Chapter Text
‘Because, you will find, Feyre Archeron, that it is in your best interest to behave.
Soldiers filed in with the mortal queens, slotting into place beside Hybern’s own soldiers. The blood of the Night Court’s shadowsinger was seeping across the floor so Lucien shifted back a step. This had not been part of any plan. He had tried and tried to talk Tamlin down from aligning himself with Hybern, to believe Feyre that she was safe and well but he’d been fanatic in his desire to have her returned to Spring.
Two mortal women were dragged into the room. One was quietly sobbing as the soldiers either side of her held her shoulders though not with any force. The second was a hellcat, panting and thrashing even as soldiers gripped her tightly.
Lucien could not hear past the roaring in his ears. It was wrong. All of it was so wrong. Jesminda had been held like that – she too had put up a hell of a fight to try and break free from his father’s sentries.
‘Show us. Demonstrate it can be done, that it is safe.’
Demonstrate? Lucien had not been fully listening. His mind was racing trying to figure out a solution to get those two mortal women to safety away from fae who’d delight in torturing them.
A blast of power thrust towards them. Lucien heard a scream. Another pulse of power. The general of the Night Court writhed on the ground, wings shredded to ribbons from the impact.
The throne room they were held in was a copy of Amarantha’s; the bone white-walls were pitted with slithering faelights and the narrow windows looked out to the crashing sea far below. No exit, no way to escape, no way to save them. Blood streaked the floor, staining it crimson.
Tamlin spat at the king. ‘This is not part of our deal. Stop this now.’
They had the darker haired woman – Feyre’s sister – and were leading her to the Cauldron. Those mortal queens watched with a nervy excitement. The woman was weeping as they hoisted her, feet slamming into the sides of the Cauldron in a futile attempt at saving herself. Feyre begged. Tamlin thrashed beside him. Lucien had seen this before. He could not save Jesminda then and he could not save this mortal woman now.
The whole room seemed to hold its breath as the water stilled.
Then, as if tipped by invisible hands, the Cauldron turned on its side vomiting black, smoke-coated water. And the woman lay in its wake as if washed up by a wave. Her pale skin glowed and beneath her sodden hair were pointed ears. Mother above. She was fae.
‘So we can survive,’ the youngest queen breathed with awe.
Feyre’s distraught sobs shattered the room as she took in the sight of her sister trembling on the blood soaked stone.
‘The hellcat now, if you’ll be so kind,’ the King of Hybern said.
The elder sister fell silent, but it was not submission. Lucien noted the rigidity of her shoulders, the way she seemed to centre her strength before thrashing again like an eel, fighting with every drop of strength in her mortal body to stop fate. Every step of the way, she fought. She kicked and clawed, bucked and rocked.
Even as soldiers hoisted her into the air, the sister threw her head forwards trying to head butt the sentry. It took four males to force her in as deep as her shoulders, but still she refused to submit. Water sprayed across the floor as she screamed and raged.
‘Put her under,’ the king hissed.
Lucien believed it was over. Her golden-brown head was pushed beneath the water, but with a final burst of strength, she broke the surface and freed a long, pale arm. Teeth bared, she pointed one finger at the King of Hybern. One finger, a curse, and a damning. A promise. One the King of Hybern quivered from.
The silence when the first sister had entered the Cauldron was utterly different to the one engulfing the room now. A tremor of fear rippled through the soldiers. The hairs on the back of Lucien’s neck stood on end. She was in there for longer, far longer than the first sister had been. Then the Cauldron tipped. Different. Lucien knew it the moment the woman spilt onto the floor. He felt it, like an echo of eternity, an ancient relic come back to this land. Different.
Free and loose, she tore the gag from her mouth and raced towards her other sister. Ignoring the blood, ignoring Feyre’s desperate sobs in the arms of the high lord of the Night Court, the sister skidded across the floor. Her arms wrapped around the first sister, cradling her head to her chest, comforting her.
‘Magnificent,’ the king said, bathing in the sight.
When the king took a step closer, a rage so strong barrelled through Lucien. The restraints holding him flared with light then snapped. A weight was lifted from his shoulders, a sudden lightness seized him as he surged towards the women before the king could.
He’d take whatever spell the king could conjure as he shielded the women with his body. But the king merely made a noise of curiosity.
No sentries surged forwards, no spell was cast. Lucien risked a glance over his shoulder to the second woman.
Quicksilver eyes met his. They were filled with fury and wrath. Lucien’s hands went slack at his sides.
His voice broke as he whispered to the second sister, ‘You’re my mate.’
‘I am no such thing,’ she snarled, shoving Lucien hard in the chest – so hard he staggered back on the slippery floor.
Mate. Mate. Mate.
This wild, furious beauty was his mate. She was staring at him as if it would bring her a world of joy to peel the skin from his body. Her wrath was turned from the king to him. Hatred seeped from every pour. I am no such thing.
Whatever chaos was happening around them, none of it mattered to Lucien. That was his mate.
A palm hit him in the chest. A blonde female from the Night Court side-stepped and grabbed hold of Feyre’s sisters, winnowing them away.
‘Get her back,’ he snarled to Tamlin, heart thumping as if it was about to tear in two.
***
Those long weeks spent cultivating any scrap of knowledge in the Spring Court from Feyre had yielded little. He had asked Feyre whether Nesta was worth it – and in a dry tone, Feyre had responded that he would have better luck with Elain as his mate, that Nesta would likely shred him to ribbons if he tried to get close to her.
‘If she has powers now, she will use them on you. She will not hesitate. Nesta is… complicated.’
The thought did little to deter him – if anything it only fanned the flames of his desire.
When he fled with Feyre, there had been one name pulsing through the land encouraging every traitorous step towards the Night Court: Nesta.
They had come to a beautiful city, one that Rhysand had killed to protect, and his mate resided somewhere here. Rhysand had told Nesta the basics; he was the son of the high lord of the Autumn Court who served in the Spring, that he had been an ally to Feyre under the mountain. But that was all. Likely she believed him responsible for what had happened with Hybern; he harboured enough guilt for it. He hadn’t been able to dissuade Tamlin, he hadn’t been able to save Nesta or her sister. Just one moment with her was all he wanted.
Feyre departed with half a promise that she would try and speak to her sister about meeting with him. The ache of longing split open Lucien’s chest. All he’d gleamed about Nesta Archeron was that she was vicious with her words, venomous with her expressions, and devastating to look at. So at odds with Jesminda who had been wild and carefree. Lucien had grieved for her but the knowledge that she was not his mate had ripped open old graves. He had been certain the bond would snap into place. It had been love. A sweeping, intense, dizzying love. What would he have done if Jesminda lived and he’d found his mate?
A visit from Feyre and Rhysand came where they settled him into a room, high up in a house carved from red stone overlooking the city of Velaris. With it came the news that Nesta Archeron had no plans to see him, not now, not ever.
The high lord’s choice of décor was sophisticated then he offered clothes too – complimentary of the Night Court’s hospitality.
‘This house is warded against winnowing, both from outside and within. There’s one way out – the stairs to the city. It, too, is warded – and guarded. Please don’t do anything stupid.’
Stupid like seeking out his mate who’d likely claw out his other eye if he got close enough.
***
The tales they span of Nesta Archeron were wrong. Lucien hadn’t intended to seek her out but an invisible thread tugged at his rib, drawing him from his rooms down a set of stairs lined with red stone towards a modest personal library.
A book was on the lady’s knees and she was curled into a deep green armchair. One hand held the page open, the other idly wrapped a tendril of hair around a finger then thrummed it free before beginning wrapping it again. She was perfectly content to be alone, at peace.
The scuff of Lucien’s shoes as he stepped from carpet to wooden floor awoke the slumbering warrior. The female’s back went stiff as her head snapped towards the doorway, nostrils flaring.
‘Out.’
The dismissal was one that Lucien had heard hundreds of times from his father, one that sent tremors of fear quaking through him. She stared at him with her grey-blue eyes narrowed, daring him to take a step forwards so she could strike.
This female was devastating, a beauty that males would go to war for. But Lucien had never seen such untamed anger churning beneath the surface like a storm waiting to break. A simple, yet finely made pewter gown framed the curves of her body – but she was much too thin and the shadows beneath her eyes were tell-tale signs that she was not adjusting to Prythian. Beneath the golden coroneted braid, the tips of her pointed ears broke through.
Because he had not moved an inch – not forwards or to retreat – Nesta stood, hands curling into fists.
‘Out,’ she repeated.
Lucien had spent centuries weathering his father’s anger, of weaving through the webs his brother’s cast to try and gain Beron’s favour. He knew how to play the game, when to battle, when to submit, and when to retreat.
‘Nesta,’ he began, but she gritted her jaw together, wrath clawing through her blood. ‘I’m so sorry this happened to you. To you and Elain. I’m sorry for all of it. I wish that day could be undone.’
The sting of venom collapsed in on itself and the grit left her voice. ‘Nobody has said sorry. They think we should be thankful that we’re… this.’
Lucien nodded in understanding. He remembered Feyre’s fear when she had first come to Spring, the terror that the fae might do unspeakable things to her. Some would. Many fae still delighted in torturing mortals. And Nesta had been forced to become what she’d always feared.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Did you not do enough?’ That kernel of fire dripped through her tone, ready to ignite after the brief lull in her wrath. ‘Everything is so loud. I should be grateful that Elain’s heart still beats, but it is all I hear through the night, through stone. I cannot sleep it is so loud.’
Nesta’s eyes shuttered closed but she still balled her hands into fists at her sides. Of course, her senses were heightened. Food likely overpowered her tongue now, light would bombard her eyes, her longer limbs had needed adjustment too. And nobody had thought to help these two females, to teach them to manage the assault on their senses.
‘I can teach you how to block it out – to muffle it.’
Those eyes flashed silver flames at him. ‘I do not want anything from you. Get out.’