
SHE BELIEVES THAT SHE CANNOT LIVE
IN BOTH AT THE SAME TIME SO ONE IS
JUST A "DREAM" TO HER. WE CAN SEE
HERE THAT AZRIEL SORT OF UNDERSTANDS
THIS, THOUGH HE TRIES TO FIGHT IT
A LITTLE..

SIGH, DRUNK RHYSAND. ENOUGH SAID

AS FOR THE MOUNTAIN THING, I THINK
YOU GUYS GET THE GIST. MY PREVIOUS
EDITION OF THIS BOOK, I HAD THE WHOLE
SCENE WHERE THEY ARE ACTUALLY
PLACED UNDER HER SPELL, BUT THAT WILL
NOT BE IN THIS BOOK. WE'RE JUST GOING
TO ASSUME SHE TRAPS THEM INSIDE
SOMEHOW

ALSO SCYLLA WILL BE THANATOS'S
UNNAMED DAUGHTER IN THIS. JUST FYI.
IDK I JUST WANTED TO HAVE ANOTHER
CHARACTER TO PLAY WITH LOL