Chapter 7 — Azriel - A Court of Splintered Harmony

The sun had barely crested above the horizon when Az summoned Nuala and Cerridwen to the river house. He hadn’t slept in the long hours since Rhys had found him and Elain. But he hadn’t dared venture to that bedroom down the hall, to where he knew Elain was probably awake as well. The Mother knew how he’d find the words to speak to her—even be in the same room as her—after last night. His shadows, of course, would be of no use where she was concerned. They currently lounged at his feet, as if dozing.

Worse than Elain . . . the Mother knew how he’d deal with Rhys. He didn’t feel like seeing his brother for a damn long while.

But he still had duties to perform. Obligations to this court and the people he loved.

Seated on the couch before the unlit fire, tethering his Siphons to his scarred hands once more, he found himself staring into the depths of the ocean-blue stone atop his right hand. Its cabochon-cut surface, smooth and flawless, seemed to mock the scarred mess of his skin. And gazing at the stone now, one of the seven he wore, he could almost see himself, still bruised and battered and half-alive after the Blood Rite, reaching into the ancient brazier of flames—a nod to the Cauldron—from which all initiated warriors attempted to draw stones. Only those Illyrians who possessed powerful magic would ever be able to summon a Siphon from the flames.

As it was every year, it had been carried by seven warriors from its sacred resting place in the Illyrian Steppes all the way to Windhaven, the closest war-camp to Ramiel, for the occasion. Illyrians from across the territory had come to witness who emerged alive from the Blood Rite, and who didn’t; who had made it to the foot of the mountain itself, and who had the strength left to begin its climb. And who might have miraculously, impossibly, scaled its summit. The answer to that last one was usually no one. But Az, Rhys, and Cassian had done it. Together. Against all odds, they’d done it. And now only this final step of the Rite remained.

He’d known that attempting to draw a stone from the inferno forever burning in that holy brazier required reaching into the flames with his bare hands. He had prepared himself, talked himself through it over and over. Watched countless newly minted warriors reach into those flames seeking to pull out a stone, skin unscathed thanks to its sacred magic. Once a powerful novice had completed the Blood Rite, whatever magic flowed through Illyria allowed the male—now a true warrior—to grab their Siphon at last.

And yet Azriel had hesitated. It didn’t matter what he told himself, how much his mind screamed at his body to move, to put his hand into the flames. For a moment, he was still in that keep, still listening to his half brothers laughing as he screamed, as his flesh melted—

Rhys had known. Somehow, in that way Rhys had always been able to read him, despite their physical and mental exhaustion threatening to send them all into unconsciousness, Rhys knew. Az’s brother had said into his mind, We’re here.

Rhys was at one side, Cassian at his other. His brothers, his true brothers, were with him. So Az had at last reached into the flames.

One stone was usually enough to control any power in an Illyrian’s veins, sloppy and dangerous otherwise. Illyrian lore didn’t say anything about why the Mother had built the Illyrians that way. Maybe it had just been a curse. That wouldn’t have surprised him at all.

Az had closed his hand around the first stone, that flame licking harmlessly up his bloodied forearm, and known it wasn’t enough. Someone had gasped—in horror, in disgust—when he’d reached in to draw a second.

More his magic had ordered. So he drew a third.

The dismayed crowd of Illyrians had started stirring. Demon, someone had whispered. The word he’d heard his entire life. Nothing had improved since arriving at Windhaven a decade ago. Their fear of him had only grown as he’d gone deeper into his shadowsinger training, surpassing even what Devlon—who had trained the last one centuries ago—could teach him as he’d learned to spy, to kill, to carve up.

A fourth stone, then a fifth. A sixth.

By the time he drew the seventh from the flames, the females had left, clutching their children to them as they fled Windhaven. Only the males, hard-faced, seething, remained. But there was nothing they could do. Nothing anyone could do. Illyrians, pieces of shit that they were, were so blindly faithful to their traditions that they could not deny him this. Everything else, yes, but this—never.

That the stones were all the same hue of blue, a cobalt bordering on turquoise, made no difference. But it was odd—and remained something he’d never puzzled out, even now.

He turned his hand this way and that, watching the faint light catch within the stone, setting it aglow like the Sidra under the sun. Whatever shock the Illyrians had felt when Az drew his seven stones was nothing compared to their outrage when Cassian, a bastard-born brute, had drawn seven red stones a moment later. Each of the stones so vibrant it was as if Cassian had drawn out the very heart of the flame itself. Cassian had been grinning with each stone, daring the other males to try to stop him.

Az had glared at them all, already planning how he’d use the Siphons now weighing down his pockets to destroy each and every one of them. By the time Cassian was done, Az had decided he’d start with his sire and half brothers.

He followed through on that decision not a decade later.

Az lowered his hand into his lap, shutting out the memory. Not from disgust—quite the opposite. Which he supposed made him as much of a piece of shit as the Illyrians he’d unleashed vengeance upon so many centuries ago.

It required a mere thought before Nuala and Cerridwen were standing before him. The half-wraith twin sisters were both yawning, both clad in their usual black-on-black silk blouses and pants, similar to the style Amren preferred. Az’s shadows stirred, swirling like small eddies in welcome, and then settled back at his feet.

“Late night?” he asked the twins by way of greeting. He never had to bother with pleasantries with them—never had to suffer through small talk.

Cerridwen, the more impertinent and wilder of the two, stretched her night-dark arms over her head, tendrils of shadow pouring off her. The twins occupied a strange space between—between full form and mist, between living and . . . whatever it was wraiths did. When he’d found them centuries ago, they were making a living running messages for a petty crime lord in one of the backwater towns beyond the Illyrian Steppes. Training them had been almost disturbingly easy. Even now, they barely spoke of their life before he’d taken them under his wing. Literally, he supposed.

He knew better than to ask—the Mother knew he never wanted to talk about his own past. Certainly not when someone pried.

“It seems like you had a late night,” Cerridwen observed, earning a sharp look from Nuala.

There was no hiding anything from them. Especially since they’d taken to spending time with Elain, helping her bake. He’d found it charming at first, but now . . . it gave them too much access, too much information about his own business. They certainly knew what was happening—the twins were too clever not to have noticed and understood Elain’s reaction any time he’d come up in conversation amongst them.

“If you heard about it,” Azriel reprimanded, “then I don’t need to explain what happened.” Cerridwen’s amusement faded.

One of his shadows stirred, then went still again.

Nuala, shier but more merciless, simply said, “We already have our things packed for Montesere and Rask.” From the shadows behind her, a dark pack appeared, weapons glinting from the top. She shouldered it, then tossed a matching one to her sister.

They weren’t his assassins—he usually reserved that sort of killing for his own hands, to stain his own soul. Or used one of the select living nightmares serving under him. But as his most trusted and politically savvy spies, they did occasionally have to get themselves out of scrapes. Or get an answer out of an enemy quickly.

“Good,” he said, studying the wall of windows, the city now blooming into its full morning chaos. “Stay hidden at all costs. Report back daily if you can. Any whiff of a Made item, I want to know about it immediately. Any hint of Koschei or a black, hexagonal box, don’t wait to tell me. He might be hiding the secret to his immortality there.”

The twins nodded and vanished, leaving only a wisp of night behind them.

With no one for company but his thoughts and the shadows slumbering at his feet, Az closed his eyes. Somehow, sleep found him at last.

He doubted that true contentment would find him as easily. And wondered if he’d ever really care enough to wonder why.

The music splashed and flowed around Nesta like a cascading river, filling the music hall to the brim with glorious noise.

In recent weeks, bathing in that sound had been a relief and a joy, one of the rare times she’d felt either since Bryce Quinlan had arrived. But after yesterday, that feeling of being completely submerged in something . . .

She had nearly drowned yesterday. Had come within a heartbeat of it.

Only Rhys knew, and then the two of them had sat at the family dinner table last night and pretended like nothing had happened. Without Cassian there to mark her every breath, no one had noticed her half-lost in thought, running over every mistake she’d made and every word said between her and Rhys in his study.

You can winnow? the High Lord had asked, seeming torn between gaping and fuming.

I’m trying to, she’d corrected. The two of them had been sopping wet, both breathing heavily. How’d you know where I was?

I heard you screaming find me, find me, find me—or was that for someone else? Rhys had wiped the water from his eyes.

So much had swarmed her that she’d needed a moment to answer. I didn’t realize I was sending any thoughts out. I—It didn’t even occur to me to do that.

You planned to just drop to the bottom of the ocean and wait for us to realize you’d drowned?

I panicked, she’d snapped. I didn’t expect to wind up—there.

Why the hell were you trying to get to the Prison?

She’d shaken her head. She didn’t want to answer.

Rhys’s eyes had dimmed with lethal warning. No more secrets, Nesta.

It’s not a secret, she’d retorted, finally mustering enough strength into her legs to stand. Water sluiced down her pants, into her boots, squelching with each of the two steps she took back from him. I just . . . She’d made herself hold his gaze. Meet the dominance in it with her own. Plenty of awful things wind up there. I thought perhaps this Made object might also be hidden there. I knew it wasn’t likely, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to look. Especially if Made things seem to be waking up.

There was more she wanted to know, but that wasn’t Rhys’s business.

Rhys angled his head to one side, water dripping off his night-black hair. Why. It was a command, not a question.

She held his stare again. She didn’t answer to him. Not now, not ever. Rhys’s lips curled back from his teeth in a silent snarl.

Her knees trembled with the effort of keeping upright, her neck straining not to bow her head. To take her mind off the instinct to obey, to submit, she’d said, Why wouldn’t I want to help this court, the world?

Rhys’s snarl had faded—wary curiosity warming his face instead. He’d snapped his fingers and the water on them vanished. And had said before stalking out, Next time you want to go to the Prison to poke around, ask me. And if you want winnowing lessons . . .* He shook his head, hand on the doorknob. For fuck’s sake, ask me for that, too.

Then he’d been gone, and she’d spent today practicing. Like hell would she take winnowing lessons from him.

She didn’t know where Cassian was tonight. He’d gone to Windhaven with Azriel yesterday, and while the latter had returned for dinner last night, Cassian had not. He’d opted to stay in the wilds, sleeping at Rhys’s mother’s old house.

It wasn’t unusual these days.

Nesta examined her left hand. The mating band glimmering in the muted light of the music hall. In her right hand, she cupped a small silvery ball. The Symphonia.

She’d been coming here often to let the enchanted ball absorb the music—with the orchestra’s permission, of course—so she could listen to it whenever she pleased, but tonight she’d barely heard a single note. Had only heard her own circling, dismal thoughts.

She wished she could talk to Cassian about it. About everything. Cauldron damn her, she truly did. But where to begin? He was still furious about the Mask. How would he react to news of her winnowing, of wanting to go to the Prison, of this other, enormous thing that writhed within her?

They hadn’t slept together for weeks. Since Ember and Randall had arrived. Cassian sometimes slept in the bed beside her, but he hadn’t reached for her. Had barely spoken with her. That conversation in the hall yesterday, as miserably fraught and ugly as it had been, was the most they’d communicated in days.

Was it possible for mates to . . . un-mate? For that bond to fracture deeply enough that there was no repairing it?

It’s one matter to hide things from Rhys, was all Cassian had said when she’d confronted him about his distance, his simmering anger. It’s another matter entirely to hide things from me.

But Nesta hadn’t been granted the chance to even consider hiding her plans from Cassian—or sharing them, for that matter. One moment, she’d been reading in the library at the House of Wind, and the next, Bryce had been there, begging for the Mask, offering her parents not only as collateral but as refugees from the Asteri’s wrath.

Nesta had read the desperation in Bryce’s amber eyes and had known what she had to do. She didn’t have the time to debate her choice—but she also hadn’t needed to.

It hadn’t mattered that Bryce had later won against the Asteri. That she’d then returned what she’d stolen and what she’d been given—and then some. That her parents had returned to their own world, here and gone like morning dew. It hadn’t mattered to anyone that Nesta had found something in Ember she hadn’t realized she’d wanted so badly.

You’ll find your way.

Nesta had tried to explain everything—everything—to Cassian afterward. He hadn’t wanted to hear it.

We were finally getting things on the right track, he’d said before walking away. I don’t know why you had to . . . He’d trailed off, and she hadn’t had the nerve to ask him to finish that sentence.

Ruin it. That was what he’d nearly said. She’d ruined it—the tentative peace and affection with Rhys and the others. All the good she’d done by saving Nyx and Feyre, and Rhys in the process, had been erased. Even Elain still regarded her with caution—had seemed shocked and disappointed when she’d heard about the Mask.

So Nesta had no one to even ask to join her at the music hall, not really. Feyre, maybe, but she knew how stretched thin her sister was, and coming here with her would have been a burden, wouldn’t it?

Nesta had taken a seat in the highest section of the theater, wanting to remain mostly unnoticed and unbothered, but tonight, it didn’t seem to be an issue. The hall was half full, and most of the patrons sat in the downstairs sections. A middle-of-the-week performance was rarely packed to the rafters, but she liked it this way. It felt as if the music was hers and hers alone.

She could afford a better seat—in fact, there was a gilded box several levels below that technically belonged to her. She’d been donating nearly all of her court paycheck to this orchestra and a few others in Velaris. What else was she going to do with the money? She had everything she needed, and though Rhys and Feyre allotted a healthy amount of their own fortune toward the arts in this city, Nesta had seen firsthand how many repairs were constantly needed, and how little these musicians made.

Their music had brought her such joy and tranquility and peace—how could she not offer them something in return?

Her donations had been anonymous, but it seemed someone had found out. She’d received a letter informing her that the box was to be given to her in thanks for her generosity.

Generosity. She’d laughed when she saw that word. She’d thought giving the Mask to Bryce Quinlan was generous, too.

She closed her eyes for a heartbeat. Focused on the music. Once, it had made her want to dance, to cut through the world with motion and speed. Now it just filled the endless quiet in her head.

She peered at the Symphonia again. She’d saved a world, and lost part of hers in doing so. She didn’t regret that choice; she never would. But if she had known what the fallout would be for giving Bryce Quinlan the Mask, would she still have done it?

Yes, a small voice whispered. She would have. To turn her back on an entire world in need, even one not her own? She couldn’t have lived with herself.

The symphony finished. She hadn’t registered its final, crashing notes. And barely noticed the applause ringing through the cavernous space as she rose, the Symphonia tucked in her cloak pocket.

She made her way out through one of the back exits, and only when she was in the crisp, misty night air, only when she was certain the narrow alley around her was empty, did she pull out the Symphonia from her cloak.

She didn’t need to check to know that the orb had captured the entirety of the symphony, filtering out any crowd noises, leaving only the pure music. It had never captured an errant cough or rustle of clothes or the murmur of a patron.

Except once.

A thought to the Symphonia summoned the sound to the surface. A tap from her finger had it playing into the frosty, empty night.

“I love you,” Cassian’s voice whispered.

They’d been at the music hall together that night. Sitting in that box, where she hadn’t sat in a month. He’d leaned over during the brief pause between movements and whispered it into her ear. She’d only realized what had happened when she’d gone to listen to the symphony the next day and his words suddenly sounded into the room.

I love you. More than life itself.

The Symphonia had never captured a single spoken word before. But it was as if it somehow knew that those words, in Cassian’s voice, made the most beautiful music she’d ever heard.

So now, with all she’d done like an impenetrable wall between them . . . Nesta played the words again.

I love you. More than life itself.

In the empty alley, the chill seeping into her bones, she clung to those words. The treasure she’d broken in order to do the right thing. She allowed herself another moment to feel it, that burn in her throat, her soul. Then she locked it away and buried it deep. Lifted her face to the river of stars glinting overhead.

And walked alone into the bitter night.

* * *

Cassian didn’t come back to the House of Wind that night—again.

And like the fool she was, Nesta had waited up for most of it. Listening for any creaking floorboards or that familiar stomping strut down the hall.

Sleep had been elusive once she’d given up hoping her mate would return, and she’d tossed and twisted in the sheets until she’d been tangled up in them. Only a driving need for tea had dragged her from her room—and a driving need for some sort of company had sent her across the city to the river house.

Feyre and Elain weren’t in the dining room as she shouldered open the doors, breathing in the sweet-smoky scent of her tea, along with all her favorite breakfast treats.

Azriel, however, was seated at one end of the long table, wreathed in shadows despite the brilliant autumn morning outside. He didn’t look up, though he’d certainly already known she was about to walk in.

“Morning,” she said, mostly to taunt him, since he seemed content to ignore her.

Azriel’s hazel eyes flicked up. “Morning,” he said, barely more than a grunt.

The plate piled high with breakfast foods before him was untouched. Only his teacup was empty, drained to the dregs.

“Food not up to snuff?” Nesta asked coolly as she took a seat at the opposite end of the table.

Az blinked down at his plate. As if surprised to find that there was, indeed, food in front of him. But he said nothing. His shadows draped off his shoulders, like they, too, couldn’t be bothered.

“Where is everyone?” she asked, serving herself soft scrambled eggs, hard cheese, peppery arugula salad, and toast.

“Cassian’s off to see Eris. But surely you knew that already.” His eyes flicked to hers again.

Score one for the shadowsinger.

Az went on, “Amren went to the Day Court to search through Helion’s libraries for any hint about Made objects that might have woken up—or might awaken soon, if a death-god is stirring.”

Nesta frowned. She could have joined the female for that—would have loved an excuse to browse through the High Lord of Day’s vast and stunning collection. Or what remained of it after Amarantha and her cronies had looted many of his one thousand libraries. It would have required enough focus that she could have avoided thinking about her mate. Wondering.

“And Feyre and Rhys are preparing to go see Jurian and Vassa, to ask about Koschei,” Az said, tapping a scarred finger on the table beside his teacup.

Nesta met Azriel’s cool stare and added, “And to see Lucien.”

The shadowsinger’s mouth tightened. His shadows writhed.

Score one for the Valkyrie.

Nesta had seen and inferred enough to guess how Azriel felt about Lucien Vanserra. Why he might feel that way. She’d never said a word to anyone about it—not him, not Elain. With Feyre, she’d exchanged a few knowing glances, but nothing more.

Azriel’s eyes sharpened, the blue Siphon atop his hand flaring in emphasis. But his tone remained flat as he asked, “What are you doing today?”

Nesta made a point to eat a few bites of her eggs and salad before answering. At least someone else in this court was in as foul a mood as she was—small comfort, but she’d take it. She said at last, “Well, today I’m running errands in Velaris—half for me, half for Amren. But tomorrow Clotho needs me to pick up a present for Nyx, so I’m going to the library. And while I’m there, I’ll track down Gwyn. I need her to do something for me.”

No matter that she hadn’t seen or spoken to her friend in weeks. Az didn’t need to know that. It wasn’t his business, and considering the cold shoulder he’d given her since Bryce Quinlan’s departure, she didn’t care to tell him.

Azriel eyed her, his shadows likely feeding him whatever supplemental information they gleaned. Did they tell him how she’d barely talked to Gwyn since the Blood Rite? That she missed her friend so much it physically hurt—even though she knew it was imperative to give her space? Gwyn had been relieved to see Nesta when she emerged from the Blood Rite, of course, but that didn’t temper her fury that Nesta had decided the path for her, against the priestess’s wishes.

Did those shadows whisper that every day without her friend had eaten away at her? She had Feyre and Elain and sometimes Amren, but they didn’t hold a candle to the friendships she’d forged with Emerie and Gwyn—especially Gwyn. The sisterhood.

“What do you need Gwyn to do?” he asked at last, a shade warily. As if his shadows had told him that she might have some sort of nefarious scheme in mind.

Nesta said sweetly, even as red-hot fire kindled in her belly at the implied accusation, “I want her to record everything that happened with Bryce Quinlan in the caves.”

His surprised inhale was every bit as satisfying as she’d hoped. So was the sight of his shadows scattering from his shoulders to cluster on the floor around the table. “Are you authorized to do that?” He was deadly serious.

“Yes,” she lied. His wings twitched, his shadows leaping to his shoulders again. But he didn’t call her on it. She added drily, “Want to join?”

“No.” He twisted his teacup around once, twice. The Siphon atop his hand flickered.

Still not entirely done poking the dragon, if only to release some of her own misery, she asked with a saccharine smile, “Weren’t you supposed to be the one going to the human lands?”

He twisted the teacup again but didn’t take the bait—or even seem to realize they were still playing the game. “I’ve been pulled off that duty.”

She stilled—both at the words and the fact that he’d even told her. She dropped all obnoxiousness as she asked, “Why?”

Az didn’t answer. His shadows seethed around him like an angry swarm of wasps. Something to do with Rhys, no doubt.

She’d been on the receiving end of Rhys’s anger and contempt enough that she softened a bit and said, “Then today you should help me remember everything that happened with Bryce, so that I can relay it to Gwyn accurately when I see her tomorrow.”

His eyes lifted to hers, shadows settling, as if his curiosity had soothed them. “Why are you even bothering to record it?”

“Because I want to lay out all the pieces.” She sipped from her tea. “And I think . . .” She took another sip, sorting through how to explain it. “I think there should be a record of what happened. For history, and for us to reference. It’s knowledge that was once lost, and should not be lost again.”

That eight-pointed star was tattooed on you for a reason.

She blocked out the memory and went on, jerking her chin at him, “You were the one who found Bryce on the lawn. The narrative should probably start there.”

Az tapped a scarred finger on the table as he thought. She’d seen him playing chess with the same intensity. At last, he asked, perhaps a bit reluctantly, “Not sixteen thousand years ago?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, grateful for this relatively normal conversation, despite its unnerving subject. “Is it better to start with us and how we learned the truth of what happened, or start in chronological order, with what we now know about Theia and Fionn and the Daglan and all that?”

All that. As if two words could ever encompass what had happened at the dawn of this world.

She’d already explained to Rhys and Feyre the true history that she, Azriel, and Bryce Quinlan had learned in the tunnels beneath the Prison, but she couldn’t stop turning over the details again and again like one of Amren’s puzzle pieces.

She should have had Cassian at her side to help her. Should have had her mate there to parse every bit of information. She’d even gone so far as to pretend like a fool to talk to Cassian about it, to figure out how she’d explain it all, that she could practically recite it by heart.

Sixteen thousand years ago, this world had been ruled by cruel, petty masters: the Daglan. Near-impossible to defeat, they’d reigned over Fae and humans alike for untold millennia before that. Until a coalition of Fae led by Fionn, a legendary warrior still worshipped by the likes of Cassian and Rhys, had at last destroyed them, with the Trove and a host of other magical weapons.

The Mother knew how badly she wanted to pick Cassian’s brain about what those weapons might be—how a force of Fae, outnumbered and outpowered, might take on near-gods and win. She suspected the bastard had been talking to Rhys about it. Likely to Az, too.

It was history even Amren didn’t know, as she had been in the Prison already by that point. Some vague information had survived, but not at the level of detail they now knew. In the wake of overthrowing the Daglan, the Fae had risen as the dominant power in this world, enslaving the humans as the Fae themselves had once been enslaved.

It left a bad taste in Nesta’s mouth, no matter how many times she ran through this history in her head. Another thing on her list of issues to discuss with Cassian: How could she reconcile being newly Fae, being a part of this people, knowing what they’d once done to her ancestors? What many of them still wished to do. How did he feel about it? How did it sit with him to know that his beloved ancient heroes took their freedom and then used it to enslave others? Fionn, great warrior and savior of the Fae: enslaver of humankind.

She didn’t know how to think in the gray like that. Cassian had always been better at that sort of thing—might have been able to explain how Fionn could at once be good and have done terrible things.

For a thousand years, humans aside, a tentative peace held. The Fae formed kingdoms and territories, and in Prythian, a High King ruled, a High Queen with him: Theia. The first and last High Queen of Prythian. Not counting Amarantha, who’d declared herself High Queen during her reign. That monster had never been a true queen of anything.

But Theia had ruled this land. And in those tunnels beneath the Prison, Nesta and Azriel had learned the secret history of the forgotten court that Theia had established solely for her personal use and retreat. What might now be considered an eighth court: the Prison.

The Prison, which had once been fertile and teeming with life. The Prison, which had once been ruled by a High Lady with starlight in her veins.

But in the end, that starlight might as well have been poison, fueling and justifying a ruthless ambition for power. Theia had betrayed her husband, Fionn, taking for herself his great sword: Gwydion.

Maybe it was good Nesta hadn’t discussed it with Cassian. Surely he would have made some jab about Theia taking whatever magical items she wished and Nesta using the Trove as she pleased, gifting the Mask to Bryce. She ground her teeth merely imagining what that argument would be like.

He’d probably have pointedly mentioned that even Gwydion hadn’t been enough to save Theia from a betrayal herself, and that she got what was coming to her: When she’d led her people, including her two daughters, into another world, she’d never returned to this one. Theia’s youngest daughter, however—Silene—had managed to get back to this world, separated from her sister and mother in the process and forced to leave them behind. Then Silene had taken it upon herself to leave a record of this history, carved into rock and magic in the catacombs beneath the Prison. To be forgotten until Nesta, Az, and Bryce Quinlan had found it.

Of course, had she been working through it with Cassian, that would have been the point where Nesta started yelling about whether he actually considered her as monstrous as Theia—if he truly believed that her lending Bryce Quinlan the Mask was on the same level as Theia’s betrayal of her husband, her world, and her people.

Nesta already knew she didn’t want to hear her mate’s answer.

She straightened, and found Az watching her carefully, his shadows likely whispering that she’d lost herself once again to thoughts of the past and of her mate. And she said, perhaps because Az was one of the few people with whom she could be honest, “Does it keep you awake, thinking of that time in the caves with Bryce? I can’t stop thinking about it.”

He considered, all traces of his earlier foul mood gone. “Because you feel guilty about handing over the Mask?”

“No.” It was as close as she’d come to talking about this with anyone. “Just a sense that maybe there’s more to learn.”

His Siphons blazed, but his face remained impassive. “Like what?”

She shrugged, pouring herself more tea. “We still know so little about how to wield the Trove. About the Prison—what it used to be. There are countless chambers and tunnels, many forgotten or hidden. You’ve all been going there for five centuries, yet you never knew or even sensed what was contained within. What if there’s more hidden inside?”

Azriel studied her. “Have you sensed something?”

“I don’t know.” How to even explain what she’d seen and felt beneath the sea, when she was drowning? It might have all been a hallucination on the edge of death. “It’s just this . . . feeling I can’t shake.”

“You want Gwyn to record all this so that you can chase a feeling.”

She shrugged, ignoring his disbelieving tone, if only because she did indeed sound out of her wits. “Maybe in the telling of it, I’ll piece it together.” In the way she so badly wanted to, needed to, with her mate. “But at the very least, there should be documentation of it for future generations. In case . . .” She didn’t want to finish the words, to put them out into the world.

But Azriel asked, almost daring her, “In case what?”

Nesta clenched her jaw. “In case we don’t make it through this coming conflict with the continent. In case future generations might need it.”

Az scanned her face, his shadows swirling. Nesta withstood the scrutiny. Let him see whatever he wished. She had little to hide.

But Az said, “I’m sure you’ll be able to cover it all on your own when you tell Gwyn.” He rose, silent despite his considerable size, and headed for the patio doors. His shadows trailed him like a long, shifting cloak.

And maybe she was foolish, maybe she was too softhearted, but she asked, “Are you all right?” If he’d been pulled off one of his usual information-gathering duties, something had to have happened with Rhys. Something that had given Az that icy edge in his eyes, that lack of appetite and interest in engaging in any sort of conversation.

Az paused at the glass doors, shadows swirling with the sudden stop, but he didn’t turn. He quietly asked, “Do you think Rhys will ever forgive you? For handing over the Mask to Bryce Quinlan?”

She knew he wasn’t asking about her, or even the Mask. But Az was her friend—sort of. He had been, up until the moment she’d handed the Mask to Bryce. At the very least, she could offer him honesty. So Nesta said, “No. I don’t. Maybe he’ll be able to speak civilly to me again one day, but I don’t think he’ll ever truly forgive me. I don’t think he’s capable of it.”

Az had known the male for over five centuries. He should have known the answer already. Or maybe he did, and just needed to hear it from someone other than himself.

She waited for Az to respond, but he didn’t say another word before he stalked onto the front lawn, a storm of brooding black against the light, punctuated only by the blue gleam of his Siphons on those scarred hands, and gently shut the doors behind him.