Chapter 11 — Azriel - A Court of Splintered Harmony

Hybern wanted a meeting with them—an alliance, if that strange creature was to be believed. It was likely a trap.

Azriel had decided, while staring at the sea-foam remains drifting on the Sidra’s surface, that he wouldn’t tell Rhys or Feyre until after Nyx’s Naming Day tomorrow. The day after, probably, so they had time to properly enjoy the occasion.

Hybern—the orchestrator of so much of their suffering and loss. It was almost laughable.

But Az tucked the thought away. Cassian had requested that he accompany him to Windhaven, and though Rhys might have yanked him off duty in the human lands, perhaps rightly so, Az could at least help his other brother, unpleasant as this task might be.

Windhaven had barely changed in the five hundred years that Azriel had known it.

There was absolutely nothing special about it—not its location, not its simple wooden buildings, not its miserable people. When he’d first arrived all those centuries ago, his mother shaking and weeping with relief and terror, it had been little more than a settlement whose main purpose was to train Illyrian whelps into bloodthirsty warriors and to offer a place to spend the night while out on their extensive patrols of Night Court territory.

Since then, tents had been replaced by buildings, but even now, it retained something of a backwater feel. It was always muddy, for one. Even in the depths of the bitter winter, somehow it always felt muddy.

And small. Though Windhaven had definitely expanded as its population settled permanently, built families, and grew, there was nothing resembling a good life here. The birchins were as close to community gathering places as it got. There were no restaurants. Not even a tavern.

The only approximation of real ale was the ceremonial mead they imbibed on various holidays, which was almost undrinkable.

Azriel was so in need of something to blunt the edge off the morning’s encounter that he was half-tempted to seek out one of the females who fed the various warriors to beg them for a cup. A bucket. But all the females were occupied making their Autumn Equinox feasts for tomorrow—if one could even call spreads of unseasoned stews and hard bread feasts.

No sign of Cassian, but he’d expected that. He’s arguing with Devlon, his shadows whispered. He doesn’t need you yet for backup, but he will soon.

In the meantime, Az walked along what served as the main street of the village—street here being closer to a muddy path—and toward the one shop that might have something somewhat edible. Or drinkable.

His shadows held fast to his feet and shoulders. He didn’t miss the fact that all the children of the village had suddenly been called inside by their mothers. That had always been the case here.

Monster. Demon. Even five centuries later, they still feared Az in a primal way that set his teeth on edge. He knew that was why Cassian had requested his presence here—to use that fear to their advantage in manipulating these backward assholes into doing what Rhys needed. If they didn’t recognize him on sight, then spying Truth-Teller at his side or the array of blue Siphons told them precisely who stalked through their midst.

The bell above Emerie’s door jangled merrily, perhaps the only joyful sound between here and Velaris. The female herself stood behind the counter, scribbling in a ledger. She glanced up with a frank, swift assessment, eyes darting once to his shadows at his shoulders. “I thought the Naming Day was tomorrow—on the Equinox.”

Az gave her a half shrug that sent his shadows scattering. “It is. I’m here to help Cassian. I just couldn’t stand being out there for much longer.”

“It’s a cold day.” Emerie returned to her accounts. That wasn’t what he’d meant, but Az didn’t correct her. “There’s rabbit stew in the back,” she said without looking up. “Help yourself.”

“I’m good, thank you.” Maybe asking for a glass of mead or a bottle of Rhys’s wine—she’d acquired a collection thanks to Nesta—would be strange. It was only eleven in the morning, after all.

“Then make yourself comfortable wherever.” The Valkyrie’s dark hair gleamed in the light streaming through the glass window. The glass itself was a luxury—a novelty here, even.

Az did as he was told, shadows settling around his boots as he claimed a chair by a display of heavy, dark wool capes. Plain, simple garments. No patterns, no color. The way people here liked things.

“Business is . . . good?” he asked into the silence. He was usually fine with silence—preferred it. But he’d trained Emerie, had become friendly with her. And after all the hardship she’d endured at the hands of the Illyrians, he could offer her basic kind words.

Emerie grunted. She’d never been shy around him—certainly never nervous, not like others in Windhaven. “Busy enough that I’m almost considering giving my hateful uncle this shop just to get a good night’s rest without wondering if I’ve done the accounts wrong.”

Azriel snorted. But he angled his head as her words sank in, his wings shifting. “Has he been giving you any trouble?”

“No. Rumor has it he went mad with grief after his son was killed during the Rite. Crumpled into a ball and won’t get out of bed for anything except a piss and a meal.”

Az nodded, unsure what to say. He’d seen via Rhys a compilation of the events of the most recent Blood Rite, all told through the eyes of Nesta, Gwyn, and Emerie. The trials they had endured had been beyond even the normal depravity of the Rite.

Az took in the female at the counter. Technically, she was the first female Illyrian to have ever won the Blood Rite. The first Illyrian female to ever even compete in it. And considering that only six males had ever won the entire thing before—reaching the monolith at Ramiel’s peak—that was saying something.

But then Emerie had returned here and resumed her work as if she’d never left. Guessing that she might have untapped magic, Rhys had offered her the chance to draw a Siphon from the sacred flames, just like any other Illyrian who’d completed the Rite, but she’d refused, and hadn’t mentioned it since. Az had seen her at training before he’d stopped going after Bryce Quinlan’s arrival, but it seemed that now Emerie had slipped right back into the life she’d had before the Rite.

Perhaps it was a form of self-preservation. To show this village she wasn’t anything special, anything worth fretting about. No, it wasn’t a big deal at all that she’d won the Blood Rite. She wasn’t going to talk about it, and certainly wasn’t going to start pulling females away from their so-called traditional duties to join her in Valkyriehood.

Because she, like Az, knew the alternative. She would have been run out of Windhaven—if she were lucky enough to leave alive at all. And to lose this shop after she’d fought so hard for it would have been devastating.

He didn’t blame her for it, but he loathed that this was the choice she’d been left to make. Rhys was wasting his time with these assholes. If someone like Emerie couldn’t get them to change their ways, get them to see the value each and every female innately possessed beyond childbearing, if Emerie had returned here after winning the damned Blood Rite and still had to make herself smaller to survive . . . then they’d never change.

“Is this all right?” she asked suddenly, and Az realized he’d been staring at a display of candles for long minutes. She went on, “I thought I’d try it on today to make sure it still fits before tomorrow.”

He glanced over, shadows peering, too, to see her motion to her simple dark blue dress, cut elegantly to her slender frame.

“I don’t own anything fancy like the rest of you, but this one at least doesn’t have any stains—”

“It’s perfect,” he said, giving her a slight smile.

She smiled back, a bit self-consciously. “I know how the rest of you lot dress.”

Nervous, his shadows informed him. Excited, but nervous. He asked, pushing aside his fury at their people, “When was the last time you were in Velaris? Not for training, but out in the city itself.”

“Nesta and Cassian’s mating ceremony.” She winced. “So . . . a while. And I haven’t been to training in nearly a month.”

“Work has kept you away?”

“Sure,” she said, and he knew from that tone not to push it. It was odd enough that Emerie was willing to leave Illyrian territory—most females here never left the borders of Illyria.

She was holding her wings up now, though even from here, Az could see the asymmetry of their heights. It had evened out during those months training with the Valkyries, as her core and back muscles grew stronger, but with so much time since then without exercises, it had gotten worse again.

It was a good thing her father was dead. Azriel would have killed him himself if he wasn’t. The male had been a piece of shit. All these people here, in all of Illyria, were pieces of shit.

He got to his feet, shadows trailing, unable to sit a moment longer with the thought forming in his head. “I should check on Cassian,” he lied, then added, “I’ll be back tomorrow morning to pick you up.”

She lifted a hand in farewell, focused on her ledger. She clearly didn’t think twice about having a shadowsinger in her shop, and he took a small amount of comfort from it.

He’d nearly made it to the door when she said, “Azriel—your sheath. The strap’s fraying.”

His hand went to Truth-Teller, since the only other weapon he wore was his Illyrian blade, whose sheath was built into the back of his armor. Indeed, the ancient leather near the buckle had thinned. When had that happened?

“I can order a replacement,” Emerie offered, returning to her ledger. “It wouldn’t arrive until Samhain, though. The vendor I use is skilled, but slow.”

Az didn’t touch the sheath, or the dark-hilted blade within. More than five centuries ago, he’d returned from the Blood Rite to this very village bearing this knife. That day of triumph, when he and his brothers had so stupidly thought they’d proved their worth to the Illyrian assholes who’d tormented them for years, had turned into one of confusion. Shame. But first they’d won, touching the monolith atop Ramiel before sunrise on the final day of the Rite.

When they’d emerged into Windhaven, Az had found the knife, with its strange black hilt and matching blade, in his hand. It hadn’t seemed Made, hadn’t even pulsed with magic, but it was different. He could feel it. The other Illyrians could, too, demanding to know what it was, where he got it, when weapons were banned from the Rite.

He shouldn’t have been surprised by their loathing and fear when he explained that it had appeared in his hand when he touched the monolith, as if Ramiel itself had gifted it to him. And then, later, when it had become clear that both he and Cassian would require Siphons to handle their power, when Az had reached into the vat of sacred flames to draw out his Siphon, and instead had been appointed by the Mother to draw seven blue stones . . . Az blocked out the memory of the Illyrians’ pure hatred for him—he’d already thought of it too much in recent days.

He’d borne several sheaths through the centuries. This one, black leather so worn it had paled in spots, had lasted the longest.

“It’s fine,” he found himself saying. Like hell would he give the knife a new sheath, like a reward for its treachery. “Thank you, though.”

Emerie didn’t respond, and he swiftly exited.

The bitter wind slapped his face as he stepped onto the muddy track. To his left lay the heart of the village, where Cassian was explaining the new patrol routes to Devlon for the tenth time, as the warriors yesterday seemed to have forgotten what east and west meant. And to his right was a pine forest. Empty. Frigid as hell, but no one would be out amongst the trees.

The average Illyrian warrior avoided being under the canopy, as it inhibited flight, but they valued the groves of pines, birches, and aspens in Illyria for firewood and housing. It was as close to true farming as the Illyrians came, beyond the few plots and fields they tended for personal gardens: planting groves to replace ones they’d depleted, carefully selecting where and when to harvest the trees so they didn’t run out.

Even their small Autumn Equinox celebrations centered more on the trees than the bounties of the field. At Equinox sunrise, one great, old tree would be felled, its wood distributed to each family’s hearth for a sacred burning; at sunset, a sapling would be planted nearby, each family now spilling a ladle of water onto it to help it grow—and for luck.

Rhys had always said it was the Illyrians’ way of depicting the balance of life that the Equinox demanded they honor, but Az couldn’t help but note that of course their rituals involved the needless killing of a living thing.

But no matter the holiday tradition, the year-round forestry of the Illyrians at least left Azriel with plenty of quiet, empty places to roam. Even his shadows now gleefully scattered through the trees like hunting dogs bounding off into the wild. A sweet-fresh scent wrapped around him as he navigated the bone-dry carpet of pine needles, scraggly twigs snapping underneath his boots.

He’d walked this path so many times that he couldn’t help but wonder if its slender track was only because of him. Even after finding Cassian and Rhys, he’d needed the space, the time alone. He knew every rock, though the trees had changed quite a bit, and the streams had changed course more than a couple times over the centuries. But the smells, the air . . . they were familiar.

Familiar, but not beloved. This place—these people—would never be beloved by him.

Some days, most days, he loathed the warrior tattoos on him. Rhys and Cassian wore them proudly, but from the moment Azriel had them inked after the Blood Rite, he’d wanted them gone. Cass and Rhys had seen them as a mark of victory, of their triumph over all the shit they’d been put through for being different, for being better than the rest of these assholes—but for Az, they somehow felt like a brand.

He’d tried in battles and brawls to have his skin shredded apart. Had he even deliberately taken a lance to the shoulder once, hoping it would destroy the tattoos. But they were inked with magic—that same strange magic that granted the most powerful Illyrians the ability to wield the Siphons, that kept the eternal fire burning atop that brazier year-round. That cut off their powers during the Blood Rite. So every time his skin was ripped apart, the tattoos healed along with the flesh.

He could have found some enchantress or mage to undo the magic, maybe even consulted that swaggering peacock Helion, but explaining to Rhys and Cass why he wanted them gone felt impossible. They’d be wounded by it, he knew.

Not that Rhys had given a shit about wounding him in the kitchens with Elain.

Az rolled his shoulders as the light between the trees brightened and the forest ended.

It might have gone on forever had the cliff not stopped it. The vantage from its edge revealed mountains, valleys, and hills crusted in miles and miles of conifers, interrupted only by gray stones and the occasional splatter of green meadow.

And far off, breaking like a shark’s fin on the horizon . . . Ramiel. Already, its barren gray sides were covered in snow. Even from so far away, the mountain seemed to stare back.

He’d beaten that mountain. Just as he’d beaten all the miserable warrior-assholes in Illyria.

He dragged a scarred hand through his hair, the silken strands catching on some of the rougher patches. As he lowered it back to his side, sunlight touched on his Siphon. He frowned down at the stone. It flickered with blue fire.

If there was any way to get rid of his seven Siphons, to toss them right back into the fire in that sacred vat, he would have trashed them along with his tattoos. Along with his shadows. His wings. And along with any trace of this place and these people lingering on his body and in his blood.

Sometimes he thought the hate might suffocate him. Being here, amongst these warriors, seeing what had been done to Emerie and so many other females . . . he could hardly stand it.

But war was coming—again. And whether he liked it or not, whether he hated these people or not, they’d need the Illyrians to fight. He’d need to work with them. Lead them, albeit under Cassian’s command.

He supposed the only good thing about heading into battle with them was watching so many of them die. Fewer spiteful, backward males to return here to produce more offspring exactly like them.

Azriel had never told Rhys or Cassian that awful thought. That during the Hybern War, he’d sometimes been glad to see the Illyrians piled dead around him, shredded to bits or screaming in pain. He’d disliked the reduction of fighters in their forces, of course, but he’d felt nothing when they lay dead or dying. Only a sort of contentment.

Satisfaction.

He was a monster. He held Ramiel’s ancient stare, knowing the mountain believed this of him, too.

But wasn’t dying on the battlefield what these people wanted? Their greatest honor was to fall in combat. To die when they were old and happy and surrounded by loved ones was an affront. What sort of people wished for that? Lived like that?

He’d never understood it. Not even as a warrior in training.

Certainly not after that training was done, when he’d seen firsthand how violent, how ruthless these people could be. The first shadowsinger in a generation had to be strictly instructed, they said. Rhys’s father had insisted on it. Devlon had seen it out.

It was a different sort of training from what he’d done most days with Rhys and Cassian. They’d received similar training in time—how to carve a person apart without killing them, how to inflict pain in such precise movements that enemies broke with little effort—but for him, the education had begun far, far earlier. Younger.

“Enemies” had been provided by Devlon on a weekly basis to learn on. Over and over. He and his shadows had pulled people apart—learning to read them, to block out their shrieks and pleas.

He’d been good at it. Too good at it. Sometimes even Devlon had needed to leave before it was done.

It didn’t matter that sometimes the screams of those people bound to tables or chairs or hanging from rafters had reminded Az of his own when his hands had been melted by his half brothers. He’d decided already: he’d do whatever was necessary to keep his mother and himself from returning to that fortress.

And he’d learn everything he could so that when he did return, he’d make them all pay for every second of suffering.

You did make them pay, Ramiel seemed to whisper from across the horizon. And you don’t regret it, do you?

He didn’t feel the biting breeze on his face. No, he didn’t regret it. He’d do it again if he could.

Monster. Demon.

Yes, he told the mountain. Yes, I am. You and your people made me this way. You gifted me the knife at my side the day I became a warrior—you wanted me to be this way.

Distant clouds drifted by, veiling Ramiel from view. As if the mountain couldn’t bear to behold him for another moment.

It could go commiserate with Rhys, then.

Az turned his back on the holy mountain, striding once more into the trees. He never knew why he bothered to make the walk to this vantage point. Why he’d done it so many times throughout the centuries. It had always ended the same: turning his back on Ramiel in disgust and loathing.

He couldn’t help but feel that the mountain had turned its back on him, too.

Mor or Feyre would probably have suggested that he kept coming here because of the inherent mystery of the mountain: Who had put the monolith atop it? What lay beneath it? No one had ever been inside.

But if Az was being honest, he had a feeling the mountain was empty. Hollow.

That was why he was drawn to it. Because Ramiel was just like him: hateful and empty and cold.

“It’s remarkable how much more you’ve rebuilt since we last visited,” I observed to Tarquin as we stood on the grand veranda off his formal dining room. His pale castle rose behind us; the turquoise bay glistened ahead. Adriata hummed with life on its far shore. Connected by a causeway to the mainland, the High Lord of Summer’s castle sat on its own mountainous isle in the heart of the bay, its lower hills encrusted with the estates of the nobility.

Tarquin, resplendent in cobalt robes trimmed with gold, his moon-white hair shorn close to his brown-skinned head, smiled gently. “Another year and I believe we’ll have the city fully returned to its former splendor.”

Before Amarantha, then Hybern, had wrecked and plundered much of it.

In the harbor, ships of various sizes came and went, white sails dazzling against the crushing blue. “That large ship by the harbor exit—with the double sails,” Tarquin said, directing my eyes westward. “A young shipwright managed to build that. It’s a self-sailing ship. It only requires a crew of two. A ship that big, able to be crewed by magic itself. We thought the art lost thanks to Amarantha. She burned all of them early on—butchered the shipwrights who knew how to craft them, too. No doubt to keep any of us from sailing off.” A sad, bitter sigh. “But this young male traveled to the Day Court, worked with Helion’s librarians, and uncovered some of the earliest methods our ancestors used to create them. Amarantha burned a good portion of those books, but this male and the librarians found what precious little had survived in Helion’s libraries.”

The ship soared over the waves, swift and steady, between the two mountains flanking the harbor mouth. “He had scribes make copies of the plans and the spell work they could piece together,” Tarquin continued. “Then he brought it all back here, and has been working on it for more than a year now, filling in the gaps of knowledge with his own experimentation and guesswork. You’re seeing him and his crew heading out on their third trial run.” His smile became strained. “They have another two being built as we speak. I hope they get the chance to sail them.”

I understood him completely.

Behind us, Rhys stood inside the dining room, conversing in that charming way of his with Varian’s sister, Cresseida. There was no sign of the male himself. I ignored the tinge of relief at the thought of not having to face my friend’s lover, who’d certainly heard of our ugly argument already. An opulent lunch of fresh shellfish and the first catch of the day had already been prepared, along with sparkling pale wine from the northernmost reaches of the Summer Court.

This was a careful dance, one whose steps Rhys and I had discussed at length. Tarquin seemed well aware of that as he murmured, “Can we stop pretending that this is just a friendly visit?”

I couldn’t stop my half smile. “It is meant to be friendly, you know.”

The handsome High Lord chuckled. “I’m sure that’s your intention, but only the gravest of matters would take you away from home, and certainly take you away the day before your son’s Naming Day ceremony. How is Nyx?”

He was right. Another hour and my breasts would be achingly full with milk. I’d brought bottles for any hand-expressing I had to do, but if we didn’t get home until late, I wouldn’t get to kiss that sweet-smelling, soft little head before he went to sleep. I wouldn’t get to hold him against my body, let him drink himself into a contented stupor, and—

I shoved away the unbearable ache. The strange blend of terror and sorrow and absolute pain. I forced myself to look at my old friend and truly smile, saying, “He’s fine, thank you. And thank you for the gift.”

Tarquin nodded, eyes shining. I squared my shoulders, pushing aside thoughts of my son. “It’s because of our friendship and our gratitude for your presence in our lives, Tarquin, that we wanted to talk to you.”

Some of the brightness dimmed from his eyes. And there—I beheld the burden curving his broad shoulders. The disappointment tightening his mouth.

My heart sank. “You won’t stand with us?”

Tarquin’s throat bobbed. “When you look at me like that, Feyre Cursebreaker, you make it an impossible decision indeed.”

“What changed? You were our ally against Hybern.”

Tarquin gazed across the glittering bay, to the ships and the city beyond. “Yes, but Hybern wanted to take our lands. Hybern attacked this city.” The sweet, salty breeze ruffled the folds of his regal robes, but he remained perfectly still as he said, “The dangers on the continent do not and will not affect us.” His eyes slid to mine, full of regret—and fear. “You are asking me to send my soldiers to their deaths for a war we cannot win, for land we have no ties to. You ask me to devastate their families on the principle of doing what you deem right.”

I couldn’t stop myself from straightening to my full height. And couldn’t stop the sharpness in my tone as I demanded, “And you don’t deem it right that we should help the humans protect their lands and ability to self-govern?”

Pity washed through his eyes. “I think the humans of the continent are a people we know little about; who are well aware of what is marching their way, and yet have not asked for aid.”

“What does that mean?”

Tarquin again contemplated his lovely, vibrant city. “The humans have certainly heard of the war we waged here against Hybern two years ago. To defend the humans in this land, to stop Hybern’s spread beyond it. The humans on the continent know Prythian to be sympathetic, and willing to die for their sake. Yet no emissaries have come to ask for our assistance against this invasion. Why?”

That is a very good question, Rhys said into my mind.

How are you listening to me and talking to Cresseida at the same time?

I’m the most talented, delightful, charming High Lord to ever exist, remember?

I gave him a filthy gesture across the bridge between our minds. Night-kissed laughter floated my way.

I tried again with Tarquin, my mate’s teasing bolstering my spirits. “Believe me, I have every reason not to go to war, not to face this, to sit in Prythian with my son and hide from the world, comfortable in my luxuries. But how could I face Nyx when he’s older and say, We’d done enough already and it was someone else’s turn?”

From the corner of my eye, I caught Cresseida turning from Rhys to stalk our way, her coral-pink dress flowing behind her. She cut in before Tarquin could answer, “If this conflict is as dire as you suspect, then I will be glad to avoid it and live long enough to have my future children ask me those difficult questions.” Tempests capable of shattering rock lay in her eyes.

Tarquin didn’t contradict her. Didn’t nod, but didn’t argue, either.

I shook my head, unable to help my disgust, but Rhys said calmly, utterly unruffled as he trailed after Cresseida, “In order to attain allies of our own beyond Prythian—allies that might make Rask, Montesere, and Vallahan back down—we need a united Prythian first. A Prythian that, at least to our enemies and would-be allies, appears united in one goal, and ready to march together.”

“And if we unite,” Tarquin said, leaning back against the stone railing of the balcony with a casualness that belied his words, “only for these enemies to call our bluff and march south anyway, will we follow through and lead our people to the slaughterhouse to save some far-off land, to rescue humans who loathe us?” The wind buffeted his blue robes into a living wave around him. “This would be a very different war from the conflict with Hybern, my friend. And very different from the war five centuries ago.”

I knew that phrase—my friend—would go right to Rhys’s heart.

My mate said nothing. His face revealed nothing, either.

Tarquin continued, the sunlight bouncing off his white hair in a near-halo, “During that war, at least, the humans on the continent were used to our kind. They could tolerate us, even saw some of us as allies and family. Now they’ve had more than five hundred years to forget about us. To hate us. Their willingness to accept and trust our help might be hard to come by.”

Rhys slid his hands into his pockets. “I suspect that when the hordes of Rask, Vallahan, and Montesere are laying siege to their walled cities, they’ll happily accept any help they can get.”

Tarquin said nothing.

I couldn’t quite believe it. That my brave, honorable, good friend—for that was what Tarquin had always been—was speaking these words.

Had Amren known? Was it why she had pushed for Fomoria instead of this? Angry as I might be with her, I didn’t think she would have withheld that information. Had Varian known and kept it from her—had he avoided being here today so he could deny it? Amren being Amren, she’d have sensed something amiss, but she wouldn’t have had proof of their intentions.

“What do we owe these strangers?” Cresseida demanded of my mate, utterly unfazed by the dark, foreboding figure he cut. “The humans of Prythian, those who dwelled in our shadow and suffered for it, they are our neighbors, and we owed it to them to fight for their safety and freedom against Hybern. But the humans on the continent are across an ocean. And even if we did go, the entirety of Prythian’s armies couldn’t take on all three territories’ forces. And who is to say these so-called allies you seek beyond our borders would even join us in that battle? Would we still march into war even without them, just to prove our honor?” The princess gave Rhys, then me a disdainful glance. “We would die in order to feel morally superior.”

I glared right back at her. Might have flashed my teeth a bit.

Silence fell, taut and resentful.

They aren’t wrong, Rhys said mind to mind. I can understand their reasoning, even if I don’t agree with it. I didn’t answer.

I had to try again—we had until tonight, and perhaps if I got Tarquin alone, out of Cresseida’s earshot, he might listen to reason, might act with courage and mercy—

“Milady Feyre,” Tarquin said, and I knew he’d guessed my intentions. His tone gentled, again laced with that terrible pity. “If this was a cause we could win, a cause where we had all the information at hand, yes—I would fight to the death alongside you. But we have only assumptions and hopes to rely on. I cannot march my people into certain death on rumor. Can you, my friends?”

That phrase again. And for a moment, admiring Tarquin’s open, beautiful face . . . I wasn’t sure if I really could live with it. With any of what I’d come here to ask him to do. To lead his people to a distant land to face a death-lord whose threat we had not yet fully confirmed, to fight a war we’d surely lose—though at least we’d lose with moral righteousness on our side. Could I face my son when he was older, if I even lived through this war, and explain that we’d marched our friends to a sure death just to feel good about ourselves? Was it any worse than explaining why we hadn’t gone at all?

Tarquin’s eyes softened, and he offered his arm to escort me into the dining room. Like he knew this part of the discussion was over and done with.

I took his arm out of politeness, the muscle beneath his sleeve as unyielding as the sea all around us. “There is too much that we don’t know, Feyre, to risk jumping into a war that all my generals tell me we cannot hope to win,” Tarquin said with that pitying gentleness. A numbness settled over me, heavy and unending. I barely heard him as he concluded, “And as much as I admire your principles, I’m not sure we will ever agree on this matter.”