Chapter 1 The Broken Bride of Spring

Feyre Archeron was not the same woman who had been dragged Under the Mountain. Though she had survived Amarantha's trials and been reborn as High Fae, something vital within her had shattered. Each night, she awoke gasping from nightmares of breaking necks and spilling innocent blood. Each day, she painted her new manor walls with darkness and shadow, unable to capture light or hope.

Her betrothed, Tamlin, the High Lord of the Spring Court, had become overprotective to the point of suffocation. He locked her in the manor, refused to let her participate in the rebuilding of his court, and insisted she focus solely on their upcoming wedding. The walls that had once felt like safety now pressed in on her like a tomb, each breath more difficult than the last.

"Don't let him see. Don't let him know how you crumble when he isn't looking,"

Feyre told herself daily, hiding the depths of her trauma. She knew Tamlin was healing in his own way, rebuilding his shattered court after Amarantha's reign. Yet his healing meant confining Feyre, treating her like a treasured object rather than a woman who had killed for him, died for him, and been remade for him.

On her wedding day, as she walked down the aisle toward Tamlin in her gown of gossamer and pearl, panic gripped her throat. The ceremony dissolved into a haze of terror as the walls seemed to collapse around her. Just as she felt she might die from the crushing weight of her own fear, a dark figure appeared before her—Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, had come to collect on their bargain.

The bargain she had made Under the Mountain to save her life now required one week of her time each month in the Night Court. As Rhysand spirited her away in a cloud of darkness, Feyre felt equal parts terror and relief. Though everyone believed the Night Court to be a realm of nightmares and depravity, Rhysand brought her to a private mountain retreat rather than his feared Court of Nightmares.

There, beneath stars that seemed close enough to touch, Rhysand did not lock her away. Instead, he taught her to read—a skill she had never mastered as a human. He spoke to her of the bond between them, a bargain marked by the swirling tattoo on her arm, and hinted at greater powers she now possessed as High Fae.

"You might be my enemy, but that doesn't mean I want you broken,"

he told her, his violet eyes seeing through the mask she wore for Tamlin. Unlike everyone at the Spring Court, Rhysand understood her nightmares because he shared them—fifty years under Amarantha's thumb had left him with his own invisible scars.

When she returned to the Spring Court, Tamlin's rage was palpable. Yet rather than ask about her well-being, he doubled down on his protections. Alis, her friend among the servants, watched with worried eyes as Feyre grew thinner, quieter, more ghost than woman. The wedding preparations continued, a gilded cage being constructed around her.

Tamlin's childhood friend Lucien saw her deterioration but remained loyal to his High Lord. "He just wants to keep you safe," Lucien insisted, even as Feyre began to wonder what safety truly meant when she couldn't breathe.

As the weeks passed, Feyre's nightmares worsened. She began coughing up blood—not from illness, but from screaming in her sleep. The strange new Fae powers inside her threatened to burst free, powers she didn't understand and couldn't control. She painted horrific scenes on the walls of her studio, the only place Tamlin still allowed her some freedom.

When the time came for her second visit to the Night Court, Rhysand found her even more diminished. This time, rather than merely teaching her to read, he pushed her to confront her nightmares. "You're not a prisoner or a pet," he told her. "The Spring Court may treat you as such, but you survived Amarantha. You can survive this too."

He spoke of a war brewing beyond the borders of the Spring Court—information Tamlin had kept from her. The King of Hybern, an ancient enemy, was planning to tear down the wall separating the human and Fae realms. Rhysand believed Feyre might be important in the coming conflict, though he wouldn't explain why.

Upon her return to the Spring Court, Feyre began noticing things she had overlooked before—the way Tamlin's sentries watched not just for threats coming in, but for her trying to leave. How discussions fell silent when she entered rooms. The pitying glances from servants who saw her cage for what it was.

The final breaking point came three months after her resurrection. Tamlin left for a border dispute, and in his absence, his sentries were instructed to keep Feyre confined to the house. When she tried to join a group riding out to deal with a minor threat, they physically blocked her. Something snapped inside her—not just her patience, but a dam holding back power she hadn't known she possessed.

The furniture in the room exploded outward. Windows shattered. The very foundations of the manor trembled. And Feyre, drowning in panic and rage, found herself on her knees amid the destruction as her Fae body betrayed her once more.

That night, as she lay trembling in bed, waiting for Tamlin's return and whatever punishment he might devise for her outburst, she finally admitted the truth to herself: the Spring Court, once her sanctuary, had become her prison. And her beloved High Lord, her savior, had become her jailer.

When Tamlin returned and heard of the incident, his solution was swift and devastating—he would seal her inside the manor completely until after their wedding. "It's for your own good," he insisted as magic shimmered in the air, a shield forming around the house. "Until you're better."

As the invisible barrier closed around her, Feyre knew with cold certainty that she would never be "better" within these walls. She would waste away, a broken bride in a gilded cage, until nothing remained of the woman who had once been brave enough to face the darkest evil in Prythian.

And as she sank to the floor of her bedroom, something new and dangerous unfurled within her heart—not just fear or despair, but a spark of defiance that refused to be extinguished.

Chapter 2 The Lord of Nightmares and Stars

Imprisoned within the Spring Court manor, Feyre felt herself fading away. Her wedding to Tamlin approached like an unstoppable tide, promising not joy but the final lock on her cage. On the night before her wedding, as she lay awake listening to the sounds of preparations, an unexpected savior appeared at her window—Rhysand's friend Morrigan, golden-haired and fierce-eyed, offering escape.

"You're dying," Mor said simply, extending a hand. "And he's letting it happen."

In that moment of truth, Feyre made her choice. She took Mor's hand and fled the Spring Court, winnowed away to the Night Court—not as part of her bargain with Rhysand, but as a woman choosing her own path for the first time since her resurrection.

"No one is allowed to cage you. Not anymore."

These were Rhysand's first words when she arrived at the Night Court, pale and trembling. The High Lord of the Night Court stood before her not as the cruel, manipulative figure he had pretended to be Under the Mountain, but as someone who understood captivity all too well.

The Night Court Feyre discovered was nothing like the tales whispered throughout Prythian. Beyond the infamous Court of Nightmares lay Rhysand's true seat of power—Velaris, the City of Starlight, hidden for five thousand years from the rest of the world. A sanctuary of art and learning, where Fae lived in peace and prosperity, untouched by Amarantha's reign of terror.

Rhysand introduced her to his inner circle, his family of choice: Morrigan, his beautiful third-in-command with centuries of secrets in her eyes; Cassian, the brash Illyrian warrior with magnificent wings and a penchant for trouble; Azriel, the shadowsinger whose scarred hands wielded both darkness and truth; and Amren, a small woman with quicksilver eyes who was something ancient and terrifying contained in Fae flesh.

In their company, Feyre began to understand the true nature of the male she had once considered her greatest enemy. Rhysand had created a facade of cruelty to protect his people from Amarantha, sacrificing his reputation and body to keep Velaris hidden. For fifty years, he had endured being Amarantha's whore while secretly working against her, bearing the hatred of all Prythian to shield those he loved.

"Why?" Feyre asked him one evening on a balcony overlooking the city, the river below glittering with lights. "Why show me this? Why help me?"

Rhysand's answer changed everything. "Because you and I are the same. Broken and remade." His violet eyes, usually guarded with sarcasm, held nothing but sincerity. "And because the fate of everything might depend on what you become."

He revealed what Tamlin had concealed—the Cauldron, source of all magic, was being sought by the King of Hybern to destroy the wall between realms. And Feyre, made by the High Lords' combined powers, was no ordinary Fae. The nightmares that plagued her, the uncontrollable magic that had exploded in the Spring Court—these were signs of power beyond anything Prythian had seen.

Rhysand offered her not protection but partnership. Training to control her gifts, information about the coming war, and most precious of all, freedom to choose her own path. With Cassian, she learned to fight with blade and fist. With Azriel, she studied stealth and strategy. With Amren, she began to understand the magic flowing through her veins.

"You could rattle the stars," Amren told her after a particularly grueling lesson. "If you had the courage to try."

And with Rhysand himself, she forged a connection deeper than bargains or alliances. He showed her his beloved city, flying her above its gleaming spires with her arms wrapped around his neck. He took her to the vast library where the priestesses tended ancient knowledge, respecting her hunger to learn. He brought her to the artists' quarter where paintings and sculptures celebrated beauty in all its forms.

In these quiet moments, Feyre began to see the male beneath the mask—thoughtful, wounded, fiercely protective of his people, and bearing burdens none of them could fathom. A High Lord who walked among his citizens without guards, who listened to their concerns, who had protected them through unspeakable personal sacrifice.

Meanwhile, the rest of Prythian believed Rhysand had stolen her. Tamlin's rage echoed across the courts, his hunters searching for her while Rhysand's illusions kept Velaris hidden. The Spring Lord demanded her return, claiming Rhysand had enchanted her, refusing to believe she had left of her own accord.

Feyre's feelings toward Tamlin transformed from love to anger as she recognized the prison he had constructed for her. With each day in the Night Court, surrounded by people who encouraged her growth rather than stifling it, she understood more clearly what she had escaped.

"I pitied him once," she confessed to Mor during a night of drinking at Rita's, a tavern where Velaris's citizens danced with abandon. "For what Amarantha did to him. But he became exactly what she was—someone who wanted to own me, not love me."

Mor, who carried her own history of being treated as property, squeezed her hand in silent understanding.

As weeks passed, Feyre's strength returned. The hollow-cheeked ghost who had fled the Spring Court gave way to a woman with muscle and purpose. She learned to shield her mind from intrusion, to control the fire that could spring from her fingertips, to move through shadows as if born to them.

And something else grew alongside her power—a bond with Rhysand that transcended their bargain. A tether of understanding, trust, and increasingly, desire. In quiet moments when their hands brushed or eyes met, Feyre felt something awaken within her, something both terrifying and exhilarating.

One night, unable to sleep, she found Rhysand on the roof of the House of Wind, his wings stretched wide against the star-filled sky. In that moment of vulnerability, he revealed his greatest fear—that he would fail his people as he had failed his mother and sister, slaughtered by Hybern's forces centuries ago.

"Everyone sees the High Lord," she told him, reaching tentatively for his hand. "But I see you, Rhysand."

That night marked a turning point. Their careful dance of allies became something deeper, though neither dared name it. The Inner Circle watched with knowing glances as their High Lord and the former human huntress circled each other, two wounded souls finding unexpected healing in one another.

But war would not wait for hearts to mend. Reports arrived of Hybern's forces massing, of unusual movements at the Spring Court, of the Cauldron being sought by dark powers. Feyre realized her personal journey from prisoner to warrior was inseparable from the greater conflict engulfing Prythian.

When Rhysand proposed a dangerous mission to uncover Hybern's plans, Feyre did not hesitate. "I'm going with you," she declared, meeting his gaze with unwavering determination. "Not as your subject or your bargain-bound captive, but as your equal."

The Lord of Nightmares studied her face for a long moment before nodding. "My equal," he agreed, something like pride flickering in his violet eyes. "Always."

And so Feyre Archeron, once a starving human girl who had crossed the wall to save her family, prepared to enter the dangerous game of Prythian politics—not as anyone's bride or savior, but as herself: a woman of both shadow and starlight, forging her own destiny at last.

Chapter 3 Velaris, the City of Starlight

Velaris unfolded before Feyre like a dream she hadn't known to wish for. Nestled along the northern coast of the Night Court, protected by ancient mountains and magic stronger than time itself, the City of Starlight had remained hidden from the rest of Prythian for five thousand years. Even Amarantha, with all her cruelty and power, had never discovered its existence.

Feyre's first weeks in the city passed in a haze of wonder. The Rainbow of Velaris—a district where artists of all kinds lived and worked—became her sanctuary. After months of being forbidden to paint in the Spring Court, she found herself surrounded by creativity in every form: painters whose canvases captured emotions she couldn't name, sculptors who coaxed life from stone, musicians whose melodies drifted through open windows and made the very air dance.

"Art is not a luxury here," Rhysand explained as they walked the colorful streets. "It's as necessary as breathing."

He had given her a small apartment overlooking the Sidra River, where morning light streamed through windows no one would ever lock. The space was hers alone—to paint in, to think in, to heal in. No sentries watched her movements; no one reported her comings and goings to her host. For the first time since her transformation into High Fae, Feyre felt the stirrings of true freedom.

The citizens of Velaris initially regarded her with curiosity—this stranger their High Lord had brought into their protected realm. But they welcomed her without question, offering smiles and nods as she explored their city. She learned their ways: the tradition of leaving small offerings at the temple of the Mother and the Cauldron for special wishes; the celebration of the summer solstice with lanterns released into the night sky; the respect given to the priestesses who maintained the city's vast libraries.

Slowly, Feyre began to understand what made the Night Court different from the Spring. Here, power flowed upward from the people rather than being imposed from above. Rhysand might be High Lord, but he ruled with the counsel of his Inner Circle and the consent of his citizens.

"He would die for this city," Amren told her bluntly during one of their lessons. The ancient being's quicksilver eyes narrowed as she corrected Feyre's attempt to channel fire. "Not because it's his territory, but because these are his people. There's a difference."

The difference became clearer when Feyre accompanied Rhysand on his regular visits to Velaris's various districts. In the Palace of Thread and Jewels, he listened patiently to merchants' concerns about trade with the few other realms who knew of the city's existence. In the temple district, he spoke with priestesses about ancient texts that might contain information about the brewing conflict. In the artists' quarter, he commissioned works not for his own pleasure but to ensure the creators could support themselves.

And everywhere they went, children ran to greet him without fear, citizens approached with problems both large and small, and Rhysand listened—truly listened.

"You seem surprised," he remarked after one such day, as they walked along the banks of the Sidra. "Did you expect me to be carried on a litter, perhaps? Or to smite a few subjects for amusement?"

Feyre shook her head, watching the sunset paint the river in hues of gold and violet that matched his eyes. "I'm surprised they love you so openly. At the Spring Court, there was always distance. Reverence, yes, but also fear."

Rhysand's expression sobered. "Fear is a poor foundation for loyalty. It might work in the short term, but it crumbles in crisis. I learned that lesson the hard way."

He spoke rarely of the past—of the father who had ruled through terror, of the mother and sister slaughtered by Hybern's forces, of the centuries he had spent rebuilding the Night Court according to his own vision. But Feyre was beginning to piece together the story through comments from the Inner Circle, through the old murals in the House of Wind that depicted a different kind of Night Court, through the way Rhysand sometimes fell silent when looking out over his city.

The rhythm of Feyre's days took on a new pattern. Mornings were spent training—combat with Cassian, stealth with Azriel, magic with Amren. The warrior brothers pushed her beyond what she believed possible, their Illyrian training methods brutal but effective. Under their tutelage, Feyre's body grew stronger, her reflexes sharper. The female who had once hunted to feed her family now learned to hunt for different reasons—to protect, to survive, to fight back against the shadows gathering on Prythian's borders.

"Hit harder," Cassian would growl as they sparred in the training ring atop the House of Wind. "Your enemies won't show mercy. Neither should you."

Afternoons found her working with Amren, the ancient being's patience as limited as her knowledge was vast. Together they explored the strange magic Feyre had inherited from each of the seven High Lords during her resurrection—fire from Beron of Autumn, water and ice from Tarquin of Summer, healing from Helion of Day, beasts from Tamlin of Spring, darkness from Rhysand himself, and others still untapped and unnamed.

"You're not channeling it," Amren snapped during one particularly frustrating session. "You're fighting it. The power is part of you now—not something separate to be controlled, but something to be embraced."

Evenings belonged to the Inner Circle. They gathered for meals in the House of Wind, perched atop the highest peak overlooking Velaris, accessible only by flight or winnowing. There, surrounded by Rhysand's family of choice, Feyre found herself laughing for the first time in months. Cassian and Azriel's centuries-old rivalries, Mor's outrageous stories, Amren's dry observations—even Rhysand's sardonic humor—created a warmth she had forgotten could exist.

They included her in their banter without hesitation, treating her neither as an outsider nor as their High Lord's special project, but simply as one of them. They argued and teased and occasionally fought, but beneath it all ran a current of unshakable loyalty.

"We've all been outsiders," Mor explained one night as they sat together on a balcony, sharing a bottle of wine while the males argued over some ancient battle inside. "Cassian and Az were Illyrian bastards, despised by their own people. I fled my own court to escape a fate worse than death. Amren..." She paused, glancing toward the tiny female examining her wine with suspicious eyes. "Well, Amren has never belonged anywhere except with us. And Rhys..."

She didn't finish, but she didn't need to. Rhysand had been the outsider even as High Lord—playing the villain during Amarantha's reign, sacrificing his reputation to protect his people, bearing the hatred of all Prythian for fifty years.

It was during these quiet moments that Feyre felt the tug of something new and fragile between herself and Rhysand—not the bargain that bound them, but something deeper. A recognition that transcended their pasts and positions. Sometimes she would catch him watching her with an expression that made her heart stumble, or their hands would brush as they reached for the same object, and a current would pass between them that had nothing to do with magic.

Yet both maintained careful distance, aware of the shadows still clinging to Feyre's heart, the wounds not yet healed from her time in the Spring Court. Rhysand never pushed, never demanded, never even hinted at wanting more than what she freely offered.

Instead, he gave. Books for her to read as she mastered her literacy. Art supplies delivered without comment when she mentioned missing her paints. Information about her growing powers, about the conflict brewing beyond Velaris's protective boundaries, about the roles the courts of Prythian might play in the coming war.

And most precious of all—truth. No matter how difficult or damning, Rhysand never lied to her.

"Why did you really bring me here?" she asked him one night, weeks after her arrival, as they stood on the balcony of the House of Wind, the city glittering below like fallen stars. "Was it truly just to save me from Tamlin, or did you have other motives?"

Rhysand was silent for a long moment, his wings tucked tight against his back, his face illuminated by the lights of his beloved city. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but unwavering.

"Both. I couldn't bear to see you fade away in the Spring Court. But I also believe you may be the key to saving Prythian from what's coming." His violet eyes met hers. "You were Made by the magic of all seven High Lords. That has never happened before, and I don't think it was an accident."

The truth settled between them, heavy with implication. Whatever destiny had brought Feyre across the wall as a human huntress, it had not concluded with her breaking Amarantha's curse. Something larger loomed on the horizon—a role only she might be able to fulfill.

"And if I choose to walk away?" she asked. "If I decide I want no part in any of this?"

Rhysand's answer came without hesitation. "Then I would help you disappear. Somewhere not even Hybern could find you." A faint smile curved his lips. "Though I think we both know you're not the type to run from a fight."

He was right, of course. The human girl who had killed a wolf for her family's survival, who had solved Amarantha's riddle when all seemed lost, who had killed two innocent Fae to save Tamlin and all of Prythian—that girl still lived within her, beneath the trauma and transformation.

As weeks passed, Velaris worked its gentle magic on Feyre's wounded spirit. She found herself painting again—not the darkness and horror that had consumed her art in the Spring Court, but pieces filled with color and light. The nightmares that had plagued her began to recede, replaced by dreamless sleep or occasionally strange visions of stars and darkness that left her oddly peaceful upon waking.

She began to recognize faces in the marketplace, to exchange greetings with the artists in the Rainbow, to feel something like belonging in this hidden city. And with that belonging came resolve—a growing determination to protect what Rhysand and his ancestors had built, to ensure Velaris remained a haven of peace and creativity in a world teetering on the edge of war.

When news arrived of Hybern's forces moving closer to Prythian's borders, when reports came of the King seeking the ancient Cauldron that could destroy the wall between realms, Feyre did not hesitate to join the Inner Circle's planning sessions. The broken female who had fled the Spring Court was fading like morning mist, revealing something new and formidable in her place.

On a clear night fifty days after her arrival in Velaris, Feyre stood alone on the balcony of her apartment, watching the city prepare for the Starfall celebration—the most sacred night in the Night Court's calendar, when spirits passed from one world to the next, streaking across the sky in a display of celestial magic.

A soft rush of wings announced Rhysand's arrival. He landed silently beside her, dressed not in his usual black but in blue so dark it rivaled the night sky, silver accents catching the light like distant stars.

"Are you ready for your first Starfall?" he asked, offering his hand.

Feyre looked at the city spread before her, at the High Lord waiting patiently for her decision, at the sky beginning to darken above. In that moment, she understood that her journey had brought her exactly where she needed to be—not as anyone's savior or bride or tool, but as herself.

"Yes," she said, placing her hand in his. "I'm ready."

And as Rhysand lifted her into the night sky, Feyre felt the last chains of her past beginning to fall away, replaced by the certainty that whatever role awaited her in the coming conflict, she would face it not as the broken bride of Spring, but as a daughter of the Night Court—free, fierce, and finally awakening to her true power.

Chapter 4 Wings and Embers Awakened

Starfall transformed Velaris into a realm of magic beyond even Feyre's growing understanding of the Fae world. Citizens gathered on rooftops and balconies, in parks and along the Sidra River, their faces turned skyward in reverent anticipation. The House of Wind, highest point in the city, hosted the most exclusive celebration—members of Rhysand's court and their honored guests assembled on the vast terrace, glasses of sparkling wine in hand.

Feyre, dressed in flowing midnight blue that Mor had insisted suited her perfectly, stood slightly apart from the crowd, overwhelmed by both the gathering and her own tumultuous emotions. The weeks in Velaris had healed much of her spirit, but social events still triggered memories of the Spring Court's formal dinners where she had felt like a specimen on display.

Rhysand found her at the balcony's edge, offering a glass of wine without comment. They stood in companionable silence until the first streaks of light appeared overhead—spirits passing between worlds, leaving trails of stardust in their wake.

"It's like they're dancing," Feyre whispered as the lights crisscrossed the sky, some lingering as if reluctant to continue their journey, others shooting past in brilliant arcs.

"They are," Rhysand replied, his voice unusually soft. "Living their last moments of joy before whatever comes next." His eyes reflected the celestial display, ancient memory swimming in their violet depths. "I've watched this for centuries, and it never loses its wonder."

As the night progressed, something shifted between them. Perhaps it was the magic in the air, or the music that seemed to emanate from the passing spirits themselves, or simply the culmination of weeks of growing trust. When Rhysand extended his hand in invitation to dance, Feyre accepted without hesitation.

They moved together beneath the illuminate sky, Feyre following his lead as naturally as if they had danced a thousand times before. His hand at her waist was steady; hers on his shoulder felt right in a way she couldn't articulate. Around them, other couples swirled—Mor with Az, then Cassian; strangers from the court whose names Feyre hadn't learned—but it seemed as if they danced in their own pocket of time and space.

"Thank you," she said, the words inadequate for everything she wanted to express.

Rhysand's eyes met hers, understanding what remained unspoken. "For what?"

"For showing me this. For Velaris. For giving me space to breathe again."

His fingers tightened slightly on hers. "I should be thanking you, Feyre darling. For centuries, I've protected this place, loved it, but always viewed it through the lens of obligation. You've reminded me how to see its wonder."

The moment between them deepened, time slowing as their dance gradually ceased, though they remained in each other's arms. Feyre felt the now-familiar tug between them strengthen, like an invisible thread pulling her closer. Rhysand's eyes darkened, his head dipping slightly toward hers...

A flash of searing light exploded overhead, brighter than any spirit that had passed before. The crowd gasped in collective awe, the spell between Feyre and Rhysand broken as they looked up with everyone else.

The rest of Starfall passed in a blur of dancing, wine, and conversation. Feyre found herself welcomed by members of Rhysand's court who had been curious about the human-turned-Fae who had broken Amarantha's curse. To her surprise, they treated her with respect rather than as a curiosity, many expressing genuine gratitude for her role in freeing their High Lord.

As dawn approached and the celestial display faded, Rhysand escorted her back to her apartment, both of them slightly wine-flushed and weary from the night's celebrations.

"Will you show me how to fly?" Feyre asked impulsively as they stood at her door, the question surprising them both.

Rhysand blinked. "You don't have wings, Feyre darling."

"But I have magic," she countered. "I've shifted into wolves and birds in the Spring Court. Surely I could manage wings?"

A slow smile spread across his face—not his usual sardonic smirk, but something genuine that transformed his features. "If anyone could, it would be you."

The following day marked a new phase in Feyre's training. Beyond the combat lessons with Cassian and the magic tutorials with Amren, Rhysand began teaching her the complex art of shapeshifting. Unlike Tamlin's beast form, which was his natural alternate shape, Feyre would need to learn to craft wings from nothing but magic and will.

"Imagine them first," Rhysand instructed as they stood on the training grounds atop the House of Wind. He spread his own magnificent wings, membranous and powerful. "Not just how they look, but how they feel. The weight of them on your back. The muscles needed to move them. The way they connect to your shoulder blades."

For weeks, Feyre tried and failed. She managed partial transformations—a hint of membrane here, the beginning of a joint there—but never complete wings. Each attempt left her exhausted and frustrated.

"I don't understand," she growled after a particularly disappointing session. "I've transformed into entire animals before. Why are wings so difficult?"

Rhysand, patient despite her frustration, perched beside her on the stone bench. "Because you're not just creating an appendage—you're trying to create an appendage that can defy gravity. It requires precision and power in equal measure."

Azriel, who had been observing silently from the shadows, approached with unusual hesitancy. "If I may," he said, his voice quiet as always, "you're thinking of wings as something foreign to add to yourself. But for those of us born with them, they're as natural as arms or legs. Not an addition, but an extension."

His advice shifted something in Feyre's understanding. The next morning, rather than trying to craft wings from scratch, she closed her eyes and imagined herself complete—a being for whom wings were not an addition but an intrinsic part. She felt for the hollow spaces between her shoulder blades where wings should be, for the phantom muscles that should control them.

Pain lanced through her back, sharp and sudden. A strangled cry escaped her lips as something tore through skin and muscle. Rhysand was at her side instantly, his face tight with concern, but he didn't interfere.

When the pain subsided, Feyre felt a new weight on her back, a new awareness of limbs that hadn't existed moments before. Slowly, cautiously, she flexed muscles she'd never used, and felt the resulting shift of air.

"Look," Rhysand breathed, his eyes wide with something like wonder.

Feyre turned her head to see wings extending from her back—not the membranous bat-like wings of the Illyrians, but something uniquely hers. Feathered like a hawk's, they shimmered with iridescence, the color shifting between midnight blue and deepest purple as they caught the light.

"They're magnificent," Rhysand said, genuine awe in his voice. "Feyre... you're magnificent."

Learning to fly proved almost as challenging as growing the wings themselves. Feyre crashed more times than she could count, collecting bruises and scrapes that her Fae healing quickly erased. Cassian laughed himself hoarse at her early attempts, until Rhysand threatened to drop him from the House of Wind without his own wings to catch him.

But Feyre persevered, driven by determination and the intoxicating promise of freedom. Two weeks after her first successful transformation, she managed to stay airborne long enough to circle the House of Wind. A week after that, she was flying alongside Rhysand over Velaris, her newfound perspective making the city even more beautiful.

"Race you to the sea," she challenged one clear morning, already diving toward the distant coastline before he could respond.

Rhysand caught her easily, his centuries of flying giving him effortless grace she still lacked. They soared together over the sparkling waters of the bay, spiraling and diving in a dance as natural as the one they'd shared during Starfall.

Landing on a secluded beach far from the city, Feyre collapsed onto the sand, breathless with exertion and joy. Rhysand dropped beside her, his wings folding neatly against his back.

"I never understood before," she said, gazing up at the endless sky. "When Tamlin took my freedom, I knew it was wrong, but I didn't have words for what was missing. Now I do—it was this. The ability to see horizons and chase them."

Rhysand's expression softened. "Some cages are made of iron bars, but the most insidious ones are made of love corrupted by fear."

His words struck a chord Feyre hadn't been ready to acknowledge. "I did love him," she said quietly. "Tamlin. In the beginning."

"I know."

"But it wasn't... it wasn't this." She gestured vaguely between them, struggling to articulate the complex emotions that had been building for weeks.

Rhysand waited, giving her space to find her words. When she couldn't, he spoke with careful precision. "What we have—what we're building—doesn't erase what came before. It doesn't need to."

Feyre studied him, this male who had become so much more than the villain she had first believed him to be. In the Spring Court, she had been a porcelain doll to be protected; Under the Mountain, she had been a champion fighting for others' freedom. But here, with Rhysand, she was becoming something entirely new—neither fragile nor merely functional, but vital. Essential. Herself.

The realization shifted something fundamental within her, like tumblers in a lock finally aligning. Without consciously deciding to, she reached for him, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. Rhysand went utterly still beneath her touch, his breathing shallow.

"Feyre," he whispered, his voice rough. "Be certain."

She had never been more certain of anything. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to his in answer.

The kiss began gentle, tentative, but quickly deepened as centuries of loneliness and months of unacknowledged desire broke free. Rhysand's arms came around her, strong and secure but never confining. When they finally broke apart, Feyre felt as if she'd been remade yet again—not by external magic this time, but by her own choice.

Rhysand rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed as if memorizing the moment. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

Before she could respond, a sharp pain lanced through her left arm—the arm bearing the eye tattooed as part of their bargain. The ink seemed to writhe beneath her skin, the sensation intense enough to make her gasp.

Rhysand pulled back, his expression shifting from desire to concern. "What is it?"

Feyre clutched her arm, watching in disbelief as the tattoo began to fade, the black ink receding like tide from shore, until only unmarked skin remained.

"The bargain," she breathed. "It's gone."

Understanding dawned in Rhysand's eyes, followed by wonder and then something deeper—something that made Feyre's heart race anew.

"Not gone," he said carefully. "Transformed. There's only one thing that could break a bargain like ours." He hesitated, as if the words themselves held power. "A stronger bond taking its place."

Feyre's mind raced, sifting through the lore she had learned in recent months about the Fae world. Only one bond superseded all others, one so rare and sacred that even Amarantha had been unable to corrupt it.

"The mating bond," she whispered, the words both question and answer.

Rhysand nodded, his expression guarded now, watchful. "I've known since Calanmai, before you were even Fae. I felt it snap into place the moment you broke Amarantha's curse, but you were in love with Tamlin. You were healing. The last thing you needed was another male making claims on you."

"So you said nothing." It wasn't a question.

"I said nothing," he agreed. "A mating bond can be rejected. I wanted—needed—any choice you made to be truly yours."

The weight of his restraint, of months spent helping her heal while keeping this knowledge to himself, struck Feyre with devastating clarity. While Tamlin had sought to possess her, Rhysand had given her freedom—even at the risk of losing her.

She looked down at her unmarked arm, then back at the male before her—her mate, if she chose to accept the bond. The High Lord of the Night Court, who had suffered unimaginable torments to protect his people, who had shown her a city of starlight when she was drowning in darkness, who had taught her to fly both literally and figuratively.

"I choose you," she said, the words simple but powerful. "I choose this bond."

The relief and joy that washed over Rhysand's face made him look younger, unburdened for a brief moment. He gathered her close, his wings instinctively curving around them both, creating a private world of feather and membrane.

"My High Lady," he murmured against her hair.

Feyre pulled back slightly. "What did you call me?"

A smile curved Rhysand's lips—not his usual sardonic smirk, but something genuine and almost shy. "There has never been a High Lady of the Night Court. Of any court, actually. The position has always been... ceremonial at best, subservient at worst." His eyes held hers, intense and unwavering. "But you, Feyre Archeron, would be High Lady in truth. My equal in every way. If you want it."

Equal. Not a consort, not a trophy, but a partner. Feyre felt the rightness of it settle into her bones, as natural as the wings on her back or the magic in her veins.

"Yes," she said, the word carrying the weight of oath. "Yes, I want it."

As they sealed their promise with another kiss, Feyre felt a new power stirring within her—not the magic of the High Lords that had reborn her body, but something deeper, older. The power of a female who had walked through fire and shadow and emerged not just alive but transformed. Who had found not just wings, but the courage to use them.

Far to the east, beyond Velaris's protective shields, beyond the boundaries of the Night Court itself, the forces of Hybern gathered. War approached on swift and certain wings. But Feyre Archeron—once human, now High Fae, soon to be High Lady—was no longer afraid of the coming storm.

She was becoming the storm itself.

Chapter 5 The Court of Dreams and Nightmares

News of Hybern's advancing forces reached Velaris like a cold wind—inevitable, chilling, impossible to ignore. The King of Hybern had acquired pieces of the Cauldron, the ancient relic of creation with power to unmake the wall separating mortal and immortal realms. Reports from Azriel's network of spies indicated the king sought the final piece hidden somewhere in Prythian.

The Inner Circle gathered in the House of Wind's war room, maps spread across the stone table, faces grave as they considered their options.

"He'll target the wall's weakest points first," Azriel said, shadows curling around his scarred hands as he indicated locations along Prythian's southern border. "Human settlements here, here, and here would be overrun within days."

Feyre studied the map, her stomach clenching at the familiar region marked "human lands"—the poverty-stricken territory where she had once struggled to keep her family alive. Where her sisters still lived, unknowing of the threat gathering beyond the magical barrier that had protected them for centuries.

"My sisters," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "They have no idea what's coming. No way to defend themselves against Fae magic or weapons."

"Your family will be protected," Rhysand assured her, his hand covering hers on the table. "I give you my word as High Lord."

But protecting a few humans wouldn't stop the larger threat. If Hybern breached the wall, thousands would die—both human and Fae. Ancient hatreds would reignite, and the fragile peace established five hundred years ago would shatter.

"We need allies," Cassian declared, wings shifting restlessly behind him. "The Night Court alone can't stand against Hybern's armies."

Amren's quicksilver eyes narrowed. "The other courts won't rally just because we ask nicely. They've spent centuries viewing us as enemies."

She was right, Feyre knew. Thanks to Rhysand's careful deception during Amarantha's reign, most of Prythian believed the Night Court to be a realm of cruelty and depravity. The Court of Nightmares—the maskRhysand maintained to protect Velaris—had served its purpose too well.

"Then we change their minds," Feyre said, the beginnings of a plan forming. "We show them the truth."

All eyes turned to her. Mor leaned forward, golden hair gleaming in the ambient light. "What do you propose?"

"A meeting of the High Lords," Feyre replied. "Neutral territory. We present evidence of Hybern's plans and appeal to their self-interest. None of them want another war."

Rhysand looked both proud and concerned. "They won't trust us enough to attend. Especially not Tamlin, who still believes I stole you."

The mention of the Spring Lord sent a ripple of discomfort through Feyre, but she pushed past it. "Then I'll go to them first. One by one. As the female who broke Amarantha's curse, they'll at least grant me an audience."

Silence met her suggestion. Azriel's shadows darkened, Cassian's jaw clenched, and Mor glanced worriedly at Rhysand, whose face had gone carefully blank.

"Absolutely not," he finally said, his voice deceptively calm.

Feyre squared her shoulders, wings flaring slightly behind her. "You appointed me High Lady. Are we equals or not?"

The question hung in the air between them, a test of everything they had built together. The others discreetly withdrew to the far end of the room, giving them privacy without leaving entirely.

Rhysand's eyes—those star-flecked violet eyes that had once seemed so cold to her—now revealed every emotion he tried to hide: fear for her safety, fierce pride in her courage, and the struggle between his instinct to protect and his promise of partnership.

"We are equals," he said at last, the words both concession and affirmation. "Which is why I'm asking you to consider the risk. If anything happened to you—"

"The same could be said for you," Feyre cut in. "Every day you risk your life for this court, for Velaris. Now it's my turn."

She took his hands, aware of but unconcerned by their audience. "I'm not the broken female who fled the Spring Court anymore. I'm the only one who's lived among humans and Fae, who understands both worlds. The only one who's survived death and returned. If anyone can convince them to unite, it's me."

Something shifted in Rhysand's expression—a yielding, a recognition. He squeezed her hands once before releasing them. "We plan this carefully. You don't go alone. And you start with the court most likely to listen."

"Summer," Feyre said immediately. "Tarquin has reason to fear Hybern more than most, with his coastal territory."

The High Lord of Summer had been kind to her during a brief meeting after Amarantha's defeat—one of the few who had treated her with genuine respect rather than curiosity or disdain. His court, with its sun-warmed shores and sailors who traveled widely, might be receptive to warnings about threats from across the sea.

Plans formed quickly after that. Azriel would go ahead to ensure safe passage and arrange a meeting. Feyre would follow with Rhysand, though he would remain hidden until needed. The goal was simple: convince Tarquin to attend a council of High Lords where they could present evidence of Hybern's activities and forge a defense pact.

As the others dispersed to prepare, Amren remained behind, her ancient eyes assessing Feyre with unnerving intensity.

"Before you go playing ambassador," she said, her voice low and serious, "there's something you need to learn. A power you haven't yet tapped."

Feyre had mastered fire from the Autumn Court, ice from Winter, healing from Day, shapeshifting from Spring, darkness and mind-shielding from Night. But Amren spoke of something else—something tied to the Summer Court whose High Lord they planned to visit.

"Water," Amren said simply. "Not ice, but liquid. The ability to control currents, to breathe beneath waves, to feel the pull of tides in your blood."

They worked through the night in Amren's apartment, the small female driving Feyre relentlessly. By dawn, Feyre could pull moisture from the air, could shape water into forms both beautiful and deadly, could feel the water in living things—a power as terrifying as it was necessary.

"Never use this lightly," Amren warned as Feyre successfully extracted water from a potted plant, leaving it withered. "The power to give life is also the power to take it."

Two days later, Feyre stood on the bow of a Night Court vessel, sailing south toward the Summer Court. Rhysand had winnowed them most of the way, but approaching by sea would be seen as more respectful—less of an intrusion than appearing directly in Tarquin's territory.

The ocean glittered beneath a cloudless sky, the vessel cutting smoothly through gentle waves. Feyre had never seen the sea before coming to Prythian, had never imagined its vastness or beauty. Now she could feel it singing to the power inside her, calling like a distant voice.

Rhysand joined her at the rail, his wings concealed by glamour, his usual black replaced by Navy blue suitable for a diplomatic mission.

"Second thoughts?" he asked, noting her pensive expression.

Feyre shook her head. "Thinking about how far I've come. Less than a year ago, I was starving in a forest, hunting for my family's next meal. Now I'm sailing to negotiate with High Lords."

His hand covered hers on the rail. "You were extraordinary even then. I knew it the moment I saw you Under the Mountain."

The reminder of that dark place no longer brought paralyzing fear, just a hollow ache for all that had been lost there. "You saw me clearly when no one else did," she acknowledged. "Not even myself."

They stood in comfortable silence as the Summer Court's shoreline appeared on the horizon—white sand beaches giving way to terracotta buildings that climbed the coastal hills. Adriata, the coastal capital, gleamed like a jewel in the afternoon sun, its stepped architecture designed to provide ocean views from every level.

As their ship entered the harbor, Feyre felt the subtle shift of magical boundaries being crossed, the sensation familiar from her time moving between courts. The Summer Court's magic felt warm, buoyant, alive with possibility—so different from the heavy sensuality of Spring or the star-kissed darkness of Night.

They were met at the dock by a delegation led by Tarquin himself—a gesture of either great respect or deep suspicion, Feyre couldn't tell which. The High Lord of Summer was as she remembered: tall and lean, his silver-white hair contrasting with deep brown skin, his eyes the precise blue-green of his tropical waters.

"Lady Feyre," he greeted her, bowing with formal precision. His gaze flicked to Rhysand, and his expression cooled several degrees. "Lord Rhysand. This is... unexpected."

Rhysand returned the bow with equal formality. "We appreciate your hospitality, Lord Tarquin. Our visit concerns matters that affect all of Prythian."

Tarquin's guards shifted uneasily, their webbed hands never straying far from their weapons. The tension was palpable, centuries of distrust between courts hanging in the salt-laden air.

"Then we should discuss these matters somewhere more private," Tarquin replied, gesturing toward the city. "Unless you prefer to conduct diplomacy on loading docks."

The Summer Lord's palace perched atop Adriata's highest point, its pale blue stone walls decorated with reliefs of underwater scenes—merfolk, sea creatures, and ships rendered in exquisite detail. Fountains played in every courtyard, their music a constant companion as Tarquin led them through open-air corridors to a meeting room overlooking the bay.

Once they were settled with cool drinks and the doors secured, Tarquin's diplomatic facade fell away, replaced by wary curiosity. "Now, perhaps you'll explain why the Night Court suddenly seeks alliance with Summer—something that hasn't happened in over five centuries."

Feyre exchanged a glance with Rhysand before answering. "Because Hybern has acquired pieces of the Cauldron and intends to break the wall between realms. We have evidence they're already moving forces into position."

She pushed a sealed portfolio across the table—copies of Azriel's intelligence reports, maps marking Hybern troop movements, sketches of the Cauldron's components based on ancient texts. Tarquin examined them with increasing gravity, his webbed fingers careful with the delicate parchment.

"If this is accurate," he said at last, "we have perhaps months before they're ready to strike."

"Less," Rhysand corrected. "Which is why we're proposing a gathering of all seven High Lords to form a united defense."

Tarquin's eyes narrowed. "And you expect centuries of enmity to simply vanish because you ask? The Night Court has not been... friendly to its neighbors."

Here it was—the moment Feyre had prepared for. Taking a deep breath, she said, "What you know of the Night Court is only half the truth. I'd like to show you something, if you'll permit it."

At Tarquin's cautious nod, she reached for his temples, channeling her magic the way Rhysand had taught her. Not to invade his mind, but to share images from her own—visions of Velaris with its Rainbow and riverfront, its citizens living in peace, the Court of Dreams that Rhysand had protected for five thousand years.

When she withdrew, Tarquin sat in stunned silence, reassessing everything he thought he knew about the Night Court.

"For five centuries," Rhysand explained, "I've maintained the facade of the Court of Nightmares to protect Velaris. During Amarantha's reign, I played the villain to keep her attention away from my people. It worked—perhaps too well."

"You've been fighting a different war all this time," Tarquin murmured, understanding dawning. "While we thought you served Amarantha willingly..."

"I did what was necessary," Rhysand said simply, no pride or defensiveness in the statement. Just fact.

Feyre reached across the table, a gesture both diplomatic and personal. "Hybern threatens everything—not just human lands, but all of Prythian. We need each other if we're to survive what's coming."

Tarquin studied her—this female who had been human mere months ago, who had broken a curse he'd believed would last forever, who now sat beside the High Lord of Night as an equal. Whatever he saw in her face must have convinced him, for he nodded slowly.

"Summer will attend your council," he agreed. "And I'll reach out to Helion of Day—he respects me enough to at least listen."

Relief washed through Feyre. Two courts potentially aligned, three more to convince, and one—Spring—that might never join while Tamlin ruled.

As they prepared to depart the next morning, Tarquin presented Feyre with a gift—a circlet of white gold set with sapphires and pearls. "For the Lady who bridges worlds," he said, his formal tone not quite hiding his genuine respect.

The journey to the Winter Court proved more challenging—both in terms of diplomacy and climate. Feyre had never experienced such bone-deep cold, even her Fae body struggling to adapt to Kallias's realm of eternal snow. The Winter Lord himself was as frigid as his territory, his greeting barely civil as Feyre and Rhysand were escorted into his palace of ice.

"You have ten minutes," he informed them, frost literally forming on his breath. "To explain why I shouldn't have you both executed for trespassing."

His hostility stemmed not from the traditional Night-Winter rivalry, Feyre quickly learned, but from deeper wounds. During Amarantha's reign, Rhysand had seemingly betrayed the location of Winter's hidden settlements, resulting in the slaughter of dozens of Kallias's people.

"A necessary evil," Rhysand explained, his voice tight with old guilt. "Amarantha already knew where they were—I gave her the information she already had to maintain my cover and save Velaris from discovery."

Kallias wasn't moved. "You chose your people over mine."

"Yes," Rhysand admitted, no excuses offered. "Just as you would have done reversed. But now Hybern threatens all our people."

The frosty standoff might have ended in failure if not for Feyre's unexpected connection with Viviane, Kallias's mate and the Lady of Winter. The female had experienced Amarantha's cruelty firsthand and recognized the same shadows in Feyre's eyes.

"We should listen," she urged her mate, her hand on his ice-encrusted sleeve. "At least see their evidence."

Though Kallias remained cold in every sense, he eventually agreed to attend the council—"To hear all sides, not because I trust the Night Court."

The Dawn Court followed, Lord Thesan intrigued enough by Feyre's unique magic to grant them audience, his healer's instincts recognizing the threat Hybern posed to the balance of power in Prythian.

Each court brought new challenges, each High Lord different wounds from Amarantha's reign that colored their view of the Night Court. Yet slowly, painfully, Feyre and Rhysand built a fragile coalition—not friendship or even true alliance yet, but willingness to meet, to listen, to consider common defense against a greater threat.

The Day Court was perhaps the strangest experience for Feyre. Helion, the High Lord of Day, received them in a library vast enough to make the one in Velaris seem modest. Surrounded by ancient texts and magical artifacts, the golden-skinned lord regarded them with equal parts amusement and calculation.

"So the Cursebreaker and the Deceiver come seeking friendship," he mused, lounging on a divan like a great cat. "How entertainingly unprecedented."

Unlike the other High Lords, Helion seemed neither surprised by their mission nor particularly concerned by Hybern's threat. When Feyre presented their evidence, he merely nodded as if confirming something he already knew.

"The Cauldron has been stirring for months," he said, gesturing to a text written in a language Feyre couldn't decipher. "Its magic leaves... ripples for those who know how to feel them."

What truly interested Helion, however, was Feyre herself—or more specifically, her unique magical inheritance. "Seven magics in one vessel," he mused, circling her with scholarly interest. "Unprecedented. Fascinating. I wonder what would happen if..."

Before either Feyre or Rhysand could react, Helion sent a pulse of pure, concentrated sunlight directly at her. Acting on instinct, Feyre deflected it—not with a shield of darkness as Rhysand might have done, but by splitting the light into a rainbow that scattered harmlessly across the library.

Helion laughed in genuine delight. "Magnificent! You've mastered Day Court magic without training." His gold eyes flicked to Rhysand. "She's wasted on you, Night Lord. Think of what she could learn here."

Rhysand's expression remained neutral, but Feyre felt his tension through their bond. Before he could respond, she stepped forward. "I'm not 'on' anyone, Lord Helion. I am High Lady of the Night Court, equal to my mate in all respects."

Stunned silence followed her declaration. No female had ever claimed the title of High Lady—it simply didn't exist in Prythian's power structure.

Helion's surprise gave way to thoughtful reassessment. "High Lady," he repeated, testing the words. "How delightfully revolutionary of you, Rhysand."

He agreed to attend the council, his curiosity about Feyre clearly outweighing any reluctance to ally with Night. As they prepared to leave, he presented Feyre with a gift—a small golden sphere that, when activated, would illuminate any falsehood spoken in its presence.

"For your council," he explained with a wink. "Some of your guests may not be as forthcoming as diplomacy requires."

The Autumn Court proved nearly impossible. Beron, oldest and most conservative of the High Lords, refused them entry to his fiery realm entirely. His son Eris—Mor's former betrothed and a source of ancient pain for the Inner Circle—met them instead at a border outpost, his fox-like features set in cool disdain.

"Father says he'll consider your council, but makes no promises," Eris informed them, clearly enjoying his role as messenger. "He finds it... curious... that Night suddenly cares about the welfare of other courts."

Rhysand, who had maintained remarkable diplomatic restraint throughout their tour of Prythian, nearly lost his composure when Eris's gaze lingered too long on Feyre. Only her hand on his arm prevented what might have become a diplomatic disaster.

"Please convey our thanks to Lord Beron for considering our invitation," she said, channeling calm through their bond. "The council will be held at neutral ground—the Dawn Court has offered their territory as meeting place."

Eris's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I'll pass along the message. Though I should warn you—Father is particularly interested in your... unique situation, Lady Feyre. A former human now claiming to be High Lady. Most irregular."

The undercurrent of threat in his words wasn't lost on either of them. As they departed the Autumn border, Rhysand's wings—now visible with no need for pretense—mantled with suppressed anger.

"Beron will try to undermine you at the council," he warned. "He's the oldest High Lord and views himself as the guardian of tradition. A female with power equal to his is anathema to everything he believes."

Feyre nodded, mulling over the challenge. "Then we make sure the others accept me before he can object. Starting with Tarquin and Helion—they're already receptive."

Five courts convinced or at least willing to attend. One likely to oppose them regardless. And one—Spring—that they had deliberately left for last.

As their ship sailed toward the Spring Court's territory, Feyre stood at the bow, her heart racing with emotions she'd thought long resolved. Memories of her time with Tamlin—both the joy of their early days and the suffocation of their final months—washed over her like the waves beating against the hull.

Rhysand joined her, his presence a steady anchor. "We don't have to do this," he said quietly. "Tarquin could approach him instead."

Feyre shook her head. "No. This needs to come from me." She turned to face her mate, drawing strength from the bond between them. "Whatever happened between Tamlin and me doesn't matter now. What matters is Prythian's survival."

The Spring Court's lush coastline came into view, eternally verdant despite the season. Somewhere beyond those flower-covered cliffs was the manor where Feyre had once believed she would spend eternity as Tamlin's bride. Now she returned not as his betrothed, but as High Lady of the Night Court, mate to a male he considered his greatest enemy.

Rhysand's hand found hers as the ship dropped anchor in a sheltered cove. "Together," he reminded her. "Whatever happens, we face it together."

Feyre squared her shoulders, her iridescent wings—hidden now by glamour—phantom weight on her back, reminding her of how far she had come. "Together," she agreed. "Always."

As they prepared to disembark, a contingent of Spring Court sentries appeared on the shore, armed and wary. At their center stood a familiar red-haired male—Lucien, Tamlin's emissary and Feyre's former friend. His mechanical eye whirred as it focused on her, his organic eye widening in what might have been relief or concern.

The final test of Feyre's diplomacy—and perhaps her hardest challenge yet—awaited on the shore of her former home.

Chapter 6 Spring's Thorns and Autumn's Fire

The Spring Court's eternal warmth washed over Feyre as she stepped from the ship onto familiar shore. Wildflowers carpeted the ground between sentries' boots, their fragrance a painful reminder of happier days. Lucien approached alone, his movements cautious as if approaching a wild animal that might either bolt or attack.

"Feyre," he said, his voice carefully neutral. The red-haired emissary looked thinner than she remembered, shadows beneath his russet eye suggesting sleepless nights. His mechanical eye clicked and whirred as it assessed Rhysand, who remained a step behind her.

"Lucien," she replied, keeping her own tone measured. "Thank you for meeting us."

An awkward silence stretched between them, months of unspoken words creating an invisible barrier. This male had been her first friend in the Fae realm, had taught her about Prythian when she was still human and frightened. Yet he had also stood by while Tamlin locked her away, had chosen loyalty to his High Lord over her wellbeing.

"He's been looking for you," Lucien finally said. "Since the day you disappeared. Half the court is permanently assigned to the search."

Guilt flickered through Feyre, not for leaving, but for how her departure had affected those like Lucien caught in Tamlin's single-minded obsession. "I'm sorry it's been difficult for you. But I'm not here about that. We need to speak with Tamlin about Hybern."

Lucien's good eye widened. "You know about Hybern?"

Something in his reaction sent warning signals through Feyre's mind. She glanced at Rhysand, whose slight nod confirmed he'd noticed too.

"That's why we're here," she said carefully. "The King of Hybern has the Cauldron and plans to break the wall. We're organizing a council of High Lords to coordinate Prythian's defense."

Lucien's face went through a complex series of emotions—surprise, alarm, and something that looked almost like relief before settling into grim resignation. "Then you'd better come with me. But I should warn you—things have changed since you left."

The Spring Court manor came into view as they crested a hill, its white stone walls gleaming in perpetual sunshine. Feyre's breath caught at the sight—not from nostalgia, but shock at the fortress it had become. The gardens once tended with loving care now grew wild and tangled, while armed sentries patrolled in numbers she'd never seen before. What had once been open balconies were now enclosed behind iron bars, and the once-welcoming main entrance was guarded by a dozen armed Fae.

"What happened?" she whispered, unable to reconcile this martial compound with the place she'd once called home.

Lucien's face was grim. "Tamlin... hasn't been himself since you left. He's convinced Rhysand bewitched you, that you're being held against your will. Anyone suggesting otherwise has been banished."

Including Alis, he didn't need to add. Feyre's heart ached for the prickly servant who had been kind to her, who had warned her about Tamlin's possessiveness, who had likely paid the price for speaking truth.

Sentries stiffened as they approached, weapons halfway drawn before Lucien waved them down. "The High Lord is expecting us," he announced, though Feyre suspected this wasn't entirely true.

The manor's interior was both familiar and strange—the same soaring ceilings and marble floors, but now decorated with maps pinned to walls and weapons stacked in corners. The scent of roses that had once permeated every room was replaced by the metallic tang of armor and the sweat of too many soldiers confined in too small a space.

Lucien led them to Tamlin's study, pausing outside the carved wooden doors. "Let me speak to him first," he suggested, his voice low. "He doesn't know you're here, and the shock..."

Feyre nodded, steeling herself for the confrontation to come. Through the bond, she felt Rhysand's steady presence, his silent support. I'm right here, his voice whispered in her mind. Say the word and we leave.

We need him, she replied silently. Or at least need him not to ally with Hybern.

Lucien disappeared into the study, the door closing behind him. Muffled voices filtered through—Tamlin's deeper tones rising in what sounded like anger, followed by Lucien's more measured response. When the doors finally reopened, Lucien's expression was tightly controlled.

"He'll see you," was all he said.

Tamlin stood by the window, his back to the door, shoulders rigid beneath a formal green jacket. The study looked much as Feyre remembered, except for one wall now covered with maps of the Night Court, red pins marking locations she recognized as Velaris and the House of Wind. Her stomach twisted at the realization—he had been planning an invasion.

"Tamlin," she said quietly.

He turned slowly, and Feyre barely suppressed a gasp. The handsome High Lord of Spring had transformed in the months since she'd left. His golden hair hung limp and unwashed, his face gaunt with new hollows beneath his cheekbones. But it was his eyes that shocked her most—once vibrantly green, they now burned with feverish intensity, bloodshot and wild.

"Feyre," he breathed, her name both prayer and accusation on his lips. His gaze flickered to Rhysand and darkened with hatred. "You dare bring him here? To my home?"

She stepped forward, keeping her voice calm and diplomatic. "We've come about Hybern, Tamlin. The king has the Cauldron and plans to destroy the wall. All of Prythian is in danger."

Tamlin's laugh held no humor, a harsh sound that seemed to scrape his throat raw. "Now I understand. He's convinced you the boogeyman is coming so you'll stay docile. Clever."

"This isn't a trick," Feyre insisted, frustration bleeding into her tone despite her best efforts. "We have evidence. Tarquin has already agreed to a council of High Lords to discuss unified defense. So have Thesan, Kallias, and Helion."

At the mention of the other High Lords, something shifted in Tamlin's expression—calculation replacing blind rage. He moved to his desk, each movement carefully controlled as if he might shatter with too sudden a gesture.

"Let me see this... evidence."

Rhysand stepped forward, producing the portfolio they had shown the other High Lords. Tamlin snatched it from his hands, leafing through troop movements and spymaster reports with growing agitation.

"These could be fabricated," he finally said, though with less conviction than before.

"They're not," Feyre replied. "And deep down, you know it." She hesitated, then added, "I understand why you don't trust Rhysand. But do you truly believe I would lie about something that threatens my sisters? My father? Everyone still living in the human lands?"

The mention of her human family seemed to reach him in a way nothing else had. Tamlin's gaze softened fractionally as he studied her face—really seeing her for perhaps the first time since her arrival. What he observed appeared to trouble him: not just her physical transformation into High Fae, but the confidence in her bearing, the resolve in her eyes, the absence of the broken, traumatized female he had tried to protect by caging.

"You look... well," he said awkwardly.

"I am well," she confirmed, neither boastful nor apologetic. "But that's not why we're here. Will you attend the council, Tamlin? Prythian needs all seven High Lords united against this threat."

He was silent for a long moment, conflict evident in every line of his body. When he finally spoke, his words chilled Feyre to the bone.

"It's too late," he said quietly. "Hybern is already here."

Shock rippled through the room. Rhysand went perfectly still beside her, while Lucien seemed to crumple slightly against the wall.

"What do you mean, 'already here'?" Feyre demanded, dread pooling in her stomach.

"The King of Hybern sent emissaries three months ago," Tamlin explained, his voice oddly detached. "After you disappeared. He offered an alliance—his forces would help me recover you from the Night Court, and in exchange..."

"In exchange for what?" Rhysand's voice was deadly quiet.

Tamlin met his ancient enemy's gaze without flinching. "Access to certain points along the wall. Just enough to allow small forces through—to find Feyre's sisters and use them as leverage to make her return willingly."

The room temperature plummeted as Feyre's Winter Court magic responded to her horror. Frost crackled across the study floor, climbing the walls in delicate, deadly patterns. "You sold out my sisters? My family?"

"To save you!" Tamlin roared, his own magic flaring in response, vines bursting through floorboards. "He convinced me you were enchanted, imprisoned! What wouldn't I do to free you?"

Rhysand's hand on her shoulder steadied Feyre, his touch grounding her enough to rein in her magic before it could trigger Tamlin's berserker transformation. Through their bond flowed not just comfort but strategic calculation—they needed information more than vengeance right now.

"Where are the Hybern forces now?" she asked, each word precisely controlled. "Have they moved against the human lands yet?"

Tamlin's expression darkened with what might have been shame. "Two legions crossed three weeks ago. They're moving toward the human city near your family estate."

Nesta and Elain. Her father. All in imminent danger because of her, because of Tamlin's obsession, because of a conflict centuries in the making. The room swam before Feyre's eyes, panic threatening to overwhelm her until Rhysand's voice cut through the chaos in her mind.

Breathe, Feyre darling. We'll reach them in time.

Lucien stepped forward, his mechanical eye clicking rapidly. "Tamlin, you have to tell them the rest. About what the king really wants."

The High Lord of Spring shot his emissary a venomous look before slumping into his chair, suddenly appearing older than his immortal years. "The Cauldron needs power to break the wall completely. Seven sources of power, to be exact." His eyes lifted to Feyre's. "The king doesn't just want your sisters as bait. He wants them for the Cauldron."

"Human females of particular lineage," Rhysand murmured, ancient knowledge surfacing in his voice. "To feed the Cauldron's hunger before it can unmake the wall."

Feyre felt ill. While she had been healing in Velaris, learning to fly and paint and fight, her sisters had been marked for sacrifice by an ancient king because of blood they carried—her blood.

"We need to warn them," she said, already turning toward the door. "Get them to safety."

"Wait." Tamlin rose from his chair, desperation etched in every line of his face. "Let me help. I made this mistake—let me try to fix it."

Rhysand's expression was coldly incredulous. "You betrayed all of Prythian for your obsession with my mate, and now you expect us to trust you?"

"Your mate?" Tamlin's roar shook the room, picture frames crashing to the floor as his power lashed out. His hands began to elongate into claws, fur sprouting along his arms as the beast form threatened to emerge.

Feyre stepped between the High Lords, her own power rising to the surface—darkness from Night spiraling around one hand, Spring's shapeshifting magic around the other. "Stop," she commanded, her voice ringing with authority that surprised even her. "Both of you. My sisters are what matter now."

Surprisingly, both males subsided, though the tension between them remained thick enough to cut. Feyre turned to Tamlin, forcing herself to speak calmly despite the betrayal burning through her veins.

"You will attend the council at Dawn Court in three days' time. You will bring everything you know about Hybern's forces and plans. And you will help us forge a unified defense." She paused, letting the weight of her next words settle. "Or I swear by the Mother, Tamlin, I will ensure there is no Spring Court left for you to rule when this war is done."

He flinched as if struck, but slowly nodded. "I'll be there."

Feyre turned to Lucien, whose face reflected both fear and grudging admiration. "We leave for the human lands immediately. My sisters need warning."

"I'm coming with you," he said, with such conviction that Feyre blinked in surprise.

Rhysand's disapproval flowed through their bond, but she ignored it. Despite everything, Lucien had been her friend once. And they needed all the allies they could get.

"Then pack quickly," she replied. "We leave in ten minutes."

The journey to the human lands was a blur of desperate winnowing, Rhysand pushing his considerable power to transport all three of them across vast distances. They stopped only when he needed to recover strength, Feyre pacing anxiously during each break, counting seconds until they could move again.

They crossed the wall near dawn, the ancient barrier humming with magic that recognized Feyre as one who had crossed before. The familiar rolling hills of her homeland stretched before them, morning mist clinging to valleys like ghostly lakes.

"Your family's estate is two hours northeast," Lucien reminded her, pointing toward distant woodland.

Feyre shook her head. "They won't be there. After I left, my father used the money I sent to move them to a house in town." She pointed toward the smudge of gray on the horizon—the human city where Nesta and Elain now lived in relative comfort, unaware of the danger approaching.

As they drew closer to the city, evidence of Hybern's passage became clear—trampled fields, abandoned farmhouses, livestock slaughtered not for food but sport. Feyre's heart raced with dread, her wings—visible now with no humans nearby to see—mantling with protective instinct.

They reached the city outskirts by mid-morning, finding it in a state of chaotic evacuation. Humans loaded wagons with possessions, children cried as they clutched treasured toys, militia members distributed weapons to untrained civilians. No one paid attention to three hooded figures slipping through crowded streets—even in crisis, humans instinctively avoided looking too closely at Fae.

Feyre led them to a neat townhouse on what had once been a fashionable street, now half-deserted as wealthier residents fled. She hesitated at the door, suddenly uncertain. What would her sisters think of her now, transformed not just physically into High Fae, but in every other way? Would they even recognize her?

Rhysand squeezed her hand in silent support before she knocked. Long seconds passed before the door cracked open, revealing her middle sister's face—Elain, sweet-natured and gentle, her brown eyes widening in shock.

"Feyre?" she breathed, the door swinging wider. "Feyre, is it really you?"

Before she could answer, another female appeared behind Elain—taller, sharper in every way, with their mother's ice-blue eyes and their father's stubborn chin. Nesta took one look at Feyre and her companions, noted their pointed ears and inhuman grace, and tried to slam the door.

"Wait!" Feyre wedged her foot in the doorway, wincing as the heavy oak connected with it. "Nesta, please. You're in danger. All of you."

"Because of you and your kind," Nesta spat, still trying to close the door. "The whole city is talking about demons in the countryside, villages burned, people missing—and now you show up?"

"Those aren't my people," Feyre insisted. "They're from Hybern, and they're coming specifically for you and Elain. Please, we need to get you somewhere safe."

Something in her tone—or perhaps the desperate sincerity in her eyes—made Nesta pause. She studied her youngest sister with that penetrating gaze that had always made Feyre feel transparent.

"You've changed," she finally said, her tone unreadable.

"Yes." No point denying the obvious. "But I'm still your sister. And I'm trying to save your life."

Elain's gentle hand settled on Nesta's arm. "Let them in," she urged. "People are staring."

Indeed, despite the evacuation chaos, several neighbors had paused to watch the strange confrontation. With a sound of disgust, Nesta released the door, allowing them inside the modest but well-appointed home.

Feyre's father was absent—gone to arrange transport out of the city, Elain explained as she nervously offered tea to visitors she clearly feared despite her courteous instincts. Nesta remained standing, arms crossed, suspicion radiating from every line of her body.

"You have ten minutes to explain," she informed Feyre. "Then you're leaving—with or without us."

Feyre laid out the situation as concisely as possible—Hybern's forces hunting specifically for Nesta and Elain, the danger to all humans if the wall fell completely, the need to reach safety beyond the king's reach.

"Why us?" Elain asked, her normally rosy complexion pale with fear. "We're nobody important."

"Because of your bloodline," Rhysand answered when Feyre hesitated. "Your mother's lineage contains traces of ancient power. The King of Hybern needs that for his ritual."

Nesta's laugh was brittle as breaking ice. "Our mother was a frivolous spendthrift who abandoned us to poverty. The only 'power' in her blood was the ability to spend Father's fortune."

"Nevertheless," Lucien interjected, speaking for the first time since entering the house, "the king's forces will find you within days. They're less than an hour from the city now."

Something strange happened as Lucien spoke. Elain, who had been staring at her teacup, suddenly looked up as if pulled by invisible strings. Her eyes met Lucien's mismatched gaze, and both of them went perfectly still, color draining from Elain's face while Lucien's russet skin flushed darker.

Feyre felt it through her own mating bond—the unmistakable snap of connection, of puzzle pieces clicking into place. Her gentle sister and Tamlin's emissary... mates.

"Cauldron boil me," Lucien whispered, his voice strangled.

Nesta glanced between them, her eyes narrowing. "What's happening? Elain?"

But Elain seemed incapable of speech, her breath coming in short gasps as she stared at Lucien with a mixture of fear and wonder. Rhysand's hand settled on Feyre's shoulder, a silent warning not to interfere as the two newly-discovered mates struggled with the first shocking recognition.

The moment shattered as horns blared through the city—warning signals from the walls. Lucien tore his gaze from Elain, his expression shifting to urgent focus. "They're here," he said grimly. "Hybern's forces have reached the city."

Nesta abandoned her suspicion in the face of immediate threat. "Get your cloak, Elain. And the emergency bag by the door." When her sister didn't move, still staring at Lucien, Nesta physically turned her away from him. "Elain! Focus!"

Feyre moved to the window, pushing aside heavy curtains to see panicked humans running through the streets. In the distance, black smoke rose from the city walls—Hybern's forces breaching the meager defenses. They had minutes, not hours.

"We need to winnow them out now," she told Rhysand, who nodded grimly.

"Back to Velaris," he agreed. "It's the only place with shields strong enough to hide them."

Lucien stepped forward. "I can take Elain." The intensity in his voice made clear he would accept no argument, not when his mate's safety was at stake.

Rhysand assessed him with cool calculation before nodding. "Feyre and I will take Nesta and meet you there."

But Nesta, returning with cloaks and a small bag of essentials, shook her head firmly. "We're not leaving without Father."

"There's no time," Feyre insisted, grabbing her sister's arm. "Once you're safe, we'll come back for him."

Nesta yanked free, blue eyes flashing with that familiar stubborn fire. "I did not drag this family from poverty just to abandon him now. He went to the eastern gate to secure passage out. It's not far."

Feyre looked to Rhysand, a silent plea in her eyes. We can't leave him.

His sigh was barely audible. Of course not. Family is family.

"Lucien," he said aloud, "take Elain to the meeting point we discussed. We'll find their father and meet you there."

The redheaded male nodded, approaching Elain with cautious movements, as if afraid she might bolt. "I need to hold you to winnow," he explained gently. "I promise no harm will come to you."

Elain looked to Feyre, who nodded encouragement. "He'll protect you with his life," she assured her sister. "And we'll be right behind you with Father."

With visible reluctance, Elain allowed Lucien to wrap an arm around her waist. "Ready?" he asked softly. At her jerky nod, shadows enveloped them, and they vanished—Lucien's considerable power as High Lord's son carrying them toward safety.

"Now Father," Nesta said, her tone brooking no argument. "Eastern gate. He said he'd be at the Rose and Crown tavern if the city was breached."

They moved swiftly through increasingly chaotic streets, Rhysand's magic deflecting attention from their small group as humans fled in the opposite direction. The sounds of fighting grew louder—shouts, screams, the clash of weapons, and occasionally the distinctive crackle of Fae magic meeting human iron.

The Rose and Crown stood at a crossroads near the eastern gate, its tavern sign creaking in the wind. The establishment was deserted save for a lone figure sitting at a corner table—a middle-aged man with a weathered face and the same blue-gray eyes as Feyre. Her father, once handsome and proud, now bearing the permanent stoop of one who has known poverty's weight.

"Father," Nesta called, relief evident in her voice.

He rose quickly, astonishment crossing his features as he saw Feyre. "You've returned," he said, voice hoarse with emotion. "But you're—" He stopped, noting her transformed appearance with confusion.

"There's no time to explain," Feyre told him, emotion threatening to overwhelm her at this unexpected reunion. "Hostile Fae are attacking the city. We need to get you all to safety."

Her father's eyes darted to Rhysand, taking in his clearly inhuman features with remarkable calm. "You're one of them now," he said to Feyre, not a question but a statement of fact.

"Yes," she replied simply.

He nodded once, accepting this impossible truth with surprising equanimity. "Then I trust you know what you're doing." He gathered his walking stick and a small pack. "I secured a wagon, but if your way is faster..."

A deafening crash interrupted as something massive hit the tavern's outer wall. Dust rained from the ceiling as the building shuddered. Through the windows, Feyre glimpsed scaled, reptilian creatures moving down the street—Hybern's foot soldiers, with human bodies but crocodilian heads, wielding curved blades that gleamed with unnatural light.

"We're out of time," Rhysand said, voice tight. "We winnow from here."

He extended one hand to Nesta, who hesitated only briefly before taking it. Feyre reached for her father, when the tavern door burst open, revealing a tall Fae male in black armor lined with green—Hybern's colors. His silver hair gleamed in the dusty light, his smile cruel as his gaze settled on Nesta.

"Found you," he purred, magic gathering at his fingertips. "The king will be most pleased."

Feyre reacted instinctively, Night Court darkness extending from her hands like twin blades. She pushed her father behind her as Rhysand's power lashed out, catching the Hybern commander in a mental grip that froze him in place.

"Go!" Rhysand ordered, strain evident in his voice as he held the powerful Fae immobile. "Take them and go, Feyre!"

"Not without you," she countered, reaching for her mate even as she maintained her hold on her father and sister.

The commander's face contorted with effort as he fought Rhysand's mental grip. More Hybern soldiers appeared in the doorway behind him, their reptilian eyes fixing on the humans with predatory focus.

Feyre made her decision in a heartbeat. Drawing on every ounce of power she possessed, she wrapped darkness around all four of them—herself, Rhysand, Nesta, and her father. For one terrifying moment, nothing happened as she strained against the limitations of her still-developing abilities.

Then, just as the commander broke free of Rhysand's hold, the darkness condensed and they vanished—not to Velaris, which was too far for Feyre's novice winnowing, but to the pre-arranged meeting point just beyond the wall, where Lucien waited with Elain.

They materialized in a clearing bordered by ancient oaks, Feyre immediately collapsing to her knees, the effort of winnowing four people having drained her completely. Rhysand steadied her with a hand on her shoulder, his pride flowing through their bond despite his own exhaustion.

"You did it," he murmured, helping her to her feet.

Lucien and Elain rushed forward from where they had been waiting beneath the trees, relief evident on both their faces. But as Feyre caught her breath and looked around, cold dread washed through her.

"Where's Nesta?" she demanded, spinning in a circle as if her eldest sister might be hiding among the trees. "Where is she?"

Her father's face had gone ashen. "She was right beside me when you... when we disappeared."

Rhysand closed his eyes, extending his considerable mental powers to search the area. When he opened them again, his expression confirmed Feyre's worst fears.

"She didn't make it through," he said quietly. "Hybern has her."

The words fell like stones into the sudden silence of the clearing. Elain's soft sob broke through Feyre's shock, followed by her father's hoarse denial. But Feyre heard nothing but the roaring in her ears, felt nothing but the icy determination crystallizing in her veins.

She turned to Rhysand, her voice steady despite the storm raging within. "We get her back. Now."

His violet eyes reflected her own resolve. "We will. But not alone, and not without planning." He gestured to her father and Elain, both clearly in shock. "They need protection first. Then we gather the High Lords, as planned."

"And if Hybern kills her before then?" Feyre demanded, darkness spiraling around her fingers as her control frayed.

Lucien stepped forward, his mechanical eye whirring rapidly. "They won't kill her. They need her alive for the Cauldron ritual." His gaze shifted to Elain, protective instinct evident in every line of his body. "We have time, but not much."

Three days until the council of High Lords. Three days while Nesta remained Hybern's captive. Three days to prepare for war.

Feyre straightened, wings flaring behind her. She was no longer the helpless human who had stumbled across the wall in desperate poverty. She was High Lady of the Night Court, with the power of seven courts flowing through her veins. And she would tear apart anyone who threatened her family.

"To Velaris," she agreed, steel in her voice. "And then to war."

Chapter 7 The High Lords' Council

Dawn Court's central palace perched atop a mountain crest that caught the first rays of sunlight each morning, its rose-colored marble gleaming like fire as Feyre and Rhysand landed on the grand eastern terrace. Behind them, members of the Night Court delegation followed—Cassian and Azriel controlling their descent with powerful Illyrian wings, Mor and Amren arrived via winnowing close behind.

Three days had passed since Nesta's capture—three days of frantic preparation, of securing Elain and Feyre's father in Velaris's most protected district, of gathering intelligence about Hybern's movements, of Feyre pacing sleeplessly through the House of Wind as guilt and rage warred within her.

Now, as representatives from all seven courts gathered for an unprecedented council, Feyre felt strangely calm. The storm of emotion had crystallized into cold resolve, her purpose clear as the Dawn Court's mountain air.

"They've all come," Mor murmured, scanning the assembled delegations with practiced diplomatic assessment. "Even Beron brought a full contingent."

Indeed, the terrace and adjoining great hall bustled with activity as High Lords and their retinues arrived. Tarquin of Summer Court stood with his blue-skinned captain of the guard, their white hair gleaming in the morning light. Helion of Day Court had arrived with an entourage of scholars bearing ancient texts. Kallias and his mate Viviane represented Winter, while Thesan, High Lord of Dawn and their host, personally greeted each arrival with reserved cordiality.

Beron of Autumn Court kept to one corner, his fox-like features set in permanent disdain, flanked by his coldly elegant wife and their sons—including Eris, whose calculated gaze lingered too long on Mor before shifting to assess the Night Court's military strength.

And there, arriving with minimal fanfare but maximum tension, came Tamlin. The High Lord of Spring looked marginally better than during their confrontation at his manor, though shadows still haunted his eyes. Lucien accompanied him, the emissary's attention immediately seeking out Elain, who had insisted on attending despite the danger.

The human-turned-High-Fae sister stood beside Feyre now, pale but determined, her delicate beauty drawing stares from Fae who had rarely encountered mortals. Since their escape from the human lands, Elain had withdrawn into silent watchfulness, speaking only when necessary, her awareness seemingly divided between the physical world and something only she could perceive.

Feyre squeezed her sister's hand reassuringly. "Remember, you don't have to speak. Just stay close to me or Lucien."

Elain nodded, her brown eyes momentarily focusing. "Nesta is still alive," she said simply, the first time she'd mentioned their captured sister since arriving in Velaris. "I can feel her."

Before Feyre could question this unexpected statement, Thesan approached, his golden-brown wings folded neatly behind him in formal posture. As one of the few High Lords with wings—a trait of the Dawn Court's Peregryns—he had arranged the meeting space to accommodate various Fae physiologies.

"High Lord Rhysand," he greeted with a bow. His eyes shifted to Feyre, curious rather than dismissive. "And Lady Feyre. Dawn Court welcomes you."

"High Lady Feyre," Rhysand corrected smoothly, the simple statement sending a ripple of surprise through nearby attendees. "My equal and mate."

Thesan blinked, centuries of diplomatic training barely concealing his shock. "High Lady," he amended, bowing again with perhaps more genuine respect. "An historic honor."

As their host escorted them toward the council chamber—a circular room with a massive round table carved from a single piece of ancient heartwood—Feyre caught fragments of whispers trailing in their wake.

"—High Lady? Impossible—"

"—the human girl who broke the curse—"

"—mated to Night after being promised to Spring—"

She straightened her shoulders, the midnight blue of her formal attire—neither dress nor traditional male clothing, but a beautifully tailored hybrid allowing freedom of movement—making a statement of its own. The delicate silver circlet on her brow, marked with the three-star insignia of the Night Court, completed the message: she stood as ruler, not consort.

The council chamber gradually filled, High Lords taking positions around the table with their most trusted advisors behind them. Rhysand and Feyre sat together, their delegation arrayed strategically—Cassian and Azriel flanking them with military precision, Mor positioned to monitor diplomatic nuances, Amren slightly apart, her ancient power serving as silent warning to any who might consider aggression.

Tension crackled through the chamber as Tamlin entered, his green eyes fixing on Feyre with an unreadable expression before he took his place directly across from the Night Court delegation. Lucien stood at his shoulder, though the emissary's gaze repeatedly drifted to Elain, who remained close to Feyre's side.

When all were assembled, Thesan rose, his wings catching the light streaming through high windows. "We gather in unprecedented circumstance," he began, voice carrying effortlessly. "For the first time since the Treaty, all seven courts of Prythian convene not for celebration or ceremony, but because of grave threat. High Lord Rhysand and High Lady Feyre have called this council to address Hybern's aggression."

He gestured to the Night Court rulers, yielding the floor. Rhysand remained seated as Feyre stood—a calculated decision to establish her authority from the outset.

"Three days ago," she began without preamble, "forces from Hybern breached the wall and attacked a human settlement. They specifically targeted my family, capturing my sister Nesta Archeron for use in a ritual involving the Cauldron."

Her clear voice betrayed none of the anguish that had kept her awake these past nights. "This was not an isolated incident. For months, Hybern has gathered armies, acquired pieces of the Cauldron, and prepared to destroy the wall permanently."

She nodded to Azriel, who distributed detailed reports to each High Lord—maps showing troop movements, witness accounts, and summaries of intelligence gathered by the Night Court's extensive spy network.

"The threat is not only to human lands," Feyre continued as they examined the documents. "Hybern intends to conquer Prythian itself, beginning with coastal territories."

Tarquin straightened, his sea-blue eyes narrowing as he studied projected invasion routes that cut directly through his Summer Court. "These reports suggest they'll make landfall within weeks."

"Sooner," Cassian interjected, the Illyrian commander's voice rough with urgency. "Our latest intelligence indicates accelerated timetables. The first wave could reach Summer's shores within days."

Murmurs of alarm spread around the table. Beron of Autumn scoffed audibly, his flame-red robes shifting as he leaned forward. "Convenient that Night Court intelligence reveals threats requiring unified action—under whose leadership, I wonder?"

"Question my motives all you wish," Rhysand replied with deceptive mildness, "but the evidence stands. Hybern moves against all of us."

"Perhaps," Helion of Day Court drawled, golden jewelry gleaming against his dark skin, "some among us already knew of these movements." His piercing gaze shifted to Tamlin. "There are rumors, Spring Lord, of your... arrangements with Hybern."

All eyes turned to Tamlin, whose face remained impassive despite the accusation. The tension in the room thickened, power gathering around several High Lords as ancient rivalries threatened to overshadow immediate dangers.

"I made a mistake," Tamlin said finally, each word seemingly dragged from him against his will. "Hybern approached after Feyre was taken." He refused to look at Rhysand as he spoke. "They offered alliance, promising to help recover her in exchange for small concessions regarding the wall."

"'Small concessions' that have resulted in my sister's capture and human villages destroyed," Feyre said, ice edging her words.

Tamlin's eyes finally met hers, regret visible beneath his pride. "I did not know their true intentions until too late. I have since rejected the alliance and withdrawn my forces from joint operations."

"Convenient timing," Cassian muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

Before Tamlin could respond, Kallias of Winter Court tapped the table with frost-pale fingers. "Spring's mistakes aside, we need to address immediate threats. If Hybern truly possesses the Cauldron and intends to use it against the wall, what defense do we propose?"

The conversation shifted to military strategies, Cassian and Azriel outlining potential defensive positions while each court assessed what forces they could contribute. Summer and Winter, with their vulnerable coastlines, pledged their naval resources. Day Court offered powerful spellcasters, while Dawn promised aerial forces—the Peregryn warriors whose wings and light-based magic made them exceptional scouts.

Autumn Court's commitment remained frustratingly vague, Beron offering only "what can be reasonably spared," despite controlling the largest standing army after Night. Spring's forces were in disarray, though Tamlin pledged what sentries could be mobilized quickly.

As the military discussion continued, Feyre noticed Elain growing increasingly agitated beside her, her sister's hands trembling as they clutched the fabric of her dress. When she placed a concerned hand on Elain's arm, she found the skin cold as ice.

"What's wrong?" she whispered, as Cassian continued explaining proposed defensive lines.

Elain's eyes, when they met Feyre's, seemed distant and unfocused. "The Cauldron," she murmured. "It's awakening. I can hear it... calling."

A chill ran through Feyre at the strange words. Before she could question further, Elain stood abruptly, drawing every eye in the chamber. The gentle sister who normally shrank from attention now seemed unaware of the startled High Lords as she spoke in a voice not entirely her own.

"The King repairs the final piece today. When the three stars align over the sacred island, he will use the blood of the human Made to break the wall forever."

Stunned silence followed this pronouncement. Lucien moved first, crossing to Elain's side as she swayed slightly, his expression torn between concern and awe. "She sees true," he said quietly. "The mating bond... I can feel it."

"Mating bond?" Beron's sharp voice cut through the chamber. "My son, bound to a human?"

"Former human," Lucien corrected, a rare flash of defiance directed at his father. "And yes, she is my mate."

This revelation might have dominated discussion if not for the urgency of Elain's prophecy. Amren stepped forward, her quicksilver eyes fixed on Elain with ancient recognition.

"She's a Seer," the small, powerful female declared. "The trauma of near-capture awakened the gift in her blood."

Feyre steadied her sister as Elain blinked, seeming to return to herself with no memory of her declaration. "What did I say?" she whispered, shrinking back from the staring High Lords.

"Something important," Feyre assured her, helping her back to her seat. She turned to address the council, authority ringing in her voice. "We now have a timeline. The three stars Elain mentioned—the Celestial Crown—align over the island of Hybern in three nights."

"Three nights to prepare for full-scale invasion," Cassian said grimly.

"And three nights to rescue my sister before she's sacrificed to the Cauldron."

Rhysand rose then, his power filling the chamber like midnight mist. "This is no longer about politics or ancient grudges. Hybern intends to destroy the wall, eliminate humanity, and subjugate Prythian under a single crown. We stand together, or we fall one by one."

His violet eyes moved from face to face, centuries of command in his bearing. "I propose a formal alliance—all seven courts united against Hybern, with combined military command and shared magical resources."

"And who would lead this alliance?" Beron asked, suspicion evident. "You, I suppose?"

To everyone's surprise, Rhysand shook his head. "Joint leadership. Three High Lords forming a war council—one from the seasonal courts, one from the solar courts, and one from Night. Decisions requiring all courts' approval would need unanimity among the three."

The proposal was met with cautious consideration—fair enough to address concerns about Night Court dominance, practical enough to allow efficient command. After brief discussion, Tarquin was nominated to represent the seasonal courts (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter), while Helion would speak for the solar courts (Dawn and Day).

As the alliance took shape through careful negotiation, Feyre's attention remained fixed on the most urgent priority. While armies mobilized and defensive lines were drawn, Nesta remained in Hybern's clutches, time ticking inexorably toward her sacrifice.

When there was finally a break in proceedings, she drew Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel aside, Elain joining them with Lucien hovering protectively nearby.

"I need a small team to infiltrate Hybern and extract Nesta," she said without preamble. "While the courts prepare for invasion, we find my sister."

Cassian's wings shifted with barely contained eagerness. "Count me in."

"And me," Azriel added, shadows coiling around his scarred hands. "My spies have identified where prisoners are held in the king's fortress."

Rhysand studied Feyre's determined expression, pride and concern mingling in his gaze. "You realize this means entering the heart of enemy territory, possibly facing the King of Hybern himself?"

"I'm counting on it," Feyre replied, darkness swirling at her fingertips. "He took my sister. I want him to know who's taking her back."

What might have become an argument about her safety was interrupted by Elain's soft voice. "I'm going too."

All heads turned to her in surprise. Since arriving in Prythian, the middle Archeron sister had been quiet, passive, seemingly overwhelmed by her new surroundings. Now determination shone in her gentle eyes.

"Absolutely not," Feyre and Lucien said in unison.

Elain straightened, a hint of Nesta's steel showing through her soft exterior. "I can find her. The... visions, whatever they are, they show me where she is. I can lead you to her."

"It's too dangerous," Lucien insisted, instinctive protectiveness flaring. "You have no combat training, no magic beyond the Seeing."

"I don't need combat training to point the way," Elain countered with unexpected firmness. "And Nesta is my sister too."

The argument continued in fierce whispers as the council reconvened, the matter unresolved as they returned to their seats. The afternoon session focused on immediate responses—troops to be dispatched to vulnerable locations, magical defenses to be strengthened along the wall, weaponry to be distributed to human settlements as a last line of defense.

Through it all, Feyre's mind worked on her own mission parameters. She would need stealth experts for infiltration, combat capability for extraction, and magical power for escape. Azriel and Cassian were obvious choices, along with herself and Rhysand. If Elain's visions truly could guide them to Nesta, perhaps the risk of bringing her was worth considering, though the thought of endangering another sister made her stomach clench.

As the council session drew to a close, plans half-formed and alliances still fragile, an unexpected voice rose from the Spring Court delegation.

"I volunteer to join the extraction team," Tamlin said, green eyes fixed on Feyre. "My shapeshifting abilities could prove useful, and I..." He hesitated, a muscle working in his jaw. "I owe your family a debt."

Silence fell across the chamber, the tension between Spring and Night palpable to all present. Rhysand's face revealed nothing, though through their bond Feyre felt his immediate rejection of the idea, coupled with strategic calculation of its merits.

Before she could respond, another voice joined the discussion.

"I too would offer my assistance," Tarquin of Summer declared. "My water magic may prove valuable against Hybern's forces, and as member of the war council, my presence lends official sanction to the mission."

The offer surprised Feyre. While relations with Summer had warmed during their diplomatic visit, she hadn't expected such direct involvement from a High Lord with his own territory to defend.

As if reading her thoughts, Tarquin added, "Hybern's forces will strike my shores first. Disrupting their ritual before they can destroy the wall serves Summer's interests as much as rescuing your sister."

With two High Lords now volunteering, others began considering contributions—intelligence from Dawn Court's extensive libraries regarding Hybern's fortress layout, Winter Court ice-walkers who could track in any terrain, magical artifacts from Day Court that might shield against the Cauldron's power.

Only Beron remained aloof, his narrowed eyes watching the proceedings with calculation rather than commitment. When Lucien stepped forward to officially join the rescue party despite his father's obvious disapproval, the Autumn Lord finally spoke.

"You risk everything for a human female," he said, contempt dripping from each word. "The might of seven courts diverted for one insignificant life."

Feyre felt power gathering around several High Lords at the insulting assessment—Tarquin's water magic creating a subtle tide in the room, Helion's golden light intensifying, even Kallias's frost spreading across his section of the table.

But it was Elain who responded, her voice soft yet carrying to every corner of the chamber.

"You misunderstand, Lord Beron," she said, brown eyes meeting his without flinching. "This isn't just about my sister's life. The Cauldron requires her blood—the blood of a human Made into Fae—to complete its ritual. Save Nesta, and you may delay Hybern long enough for your armies to prepare."

The strategic implication shifted the atmosphere immediately. What had seemed like a personal rescue mission reframed as tactical advantage against their common enemy. Even Beron couldn't dismiss the logic, though he merely inclined his head rather than offering outright support.

As the council concluded its first day, arrangements made for delegates to stay overnight in the Dawn Court palace, Feyre found herself on a private balcony overlooking the mountain range. Sunset painted the peaks in shades of fire and gold, beauty incongruous with the war preparations taking place below.

Rhysand found her there, his silent approach culminating in gentle hands on her shoulders. "Quite a first day as High Lady," he observed. "You've managed to unite seven courts that have been rivals for millennia."

"Not me," she demurred. "Hybern did that."

"Don't underestimate yourself," he countered, turning her to face him. "They listened because of who you are—what you've survived, what you've become."

Feyre leaned into him, allowing herself a moment of vulnerability away from watchful eyes. "I keep thinking about Nesta. What she might be enduring, whether she's afraid... She always protected us, in her own prickly way. And now when she needs protection—"

"We'll find her," Rhysand promised, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "The team is assembled, the plan taking shape. We leave at midnight tomorrow."

Footsteps approached from the corridor, causing them to separate slightly as Cassian appeared, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Sorry to interrupt, but we have a situation. Eris is requesting private audience."

Feyre exchanged a glance with Rhysand, wariness rippling through their bond. Eris, Beron's eldest son and heir, had a complicated history with the Night Court—particularly Mor, whom he had once abandoned, broken and bleeding, on the border between courts.

"What does he want?" Rhysand asked, voice cooling several degrees.

Cassian's wings shifted with obvious discomfort. "He claims to have information about Hybern's defenses—information his father doesn't possess. He'll share it only with you two, privately."

A trap, potentially. Or a genuine offer from someone playing a deeper game than was immediately apparent. Either way, they couldn't afford to dismiss it without investigation.

"Very well," Feyre decided. "Have Azriel secure a meeting room and sweep it for listening spells. And make sure Mor is nowhere near the vicinity."

As Cassian departed to make arrangements, Rhysand studied her with quiet appreciation. "You're becoming quite the strategist, Feyre darling."

"I'm becoming whatever my family needs me to be," she replied, steel entering her voice as she looked toward the distant horizon—somewhere beyond which lay Hybern, and Nesta, and the coming storm. "High Lady, warrior, sister... whatever it takes to bring her home and protect what's ours."

Night had fallen completely by the time they made their way inside, stars emerging in the velvet sky above the Dawn Court's mountains. Three nights until those stars aligned over Hybern. Three nights to rescue Nesta, prevent the ritual, and prepare for war.

Feyre straightened her shoulders, the mantle of High Lady settling more comfortably with each hour. The human girl who had once crossed the wall in desperation had died in many ways and been reborn stronger each time—as Fae, as mate, as ruler. What would emerge from the coming crucible remained to be seen, but one thing was certain: she would not fail her sister, not while breath remained in her body and power flowed through her veins.

The rescue mission would determine not just Nesta's fate, but perhaps that of all Prythian. And Feyre Archeron, High Lady of the Night Court, intended to succeed or die trying.