Chapter 3 — Azriel - A Court of Splintered Harmony

Winter always arrived early in Vallahan. Though the Night Court was still basking in the glory of autumn, already veils of snow drifted through the hulking, barren mountains in which the fabled golden fortress of Thrudheim had been built.

The snow was a blessing and a curse. A blessing, for it made Azriel’s enemies’ visibility poor and provided him ample cover to observe as he pleased. A curse, for it also made his visibility poor—and hid any creeping foes.

But Azriel knew how to stay hidden, shadows or no. And this was certainly an improvement on the rain-lashed mountains of Montesere. Even if now, tucked into a crag high on one of the sister mountains that cradled Thrudheim, the wind was again shrill in his numb ears—but at least no teeth snapped within it. And at least nobody looked his way from the landing below.

The stronghold of the Vallahan royal family had been established in the crook where the two mountains came together—and on the slope below, a village sprawled toward the now-frozen river and slumbering fields in the valley. With the mountains near-impassable, the keep dominated the high ground, commanding a view over the lands below for miles and miles. A good spot for a fortress if one was defending against terrestrial armies.

Against people like him . . . it made them easy prey. And easier still to observe unseen.

As in the river house and the House of Wind, the wards around Thrudheim prevented anyone from winnowing directly inside. Which kept Az out of the building proper, but also allowed him to watch the three royals marching from the formal landing site—a circular stone area framed with carved arches depicting rearing rams, reserved solely for the royal household—across the drawbridge that spanned the frozen moat, toward the golden gates of the fortress itself.

Golden was a generous way to describe the building—the name stemmed only from the pale stone that had been hauled in from thousands of miles away, and the occasional, now-peeling scraps of gold leaf on the carved facade.

Vallahan had seen better years. Centuries. Those fields in the distance hadn’t yielded a bountiful crop in ages, the soil long since leached of its richness, despite their shamans’ best efforts to regenerate its fertile magic. And though the Autumn Equinox was only days away, no festive decorations to honor the bounties of the harvest had gone up. As if they’d had nothing to reap—no gods left to thank.

But that wasn’t Azriel’s focus, not as he peered through the snow toward the three royals bundled in their furs, the guards along the moat bridge saluting with their spears.

Their enemies were hunting for a Made weapon of their own. So he’d come to figure out which one was tackling it. Rask was too far, too vast, too well guarded for him to slip in on a whim like this, and Montesere’s spy network always had him treading carefully in their territory, but Vallahan . . . It was easy enough to listen in on them for a few moments. And he’d be a fool to pass up the opportunity, especially now, when the task would be fresh on their minds. So he’d come, appearing mere seconds after the royals, who were still fuming over the conversation on Storr.

Granting his shadows only enough power as was required, Azriel bid them to whisper what they heard from the darkness beneath the bridge.

“That was a complete waste of time,” the Queen of Vallahan was ranting to her king, breath clouding the frosty air. “We should never have gone.”

The king said calmly, “We owed it to Morrigan to sit down with them. I’d promised her as much.”

The young Prince of Vallahan spat on the ice-crusted stones, narrowly missing the leather boot of one of the saluting guards. The guard didn’t flinch—and the prince didn’t offer an apology. Preening asshole. “You favor Morrigan too much. She worked her charm on you.”

The bearded king shot his son a reprimanding look—an aging warrior plagued by a son who was not a worthy successor. “I have known Morrigan longer than you have been alive. She had my respect well before she came here. Her behavior in these halls only deepened my sentiments.”

His queen slid him a glare. “She’s as foolish and softhearted as her High Lady.”

Her tone grated talons down Azriel’s temper, enough that he checked the backs of his half-frozen hands to make sure his Siphons weren’t flickering with blue light. Thankfully, they remained slumbering—a weapon he kept under far tighter control than Cassian, whose Siphons often acted as a mirror to his own volatile emotions.

The keep gates groaned open, the carved rams built into each door parting their butting heads to let the royals through. Once they crossed Thrudheim’s threshold and wards, they’d be beyond his shadows’ power to hear.

“Morrigan makes no difference where our plans are concerned,” the prince declared, sniffing. “I’m sick of speaking of her.”

Az leaned closer, ignoring the numbing blast of snow in his face.

The King of Vallahan didn’t reply as he continued toward the gates and the snow-dusted courtyard beyond. The queen fell back a step and turned to her son, her wheat-colored hair buffeted in the wind as she advised, “You leave on the morrow to seek what we need. Rest tonight, my love.”

The prince only nodded, grim and determined.

Azriel tensed, a plan already taking form. If the prince was winnowing tomorrow to wherever he was going, he’d have to walk back out of the fortress, and might provide another few snippets of information before vanishing. And if the prince was traveling on foot, then Az could get high enough in the sky to track him undetected, and—

The Prince of Vallahan whined to his mother, “Going to that hellhole on Rothorn was a dead end—and now our enemies are aware we’re hunting for a Made weapon. Time races against us. Against me.” Az tensed. He’d been right to pick here over Montesere. The Prince of Vallahan had been there on the mountain. Hunting alongside people from Montesere and Rask. “And why did we need to go to that farce of a gathering today? We know they have the Trove; we didn’t need them to confirm it.”

“It was not my choice to do so,” the queen said stiffly. “But your father—your king—wanted to hear it from their lips.”

Azriel gritted his teeth. Well, they’d walked into that one. They hadn’t so much as tried to deny they possessed the Trove. But Vallahan didn’t know what else they possessed.

Not that it made a lick of difference. They had confirmation that their enemies were going after a Made weapon of their own. Though he supposed if they knew the true total of how many the Night Court possessed, they might indeed launch a war upon them.

Truth-Teller hung heavy as a lodestone at his side—one of those secret Made weapons, though he’d only recently learned this about the blade that he’d wielded for centuries. He’d carried it, slept with it beneath his pillow, sliced with its wicked edge all these years without having the faintest inkling that it was Made. He’d never seen any hint of power from it save for what his hand wrung from their enemies. An unholy blade for a tarnished soul. He supposed he and Truth-Teller deserved each other, and yet he hadn’t drawn it in weeks. Not since—

“My father has grown too cautious in his old age,” the prince grumbled, steps from Thrudheim’s gates now. The king was already far ahead, as if eager to be rid of his family.

The royals of Vallahan had been matched in an arranged marriage, Az remembered from the history Mor had compiled. The queen had been a powerful warlord’s daughter, and Vallahan, facing unrest thanks to those failing fields in the valleys, had needed her father’s forces to shore up the military. It seemed little love had blossomed between them in the centuries since—or since the arrival of their son nine decades ago.

The young prince had yet to mate or marry, which left a door open for an advantageous, rock-solid alliance. It was doubtful they’d allow anyone from the Night Court to wed into their family—not that Az thought anyone would agree to marry the prick. There were other courts, but it was far more likely that a territory like Montesere or Rask was already vying to seal that union.

Which made it all the more necessary for Azriel to observe who entered and departed Thrudheim, if any emissaries from those territories arrived.

“I want you to find it,” the queen ordered her son. “To bring this boon back to your father, to Vallahan. It should be in our hands, no one else’s.”

He marked that tidbit. Vallahan, Montesere, and Rask might be allied, but could that unity be broken apart by the race to attain whatever this Made weapon was? They’d clearly trusted each other enough to join forces recently, but how strong was that faith? It seemed as if the prince intended to strike out on his own—did Montesere and Rask know Vallahan was going rogue?

Perhaps that was the best route to stopping this invasion: destroying the triple alliance by turning them on each other. He’d have to get spies and agents deep into all three courts, Rask being the most difficult, but if he could undermine them, use the hunt for this Made weapon to get them at each other’s throats, reveal the prince’s unauthorized, secret hunt outside of their alliance . . . it might work. And was precisely the sort of unsavory, dishonorable scheming that he’d always excelled at—a cunning gift. Or curse.

Azriel glanced to the Vallahan queen and prince, but Thrudheim’s gates were already shut, the rams butting heads once more, sealing the royal family within.

His shadows caught it, then. The muttering of the guard.

“Pampered little brat,” one of them grunted. The one who’d nearly been spat on.

None of the guards contradicted him. No one cried foul at the dishonor.

Interesting. A prince who did not command the hearts of his soldiers. Another string to pull. Collapse the triple alliance, undermine the ruling order of each territory, thus ensuring the Fae in the free lands below had no incentive to join them—

Later. He’d already lingered too long here.

With his shadows swirling around him like a living cloak, Az vanished, leaving only a hot puff of his breath behind.

* * *

“It went well, then,” Cassian drawled from where he’d thrown himself on the couch before the fire in Rhys’s formal study.

“Supremely well,” Feyre said, easing onto the couch beside him, Nyx in her arms at her bared breast. “They’re even coming for Solstice now.”

Azriel snorted, unable to help it, even as he kept to the armchair by the window, content in the deep shadows of the velvet curtains framing it. They’d all been here when he’d returned, and Rhys had barely given him more than a nod—though he’d definitely eyed the snow still melting on the scales of his armor.

Azriel’s shadows, of course, had reported who was present prior to his entrance, but he’d blocked out their murmuring before they could also report on who else was nearby. That was a distraction he didn’t want or need right now.

Not with so much information in his head, so many plans taking form. His skin tingled with the need to move, to start doing what he did best.

“Another war on the horizon,” Cassian said, crossing his legs at the ankles, the mud splattered on his boots still drying. It smelled of autumnal woods near the sea, Az’s shadows whispered. “What else is new?”

“I don’t know how you can find this the least bit amusing,” Mor scolded, tossing her sheet of golden hair over her shoulder. “This is nothing like Hybern. And will be nothing like the Sundering War, either. It will be worse.”

Az’s cascading plans halted at how somber she sounded.

He couldn’t remember who had started calling the war five centuries ago the Sundering War, but it had stuck. Hopefully, this next conflict wouldn’t require nearly so dramatic a name. Hopefully, it wouldn’t materialize at all—though Az knew that was a fool’s dream. As most of his dreams turned out to be.

Azriel didn’t miss the predatory gleam in Cassian’s eyes as he said casually, “We’ll deal with it.”

His pulse is quickening; fear runs rampant beneath—

Az ignored his shadows again. He didn’t need to know every single detail of Cassian’s emotional state—not when his brother wore it on his face.

Go be somewhere else, he willed his shadows. I’ll have work for you soon enough.

He could have sworn they slunk away, tails between their proverbial legs, and curled up in a pocket of darkness by the shut doors. He ignored them.

“And how do you propose we deal with it, Cassian?” Amren asked from the armchair across from Azriel. “With what army? At what cost?”

Rhys must have filled the others in while Az had been in Vallahan.

Feyre cradled Nyx closer. The only sign of her dread before she said, “They’re all afraid of us. They pretended they weren’t, but they are.”

Az nodded. His shadows had confirmed as much during the meeting. He himself knew the tang of that fear all too well—had grown up with it stinging his senses just before someone called him monster, demon, abomination. He could sense it in others with almost a preternatural ability, shadows or no.

“They’re afraid of the Trove,” Amren corrected, drumming her long red nails on the arm of the chair. “And as long as we retain possession, as long as we have someone here who can wield it, they will limit this invasion to their shores—and leave us alone here in Prythian.”

Az didn’t want to, but he looked. So did the rest of them.

A lone figure stood by the far window, gazing at the front lawn and the turquoise river beyond. Toward the very spot where a stranger had landed four weeks ago.

Azriel clenched his teeth, avoiding the urge to touch Truth-Teller’s hilt.

He’d been in this house, poring over Mor’s latest report from Vallahan, when his shadows hissed in his ear: She’s here in the grass and mist; she has come. She smells of another world; the bloodline is back—

He’d stalked onto the lawn, silent as death, and seen her: a red-haired female who smelled both Fae and human, in strange clothes and garishly pink shoes, coated in blood that didn’t smell like her own—a female’s blood that was not human or Fae or any manner of creature from this world.

The stranger’s name was Bryce Quinlan.

She had winnowed onto the lawn—and yet she hadn’t. She fell from the stars. Fell from the rock, fell from the sea—

His shadows had been babbling, trying to put into language what they were puzzling out with the female’s every gasping, shuddering breath.

Then Truth-Teller had begun thrumming. Singing. And right as he’d crept to the kneeling female and angled the blade against her golden throat . . . he’d spied the great black sword.

Truth-Teller had leaped in his hand, and only his determined grip on the knife had kept it from falling out of his grasp. And then his iron will had him following a protocol beaten into his very blood. Putting a potential enemy in a blindfold, keeping her unaware of where she was going or who was around her. Flying in several different directions to further disorient and unnerve her.

Not that Bryce had needed any more unnerving. She’d been shaking in his arms. Sobbing, though she hadn’t shed any tears. She was soaked in that other person’s blood, as if she’d bathed in it.

But there was no hatred, no sense of a vicious warrior’s triumph about her. Only fear and despair and pain and terror and a deep, shattering grief.

In those initial moments, he’d been so stupidly pitying that he’d brought her to the town house, not to the nearest holding cell or to the Hewn City. No, that had come later.

It ranked amongst the most reckless and idiotic decisions he’d ever made. No one had said so, but Azriel knew it—and would never forget it, either. He’d brought an outsider from another world into the heart of his home city, surrounded by families and children.

So much had happened after that. So much, and so quickly.

Judging by the silence in the room now, the others were remembering it, too. The Mother knew they were all still processing what had occurred, and what they’d learned.

Az had just done what had usually served him well: buried it down deep and moved on. Even if he still wouldn’t draw Truth-Teller. Hated even attaching it to his body. Maybe he’d get lucky and a sharp wind would one day rip off not only his wings, but the cursed blade, too. Spare him from actually working up the nerve to chuck it in the nearest trash bin, where it deserved to be.

Nesta continued staring out the window as she said to none of them in particular, “Am I even allowed near the Trove these days?”

Azriel might have regretted bringing Bryce Quinlan to the town house, but at least he’d retained a healthy wariness of her. Nesta, on the other hand . . . Nesta had ultimately, naïvely trusted the female. And had thus nearly destroyed them all.

Cassian’s face remained hard as steel.

“Vallahan and Montesere don’t know that you’re banned from wielding the Trove,” Amren reminded her.

For a heartbeat, Az wished his shadows had remained close enough to read the nuances of Amren’s harsh tone. But even if they had been, he might not have dared ask them to. Not with Amren.

“And if Vallahan and Montesere ever learned what happened with Bryce Quinlan, they’d march on us immediately,” Mor said, brown eyes almost golden as she surveyed the crackling fire. “You gave the Mask to Bryce to take to another world, Nesta. She might have convinced you she needed it to win her own war, but it may very well spark a new one here if others find out.”

“She gave it back,” Nesta argued, still not turning from the window.

“Yes,” Rhys said icily, “and now our enemies have every right to take the Trove by force to ‘protect’ this world from our good intentions.”

Though Nesta’s earth-shattering power had been diminished—yielded so the babe in this room might live—enough remained for her to command the Trove. To make her a threat. To allow her to Make things as she willed.

Was it a relief for Nesta to lose some of that monstrous power, as it would be for him? She hadn’t let on, even before Bryce Quinlan had landed on the front lawn.

Tension snapped taut through the room. Az felt, more than saw, his shadows ripple, aching to sweep between his friends like a phantom wind and report back on every twitch, to paint for him a portrait of what they were all feeling. Stand down, he ordered them.

His shadows slumped back to the floor by the doors. He gave them a withering glare.

“That’s not the point,” Cassian started, and Az didn’t miss the pain in his brother’s eyes. Even Cassian was angry at Nesta and what she had chosen to do—and even more pained by this new distance between them all. That Rhys was even in the same room as Nesta was a solid step forward after these three weeks, but it didn’t mean any of them forgave her.

Azriel certainly didn’t.

Bryce Quinlan had lied to them and—a pang twisted through him—had stolen Truth-Teller before fleeing back to her world. She’d reached for Azriel’s dagger, and the blade had flown to her. Just as it had tried to do that first moment on the lawn.

It wasn’t only that Bryce had stolen Truth-Teller. Truth-Teller had abandoned him. Bryce had called it, and like a faithful dog, the blade had raced to her hand.

As if five centuries with him meant nothing. As if he meant nothing. He hadn’t drawn the blade since. Could barely stand to look at it whenever he tethered it to his side, this dagger that found him so lacking it fled his hand at the first chance.

And despite all that, Nesta had still given Bryce the Mask to use against her world’s enemies. With Bryce’s human parents, Ember and Randall, as collateral.

Nesta had handed over one of the most powerful weapons in their world to a veritable stranger. And when Rhys—when all of them—had demanded to know why, Nesta had simply said that it was the right thing to do.

Without consulting a single person, Nesta had risked the fate of their world.

“The point,” Cassian plowed ahead, the only one not looking toward his mate, “is that these assholes on the continent are going to make their move soon—and they want some special power of their own before they do. So what’s our move if that happens?”

“We don’t let it happen. We keep them from obtaining anything,” Feyre said, hooking a finger in Nyx’s mouth to unlatch him from one breast before pivoting him to the other. Eyes closed, the dark-haired babe barely noticed or cared, so long as his feeding and his mother’s warm closeness wasn’t interrupted. “We find out what they’re seeking and then we beat them to it.”

Az’s High Lady glanced at him, conveying all he needed to know: he’d be the one sent to uncover what their enemies were hunting. Exactly as he’d planned.

No one likes hearing I told you so, Az, his High Lady said into his mind, a wry smile on her pretty face.

I wasn’t going to say anything, he replied, trying to keep his own expression neutral. Feyre had always been able to make him smile—he sometimes wondered if she knew how rare that was. How much it meant to him.

“That’s a tall order,” Amren cautioned Feyre. “There are any number of Made objects loose in the world, either known or forgotten. It’d be a waste of our efforts to try to find all of them before our enemies do. And there are some that should stay forgotten.”

“We might not have that luxury,” Feyre said. “The Made objects are stirring, whether we want them to or not. And Koschei’s rising power is the likely cause.”

Amren frowned deeply. If there was anyone who could confirm this, it would be her. She said at last, “Koschei is a death-lord. If Made objects are stirring in response to his restlessness, then I would be very concerned about what manner of power those objects contain. Like calls to like.”

The words hung like a dark cloud. Az suppressed a shiver of dread at the thought.

But Cassian said, polishing his ruby Siphon with the back of his jacket sleeve, “Then it’s all the more vital that we find what our enemies are hunting before they do.”

“This could be a lure to distract us,” Rhys said, dragging a hand through his raven-dark hair. “A bluff, even.”

“It’s not,” Azriel said at last. He usually preferred to watch from the shadows and only contribute when absolutely necessary. He had always felt more comfortable that way. People revealed more about themselves when left to speak as they pleased—when they forgot he was present. He stiffened against the discomfort of having all eyes on him. “The Prince of Vallahan departs tomorrow to once again hunt for something. I heard him whining to his mother about being in that group on Rothorn Mountain a few days ago.”

“What is he looking for, though?” Amren challenged. “Did you hear specifics?”

“No,” Azriel admitted, folding his wings in tight. He didn’t mind being questioned—not even by Amren, who could unsettle the steeliest warrior—but stepping up, speaking up . . . Five centuries later, he still found that it went against his nature. He pushed through. “But it was in the context of discussing the Trove, and looking for their own Made object.”

“You’re not going after the prince,” Rhys said with cool authority. Feyre raised a surprised brow at the order, in complete opposition to what she’d tacitly implied to Az a moment ago. Seated on the couch across from Feyre, still in his finery and with his black crown, Rhys was every bit the High Lord of the Night Court the world feared.

Feyre, Az had already noted, had ditched her crown on a side table—as if still not entirely used to it. Or maybe she wanted to forget it, with her son bundled in her arms.

“Like hell I’m not,” Az said. “We need to know what the prince is looking for, especially if Vallahan thinks it can stand against the Trove.”

Rhys shook his head. “The Prince of Vallahan, preening and rash as he seems, knows us well enough to anticipate that you or one of your wraiths will follow him.” He added before Az could protest, “It is also possible that Rask and Montesere are racing to find this object, too. The Prince of Vallahan might not even be the first one to get to it. You can’t be in three places at once. And I’ll remind you that Montesere has spies of its own to track you. The Monteserian windwolves are no joke.”

Az couldn’t help the answering flutter in his Siphon, readying its power against an enemy mercifully hundreds of miles away. But he shoved the memory of a few days ago away, the howls on Rothorn’s summit that still chilled his blood, as he said, “Then I’ll send Cerridwen and Nuala to whatever territories I’m not in.” His half-wraith spies were perfectly capable at such things.

“That’s a possibility,” Rhys said, crossing his legs. The firelight bounced off the fine dark leather of his boots. “But the fact remains that if any of the three territories finds what they’re all searching for, we will still not be able to stand against their united force—plus any of the unaffiliated Fae that join them—when they push into the human lands. Even if they don’t find this object, we won’t be able to stand against them. Is it worth it, then, to spread ourselves thin in pursuing it?”

Feyre’s face now seemed set in contemplation of her mate’s reasoning. She’s leaning toward agreeing with him now, his shadows whispered, having inched closer without his noticing.

Amren asked Mor, “And the bastards from Rask truly didn’t deign to come today? Not a single emissary?”

Mor nodded gravely.

They’d anticipated that Rask likely wouldn’t show—Az had argued that this meant it wasn’t worth going at all. But both Feyre and Rhys had insisted. We owe it to all the lives that will be lost in this war to try for a peaceful solution, Feyre had said.

It had shamed some part of Az to realize he hadn’t so much as thought of that.

But that was why Feyre had been destined to be High Lady—why she and Rhys were best left to make the decisions. Azriel merely bloodied himself and others to make sure their vision of peace was attainable. He’d keep doing so until the bitter end. Even if there was nothing left of his soul long before then.

Not that there was much left of it anyway. Maybe there’d never been much of it to begin with. Perhaps that was why the shadows had found him. They’d sensed some gaping void, some innate lack, and come to roost in him. It wouldn’t have surprised him to learn he’d been born without a soul at all.

Mor added grimly, “Let’s not forget that Koschei, Made items awakening or no, is also pulling the strings of all these territories. I’ve never been able to get proof of it while at their courts, but I can feel it.” With that remarkable truth-sensing gift of hers, she could pick up on much that went unspoken.

Fraught silence settled over the room once more, interrupted only by Nyx’s soft gulping as he drank, little wings twitching with pleasure.

Feyre said at last, “Koschei wishes all of us distracted, fighting and killing each other. Prythian, Montesere, Rask, Vallahan, and any other territories that might join in. He’ll use our distraction to break the spell containing him with little interference.”

“We were distracted plenty before now,” Cassian countered, rubbing his jaw. “Why not do this during the Hybern War? That would have been the time.”

“Perhaps that’s what he needed,” Amren mused. “Time. The war with Hybern would have been ideal, but if he didn’t have what he required yet, he’d have been unable to act. Whatever he was waiting for, he’s now moved the pieces into place, and will try to distract us with this new conflict.” She examined her red nails. “To make matters worse, it sounds as if the territories are well aware of his influence—if not outright allying with him. They’ll never admit it, though. Too many other realms and kingdoms would balk at allowing a death-lord to break free.”

“The Mistress of the Unseen implied the same,” Mor agreed.

“So we prove to the rest of the world that these three territories are working with him,” Feyre said. “Maybe we don’t even need to rally a force against these armies. Maybe we just provide clear proof of their working with Koschei to other powerful territories, and we’ll find ourselves with enough allies that they’ll back down from any invasion. Maybe the unaffiliated Fae from the open territory in the middle of the continent would even rally against them—that would make it virtually impossible for their armies to get to the border with the Mortal Lands unless they go through the Helbronn Mountains.”

“We can and should do that,” Amren said. “But Koschei is still trying to free himself from his lake. And that must not be allowed to happen under any circumstances.”

Az lifted his own brows, unable to help himself.

“He’s likely been driven mad by millennia of containment,” Amren clarified. She would know. She’d spent thousands of years in the Prison. Had somehow survived it.

She still dreams of that darkness, his shadows began to whisper. He shoved them back toward the outer edges of the room with a silent, mental snarl. They knew better than to get that close to Amren.

Amren went on, “A sane death-lord is threat enough. But one lost to madness? We cannot begin to imagine the horrors, the suffering that would be unleashed upon the world. Especially if he gets his hands on a Made item, which I imagine he intends to do once one of these territories is in possession of it. He will swoop in to claim it through manipulation and treachery. And when Koschei gets it in his claws, there shall be no going back.”

Az resisted the urge to tap his foot, to pace toward the door and fly away, get started on this hunt when it seemed every second was precious.

“It sounds as if they’re tied together, then,” Cassian said. “Stop the territories—and therefore Koschei—from getting this Made item, expose their alliance with Koschei to the world, and thus create a coalition of territories willing to stand with us, the might of which will convince Rask, Montesere, and Vallahan to drop this invasion.”

Silence followed—one of contemplation, of agreement.

“So we start by getting eyes and ears in these three territories,” Feyre said, nodding to Az, again with that You were right gleam in her eyes. “We need to figure out what Made item they want, who specifically is going after it, and try to find any definitive proof of them working with Koschei.”

“Vallahan seems primed to slip up,” Mor said. “They’re the roughest of the three territories—still a few centuries behind the others in many ways. We should plant Nuala and Cerridwen in Rask and Montesere, but I think we’ll find the most potential for weakness in Vallahan.”

Az could only stare at her. Radiant. Glowing with power and surety. She had always been that way—and he’d loved her for it from the very first time he’d had the honor of witnessing Mor in her element.

A fool’s love. A boy’s love. Five centuries of waiting in the shadows, yearning. Five centuries of his own inability to see what was in front of him. He’d never again let himself be that stupid.

“The Duke of Bernion didn’t seem unquestioningly loyal to his king,” Feyre said, drawing Az back to the conversation at hand. “He commands a sizeable chunk of Montesere’s army. Perhaps he could be enticed to reveal more of their plans and Koschei’s involvement.”

“Valderic’s sister is to marry the king’s son,” Mor explained. “He stands to gain far more from staying true to the royal family than joining our side.”

Az hadn’t known that. These were shreds of information that he should have gathered, that he should be presenting, not Mor. But Mor had been the one chosen to infiltrate these territories, not by stealth but by charm—something he’d never possessed. Not like Mor or Rhys or even Cassian, in his own way.

Azriel knew he’d never had that gift. He was a monster—merely a creature. Best left skulking in shadows. Most suited to collecting information through subterfuge or pain.

The shadows had taught him about that. How to extract truth with agony. Where to slice and twist so that enemies spilled their guts, sometimes literally. He’d named his blade Truth-Teller for what it had carved from their foes. He should have called the knife Butcher’s Blade instead.

Az pushed the thought aside as he caught Feyre peering at the child in her arms, stroking his cap of black hair with one tattooed hand. Tracing her fingers over the tips of the wings beginning to bud claws at their apex. Whatever thoughts filled her mind, she kept them to herself.

Out of respect for that privacy, Az again ordered his pack of shadows to keep back.

The shadows couldn’t read minds, but they could read scents, expressions, even the most minute. And from that, they formed a picture to report to him. He understood them all too well, even when he didn’t want to.

It was why he only gave them the barest sliver of his power, never anything more. They caused enough misery in his life.

Nesta said, still not turning from the window, “Are we sure that other territories would stand with us, even if we had proof of these three working with Koschei?” They were frank, stark words. Spoken like the Valkyrie she’d become. “We need to be certain. Need to know who we should even be delivering this information to. Who is worth the risk.”

No one replied. Not even Rhys.

There had only been a few instances in their shared history when Azriel had seen his High Lord at a loss for words, for ideas. As powerful as Rhys was, it was his razor-sharp mind that was his greatest asset. His ability to think two steps ahead of friend and foe.

Az had prided himself on making it possible—on giving his brother the information to stay those two steps ahead. And for so long, Az had amassed that information by any means necessary. No matter the cost.

Until he’d seen Feyre’s grimace that day in the cell beneath the Court of Nightmares, with the Autumn Court soldiers tied to the chairs before them. The flicker of pain, of memory—of her own torture at Amarantha’s hand.

He was no better than Amarantha. How many had he tortured without thinking of who they were, who loved them? He’d lost count.

“We have a short window to find these allies,” Amren advised Rhys darkly, her eyes softening as they lingered on his crown, as if she knew its weight. “A short window to chart our course of action while our enemies hunt for this Made item.”

“Short, yes,” Feyre agreed, “but even if Montesere, Rask, and Vallahan dispatch their armies for the human lands today, they’ll need to stop well before the open Fae lands’ southernmost border to camp for the winter, until the spring thaws out the passes of the Helbronn Mountains. Even Koschei cannot change the seasons. We have some time.”

“This time will come and go quicker than you think,” Amren warned. Feyre straightened. But Amren had moved on, her silver eyes pinning Azriel to the spot. His shadows rustled by the door in answer, snakes coiling to strike. Even the twin Siphons atop his hands seemed to waken, priming for a fight. A thought, and they dimmed again. Another power he loathed, used only when necessary. Amren didn’t so much as blink. “Don’t you dare set foot in Vallahan, boy.”

He had a healthy respect for Amren, but he wouldn’t be cowed by her. “We need to track the prince before he finds that Made item—”

“I’m going back,” Mor declared.

Azriel whipped his head toward her. That beautiful face that had haunted him for so many years, that face he’d built so many dreams around for his future, their future—

“After Nyx’s Naming Day, I’ll be the one returning to Vallahan,” she said to him, almost pleadingly. “To do what needs to be done.”

“Absolutely not,” Cassian blurted, voicing the shock and fear Azriel couldn’t master enough to form into a retort. “They know what we’re about now.”

“Then I can stop attempting subtlety,” Mor said, waving a hand. “I’ll have the rest of the fall and all winter to observe them and find proof that they’re working with Koschei.”

Azriel glanced between his High Lady and High Lord. “You can’t be seriously considering this.”

Feyre’s and Rhys’s expressions remained hard—unmoved. Az might have objected, but he understood. He’d seen the respect the King of Vallahan showed Mor. That Montesere, too, showed her. If there was someone here who might stand a chance of being heard . . . it was Mor.

But to send her back now, when their enemies had confirmed that this court possessed the Trove—

“They won’t dare hold me hostage,” Mor said gently to Az, as if reading his mind. Or just his face. He schooled it back into neutrality. Once he would have crawled to hear her speak to him with such tenderness. Such concern. “Made item or no, they’re still too afraid we’ll use the Trove on them, even if it’d give them all the justification they’d need to obliterate us.” She offered Az a grim smile. “Trust me—I’ll get what we need.”

He did trust her. She’d learned the hard way how to navigate an adder’s nest. Had spent years in that hellhole called the Court of Nightmares. She bore the scars to prove it. He’d loved her for it—for surviving, thriving, despite what she’d been born into.

A similar hell to the one he’d been born into. Had also survived.

He’d thought that had destined them for each other, two people born in darkness so different from what Rhys had later offered, two people born to fathers who loathed their very existence and mothers with little to no ability to protect them—or, in the case of Mor’s mother, no desire to protect her daughter at all. Two people who possessed unique powers to glean information, truth, whether they wanted to or not.

It hadn’t meant shit. In the end, through no fault of Mor’s own, it hadn’t meant a damn thing.

But for Mor to go back across the sea alone, with the stakes even higher—

“I trust you,” Feyre said pointedly to Mor. “We all do.”

Shame flooded Azriel. He was no whelp to be managed, whose feelings needed to be reined in and worked around.

But Mor gave their High Lady an appreciative wink. And he understood: Mor wasn’t venturing once more into enemy territory to bandy with a bunch of war-bent conquerors only for the sake of the humans. It was also for the sake of the child in this room, half-drunk on his mother’s milk, utterly safe and contented. For if another war came, one or both of his parents would fight in it.

And if one of his parents didn’t come back, the other wouldn’t survive, either. Thanks to that stupid, lovesick bond they’d made, the promise between their souls: if Rhys or Feyre died, the other would go, too.

In the months since that horrible fact had been revealed, Amren had sought a way to undo it, to no avail. Helion had put the scholars at his one thousand libraries on the hunt, too, also to no avail.

Azriel rarely thought Rhys or Feyre were fools, but to be that reckless, to be that in love—

He’d never known such a feeling. Once, he’d longed for it with his entire being, but now . . . now he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted it.

“What do we do with the Trove in the meantime?” Nesta asked, breaking the quiet with a question no one really wanted to ask. She turned toward the group at last.

It wasn’t the same face that Az had seen emerging from the Blood Rite this past spring. This one was hollower—bleaker. As if, in recent weeks, she’d stumbled back toward who she’d been a year ago, a female who saw little joy to be found. Whose blue-gray eyes lacked their usual intensity.

Az couldn’t find it in himself to feel bad for her. Or even for Cassian, who looked at her with such pain and anger. Nesta had made her choices. She could live with the consequences.

“The Trove remains in its current hiding place with me,” Rhys said firmly, and Feyre nodded. “Our enemies and Koschei could very well be hoping that we’ll panic and move the Trove. They are likely watching our every move out of the expectation that we do so, in order to catch us in the process.”

Az glanced toward his shadows by the door. They’d reported nothing—nor had any of his flesh-and-blood spies, but that didn’t mean their enemies didn’t have their own methods of surveillance. He certainly knew Montesere had a similarly unearthly arsenal of watchers to deploy around the world.

Amren said firmly to Rhys and Feyre, “You should go to Fomoria.”

Even Az jerked in surprise. The large territory in the northeast of the continent had ignored all overtures at contact since even before the Hybern War. From both them and their enemies, thankfully.

Feyre shook her head. “Without proof of the three territories working with Koschei, I doubt they’d even grant us an audience. Plus, we’ve already tried to contact them—thrice now.”

“Try again,” Amren said simply. “They’re the only territory that might make Rask think twice, not to mention Montesere and Vallahan. If Rask backs down, the other two will as well.”

“Short of showing up on their doorstep and banging on the gates,”

Feyre said a shade testily, “there’s no way they answer our letters or invitations to meet.”

“So show up on their doorstep,” Amren pushed. “Bang on the gates until they open.”

Feyre crossed her arms. “That would be too aggressive, even for us. It might annoy them enough that they run right to Rask.”

“From what I’ve heard,” Mor chimed in, “they’re not as vindictive as that, but they can be quick to anger.”

“Then do what you’re good at,” Amren ordered Rhys. “Charm them; trick them.”

Feyre said sharply, “You told us moments ago that we don’t have time, but that would take a great deal of time. With no guarantee of success.” Amren opened her mouth to reply, but before she could make a sound, Feyre kept speaking. “We’re better off finding allies within Prythian than dashing across the world to woo people who have shown us every time we’ve attempted contact that they don’t want to be bothered.”

“You will need far more than Prythian to thwart our enemies’ armies,” Amren replied, eyes flashing. “You will need allies on the continent. And Fomoria is your best bet. You should go—leave right after Nyx’s Naming Day, if you can.”

Feyre was having none of it. “We don’t even know the full scope of their forces and power—we could waste all that precious time for nothing.”

Amren bristled, and Az braced himself. “I’m not inventing the urgency of this—”

Feyre cut her off, and Az winced as she said, “What we do know is what our allies in Prythian can offer. Tarquin and the Summer Court are a good start. Getting him to ally with us again would send a strong message to the other courts here, as well as to our enemies.”

“Tarquin should be the backup, not the first option,” Amren said. “This threat is graver than you can imagine—drastic steps must be taken.”

The tension in the room once again became almost palpable. Even Rhys shifted a bit uncomfortably. Feyre’s blue-gray eyes narrowed. “I can imagine quite a bit regarding how grave it is, thank you.” sucked in a breath. None of them, even Nesta, had ever spoken to Amren like this. “But this isn’t your decision.”

Amren opened her mouth, then shut it, again to Az’s shock. But silvery light still glowed in her eyes as she said, “Whatever my High Lady wishes.”

Feyre’s nose crinkled, as if she’d snap something back, but Rhys cleared his throat. Feyre, thankfully, said nothing more.

Nesta broke the miserable tension, clearing her throat, too, as she asked, “Regardless of all that . . .” It was a clumsy attempt to gloss over the ugly argument, but at least Nesta was willing to step into the line of fire as she said to Feyre and Rhys, “You’re hiding the Trove. But what do you all plan to do about the other Made weapons in our hands?”

There were five of them now. The Made blades. Three, Nesta had Made herself. A sword whose power felt colder than ice; a dagger as temperamental as fire, once more in Eris’s possession; and the third . . . Ataraxia. The great sword that could kill the unkillable. So much power, and yet Nesta had barely explored what she’d created. Az’s shadows had always seemed to be half in awe, listless and yearning, around the blade. He’d ignored their longing.

And then there were the other two.

Gwydion—the Starsword, as Bryce Quinlan had called it. Even now, Az had trouble reconciling the fact that the black sword Bryce had brought with her—and then gifted to Nesta, of all people—had been Gwydion, newly returned to this world after fifteen thousand years in Bryce’s own. Gwydion, the legendary magic blade of Fionn, the last High King of Prythian. And later Theia, his traitorous queen.

And the last: Truth-Teller, sister to Gwydion. Made of the same dark metal, from the same fallen meteorite. Iridium, Bryce claimed. Small wonder that Truth-Teller had leaped to join Gwydion, after fifteen thousand years apart. But that hadn’t lessened the betrayal when it left him.

Az couldn’t help peering downward, to where Truth-Teller’s dark hilt seemed to devour the light of the room. Even after the blade had been returned to him, when Bryce had, miraculously, brought it back after she stole it, the sting of that betrayal hadn’t faded. Amren and Rhys had deemed it wise for Az to keep the blade, though he hardly wanted it at his side. Long centuries had it been content to stay with him, they said. So it would continue to do so. With Gwydion returned to this world, who knew what the dagger might do, especially unsupervised? It could not be hidden with the others; could not be left to its own devices. It would hang at Azriel’s hip, as it had always done, under his close watch.

He had no interest in even touching the knife. And so he hadn’t. Not more than he had to when fastening it to his body. Az willed himself to forget its weight.

“Most of the blades,” Feyre said, still stroking Nyx’s head, even as embers of anger toward Amren simmered in her eyes, “are weapons our enemies don’t know about, even Koschei. So we keep it that way for as long as possible. They’ll stay in Rhys’s possession for the moment. We don’t use them.”

He didn’t miss the long look Amren gave Rhys. Or how Rhys pointedly didn’t turn the petite female’s way. It had nothing to do, Az knew, with her argument with Feyre.

Az had mulled over their conversation from last year many times. The debate regarding those swords and what Rhys might do with them. Who—what—Rhys might become with them, if Amren was to be believed. High King of all Prythian. Rhys had rejected the idea outright.

The others nodded. Nesta turned back to the window, resuming her silence. A Valkyrie at her vigil.

Never mind that Az’s shadows had told him that Nesta had stopped going to the Valkyries’ morning practice weeks ago. He himself had stopped teaching her after she’d handed the Mask to Bryce. He hadn’t wanted to see her after that. The other priestesses and Emerie, who had been training with Nesta, had nothing to do with Nesta’s choices, but he’d stopped teaching them, too.

No one had asked him why he’d stopped going. Not even Cassian.

“Rest for tonight—all of you. Let your tempers and anxieties settle,” Amren declared. Then she addressed Az, who immediately stiffened, unable to help it, no better than the fearful whelp he’d once been. “Send your wraiths to Montesere and Rask, though. Get them in place.” She nodded to Mor, Azriel forgotten like morning dew under the sun. “You can wait a day or two after the naming celebration. Don’t seem too eager to rush over to Vallahan.” Mor nodded back, but Amren was already looking to Rhys—pointedly not at Feyre, who was doing a good job not looking at Amren, either. “Enjoy your son’s Naming Day. After that . . .” She loosed a long, heavy sigh that had Az bracing himself. When she spoke again, the hot anger in her silver eyes had cooled. “After that,” Amren said, “we will proceed as planned.” As the High Lady plans, she didn’t need to add.

The defeat and pity in her voice were terrifying. Az had never once heard Amren speak like that, even when they’d fought against Hybern.

And then there was the even more terrifying fact that none of them tried to call her on it.