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August 5 - August 6, 2025
Tarquin took him in. Then me. And the others. “I rescind the blood rubies. Let there be no debts between us.”
“Don’t expect Amren to return hers,” Cassian muttered. “She’s grown attached to it.”
“Pity you didn’t bring the other sister. I hear our little brother’s mate is quite the beauty.”
“Good to know that after five hundred years, you still dress like a slut.” One moment, Azriel was seated. The next, he’d blasted through Eris’s shield with a flare of blue light and tackled him backward, wood shattering beneath them.
“At least you have armies to give it to,” Tamlin said mildly,
Would you like someone to join us in bed, Feyre darling?
I think you’d like two males worshipping you.
While we spoke, I said down the bond, Helion is Lucien’s father. Rhys was silent. Then— Holy burning hell.
Look at him. The nose is the same, the smile. The voice. Even Lucien’s skin is darker than his brothers’. A golden brown compared to their pale coloring. It would explain why his father and brothers detest him so much—why they have tormented him his entire life. My heart squeezed at that. And why Eris didn’t want him dead. He wasn’t
a threat to Eris’s power—his throne. I swallowed. Helion has no idea, does he?
Beron must have discovered the affair when she was pregnant with Lucien. He likely suspected, but there was no way to prove it—not if she was sharing his bed, too. Rhys’s disgust was a tang in my mouth. I have no doubt Beron debated killing her for the betrayal, and even afterward. When Lucien could be passable as his own offspring—just enough to make him doubt who had sired his last son.
His power is flame, though. They’ve mused Beron’s title could go to him.
His mother’s family is strong—that was why Beron wanted a bride from their line. The gift could be hers. You never suspected? Not once. I’m mortified I didn’t even consider it. What does this mean, though? Nothing—ultimately nothing. Other than the fact that Lucien might be Helion’s sole heir.
“I don’t think—I don’t think I can have sex here. With him so close.”
“I want you to hold me.” Stars flickered to life in his eyes. “Always,” he promised, kissing my brow, his wings now enveloping me completely. “Always.”
“But she isn’t a mortal, is she?” Nolan sneered. “No, I have it on good authority that it was Elain Archeron who was turned Fae first. And who now has a High Lord’s son as a mate.”
But we all went for our weapons as Jurian strolled into the guardhouse and said, “I did.”
warned. Nolan ignored him. “Upon his arrival, Jurian explained what had been
done to you—both of you. What the queens on the continent desire.” “And what is that?” Rhys asked, his voice a deceptive croon. “Power. Youth,” Jurian said with a shrug. “The usual things.”
Jurian looked right to Mor, whose mouth was a tight line. “You were my friend,” he said, voice straining. “We fought back-to-back during some battles. And yet you believed me at first sight—believed that I’d ever let them turn me.” “You went mad with—with Clythia. It was madness. It destroyed you.”
“And I was glad to do it,” Jurian snarled. “I was glad to do it, if it bought us an edge in that war. I didn’t care what it did to me, what it broke in me. If it meant we could be free. And I have had five hundred years to think about it. While being held prisoner by my enemy. Five hundred years, Mor.” The way he said her name, so familiar and knowing— “You played the villain convincingly enough, Jurian,” Rhys purred. Jurian snapped his face toward Rhys. “You should have looked. I expected you to look into my mind, to see the truth. Why didn’t you?” Rhys was quiet for a long moment. Then he
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“Because Tamlin ran right back to Hybern after your meeting ended this morning. Right to their camp in
the Spring Court, where Hybern now plans to launch a land assault on Summer tomorrow.”
“You belong to him.” “I belong to no one. But my heart belongs to you.” Graysen’s face hardened. “I don’t want it.”
“Dinner,” I said to the Weaver, whirling around the door—to its outside face. And let go of the handle. Just as the door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the cottage, I saw the ball of faelight that Ianthe lifted to illuminate the room. Saw the horrible face of the Weaver, that mouth of stumped teeth opening wide with delight and unholy hunger. A death-god of old—starved for life. With a beautiful priestess before her. I was already hurtling for the trees when the guards and Ianthe began screaming.
“Every time you lot leave me at home, someone manages to get gutted.”
“I can’t love him like that.” “Why?” “Because I prefer females.”
Then the Weaver, the Carver, and Bryaxis unleashed themselves upon Hybern.
Three armies. One bearing the burnt-orange flag of Beron. The other the grass-green flag of the Spring Court. And one … one of mortal men in iron armor. Bearing a cobalt flag with a striking badger. Graysen’s crest.
“Tamlin made him. Dragged my father out by his neck.” A half smile. “It was delightful.”
“Tamlin wants orders,” Eris said. “Jurian does, too.” Rhys’s voice was rough—low. “And what of your father?”
I did not know where to look. At the winged soldiers—thousands upon thousands of them—flying straight toward us, high above the ocean. Or the armada of ships stretching away beneath them. More than Hybern’s armada. Far, far more. I knew who they were the moment the aerial host’s white, feathered wings became clear. The Seraphim. Drakon’s legion.
“They’re led by a queen named Vassa.” I began crying. “Who apparently was found by—” “Lucien,” I breathed. “Who?” Drakon’s brows narrowed. “Oh, the male with the eye. No. He met up with them later on—told them where to go. To come now, actually. So pushy, you Prythian males. Good thing we, at least, were already on our way to see if you needed help.” “Who found Vassa,” Nesta said with that same flat tone. As if she somehow already knew. Closer, those human ships sailed. So many—so, so many, bearing a variety of different flags that I could just start to make out, thanks to my Fae sight. “He
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The ships at the front of the human armada became clear, along with the gold lettering on their sides. “He named his three personal ships after them,” Drakon said with a smile. And there, sailing at the front … I beheld the names of those ships. The Feyre. The Elain. And leading the charge against Hybern, flying over the waves, unyielding and without an ounce of fear … The Nesta. With my father … our father at the helm.
Then he took that face in his broad hands, faster than she could move, and snapped her neck.
Amren had lied. She did not plan to leash the king or his army with the Cauldron and the Book. And whatever trap she had set … I had fallen right into it.
“I’m sorry I lied to you.”
Elain stepped out of a shadow behind him, and rammed Truth-Teller to the hilt through the back of the king’s neck as she snarled in his ear, “Don’t you touch my sister.”
me like I was the insane one as he said, “Remake the Cauldron. Forge it anew.” “With what power?” “My own.”
The mating bond. It wasn’t there. It was gone. Because his own chest … it was not moving. And Rhys was dead.
Tamlin stood there. Staring down at me. Those green eyes swimming with some emotion I couldn’t place. “Be happy, Feyre,” he said quietly.
And then his chest rose, lifting my head with it. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe— A hand brushed my back. Then Rhys groaned, “If we’re all here, either things went very, very wrong or very right.”
“The bigger box is for you. The smaller one is for her.” It took me a heartbeat to realize he meant the presents.
Rhys’s answering laugh was bright as the sun on snow.
“They’re having a snowball fight.”
“Three Illyrian warriors,” I said. “The greatest Illyrian warriors. Are having a snowball fight.”
“Don’t worry, Rhysie. I got one for you, too.” “Shall I model it for you?”
Elain bit her lip and then smiled sheepishly. “It’s for the headaches everyone always gives you. Since you rub your temples so often.” Silence again. Then Azriel tipped his head back and laughed.
Cassian had gone storming past—right out the front door. To my sister.
“You never figured it out?” I shook my head. For a moment, he said nothing, his head dipping to study the dress. “My mother made them.”
