In the weeks that followed their arrival, the Illyrians and Celeste fell into a routine that, for the miserable Princess of the Night Court, kept her mind off home. She did not have the time to worry about Velaris and whether or not it was still standing.

She trained with Cassian every morning, both in hand-to-hand combat and with a sword that she did not like. The shield that her uncle had given to her was half her size, and she could not figure out how to use it. She would never fight with an Illyrian legion, neither on the ground nor in the sky, but she couldn't say that she cared. Neither did Cassian, who thanked the Cauldron she'd be one less person for him to worry about.

When they were finished, Celeste trained with Azriel. He had taught her to use Truth-Teller with lethal efficiency, and when Celeste had mastered the ancient blade to his standards, the Shadowsinger had begun teaching her how to fight with other weapons. She favored his bow, and Lucien had spent a great deal of time scouring the Spring Court for an enchanted quiver that magically refilled when Celeste had run out of arrows.

Neither Lucien nor Azriel bothered to mention that a bow was Feyre's choice of weapon, though they both itched to take the girl hunting.

She worked with Amren in the afternoon, and it was perhaps what Celeste dreaded most about her sunny days in Spring. They had strengthened the internal damper on her magic, but Amren did not care if Celeste cried and screamed and clawed at her head as the ancient savior worked her way inside her mind. Her mental shields were not strong enough, and Amren wouldn't be satisfied with Celeste's progress until she could shove Amren out and stop her from getting back in.

Every night before dinner, Celeste trained with Amael. They sparred together in the courtyard, and Amael had stopped taking it easy on her. Celeste had asked him not to. He didn't pummel her into the dirt as Cassian did, but he was no longer afraid to knock her down in fear of hurting his mate. His cobalt siphons would flare every time she rallied just a fraction of her power; an answer to her magic's whispering call.

Amael had not learned how to dodge her blows as she sent him sprawling through the air, either with a warm gust of wind or a wave of star-flecked darkness. It was decent training for them both, though Azriel watched them closely from the sidelines.

By the time Celeste crawled into bed at night, she was too exhausted to ponder what was happening back home. If she did not fall asleep at the dinner table, she listened to Azriel's detailed reports to Cassian. This did not happen often. Amael was whisking her away to bed long before the others were finished with their food, and Celeste was always fast asleep before the Illyrian could settle down beside her.

Today, she was given a reprieve, though she was not sure she wanted it.

Azriel was needed in Velaris, and Cassian had spent the better part of a week complaining that Celeste was a piss-poor opponent. He had meant for Azriel to spar with him, but as the Shadowsinger had other business to attend to, Amael had jumped into the ring with him. Alone on the sidelines of the makeshift fighting pitch,Celeste had stood there watching them until Elain had pulled her away, insisting on a walk through the garden.

"Velaris is beautiful," she mused, her arm looked through Celeste's elbow. "But Tamlin's gardens are lovely. Do you think that your father would let me plant something similar back home? We'd need to find the room, of course, for something as elaborate as this, but I think it's worth it. The world could use more gardens."

Celeste shrugged her shoulders. She plucked a rose from a low-lying shrub and passed it to her aunt with a smile. "Maybe," her smiled widened as Elain tucked the stem behind her ear. "But this place is a maze. Can you imagine how quickly Cassian would trample it to the ground if he couldn't find his way out?"

Her laughter was as bright and beautiful as sunshine. A rose in her own way, indeed. Celeste envied her. "Give him credit," Elain chided. "He leads your father's armies. And he can probably see over the hedges, the big brute."

The Princess snorted. "That doesn't mean he wouldn't trample them."

Elain slapped her arm playfully as they turned into the center of the garden.

A stone fountain sat in the middle of a small plaza. A vine of granite roses twisted high above the pool, their petals spouting crystal-clear water. The wrought-iron bench sitting near the fountain was surrounded by a patch of billowing moonflowers, the dark metal bent into shape to match the sway of their stems.

Celeste breathed in deep and closed her eyes. The moonflowers reminded her of Amael, a lingering scent that clung to her mate beneath his shadows. She debating plucking one of the lush flowers so she could give it to him, but the sparkling white petals were fragile. They were likely to tear should she touch them.

She would bring him here, she decided, assuming she could find her way back. She had never ventured this far into the garden, and Lucien had told her that the maze changed every night. The paths that she and Elain had taken to get here would not be the same tomorrow, but that was the way Tamlin liked it.

As Elain sat herself on the metal bench before the fountain, Celeste dipped her hands into the water. Small fish nipped at the tips of her fingers. She smiled. "Do you think—"

She did not see it coming.

Talons of Illyrian steel slammed into Celeste's mental shields. They shattered. She screamed as she dropped to her knees, her head pressed between the palms of her hands as darkness swept in to claim her. Elain scrambled to her side, but an icy wind blasted her away until her head cracked against the fountain. She slumped to the polished cobblestones and did not move.

"Aunt Elain—"

Strong hands gripped the collar of Celeste's fighting leathers. "Get up," a voice snarled at her. The command sank into her bones as surely as if she'd given it herself. Her legs moved. Celeste rose to her feet, the talons dug deep into her mind pulling at her like the strings of a doll. "Stand still, and do not fight me. I'll make this quick."

She could not move. Her body no longer belonged to her, and her thoughts were not her own. Celeste lifted her eyes from the ground and met the dark gaze of a female she did not recognize. She was beautiful. Clawed wings arched over her broad shoulders, the black and silver membrane sparkling in the sunlight. Illyrian, Celeste realized. She was Illyrian.

The female quirked her head as Celeste stared at her. "I thought you'd be prettier."

It took every ounce of her strength to make her mouth move. "Who are you?"

Anger flashed in those eyes. "I take it he didn't tell you about me. How typical of him." She was not impressed as she studied her, as her mouth twitched with a coy smirk that had Celeste shaking beneath her leathers. "I definitely thought you'd be prettier."

"Who are you?" Celeste demanded. Her fingers trembled. If she could just reach Truth-Teller—

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," the Illyrian plucked the dagger from Celeste's sheath and twirled it between her fingers. "I can't believe that that bastard gave this to you. This knife is a legend amongst our people," her gaze darted behind Celeste, searching for any trace of her wings. "My people. You're not one of us."

"Who are you?"

She curled her fingers around Truth-Teller's obsidian hilt. "The female that Amael ran to whenever you broke his heart. You don't deserve him, you know. I don't know what he sees in you."

Celeste's eyes widened. Her name was on the tip of her tongue. Nylla.

The Illyrian smiled. "So he did tell you about me."

Those talons dug deeper into her mind. Darkness crept in and filled every crack and every crevice. "Don't scream," Nylla warned. Celeste did not know what she was looking for as she sifted through the Princess's memories. "Ugh. You're his mate? How awful it must be for him to be tethered to someone so weak. Did you know how easy it was to slip into your mind and take over? How easy shattering you would have been had the High Lord not stepped in and stopped me?"

Daemati. The word clanged through her.

"Indeed I am," Nylla flipped Truth-Teller into the air, then caught it deftly between her fingers. "It's a rare gift, especially for an Illyrian. It's a shame you didn't inherit it from your father. Maybe then you'd have seen me coming—could have stopped me."

"You're working with the Mortal Queens."

Nylla snorted. "Cauldron, no. How stupid do you think I am?"

Very.

She bared her teeth and snarled at her. "The Mortal Queens aren't our problem," Nylla said. "The Illyrians—our ranks were depleted during the war against Hybern. A thousand soldiers, gone, just like that," she snapped her fingers for emphasis. "We can't afford to fight again, least of all on your behalf."

Celeste's voice was raw. "You aren't supposed to know I exist."

Her grin was feral. "Did you know," Nylla began. "That the quickest way to break into Amael's mind is to fuck him?" She flared her wings open wide. Nylla reached behind her and tapped at the thick, boney frame that jutted from between her shoulder blades. "Touch him here, and you'll have him on his knees. But you wouldn't know that, would you?"

"Shut up," Celeste spat. Her body strained, but the talons would not ease their grip on her. "How dare you—"

A sob cracked out of her as Nylla's siphons flared. She had three of them, Celeste noted. A sparkling purple stone of the back of each of her hands, and one in the center of her chest. The power that rumbled inside of them… Celeste felt it crackle against her bones. She was certain that they splintered beneath that rage, that roiling darkness that Celeste had thought only she and her father capable of.

Out—she needed to push Nylla out. Amren had taught her how—

"You can't push me out," Nylla crooned. "You're too weak, and daddy isn't here to save you."

"What do you want?" Celeste asked. "Why are you here?" She tried to flex her fingers, but they would not move. Nylla's hold was too tight.

"I want to save my people," Nylla said. She tossed Truth-Teller into the air again. "Like I said, the easiest way to slip into Amael's mind is to fuck him. The first time I took him to bed… Imagine my surprise when I slipped into his mind and discovered that the High Lord had a daughter," Nylla's face contorted with lethal calm. Gone was the stunning beauty that Celeste knew had drawn Amael to her. "A daughter, no less, that was being hunted by the Mortal Queens."

Celeste's mouth would not move no matter how hard she tried. A tear rolled down her cheek. You used him.

"No," Nylla snarled. "Amael came to me because he wanted to forget about you. I did nothing to him with the intent of learning his secrets, but the moment his shields were down, I couldn't help myself. He was practically shouting his thoughts at me."

Nylla stalked towards her, the thread between them growing taut. Celeste whimpered. "Amael believed they would find you, and he was ready to go to war. So brave, your mate," she tossed Truth-Teller into the air. Caught it. Tossed it again. "He overheard Rhysand tell Cassian to prepare the Illyrians—us—for battle. I can't let that happen."

He's your High Lord. You have to fight for him.

"But if there's nothing to fight for, Princess, then I suppose there'll be no war," Nylla caught Truth-Teller and gripped the knife in her hand. She did not throw it again. "The Mortal Queens are hunting you, and you alone should pay that price. The rest of us shouldn't have to suffer when the solution to this mess is so simple."

Celeste thrashed against the magic's thrall. She rallied her power, her darkness and ice and fire. It would not come to her. The damper inside of her was sealed, and Nylla would not let it loose.

"I can't let you forge that key should the Queen's get their hands on you, and I won't let my people go to war—not for you," the blade flashed in Nylla's hand. "It's nothing personal, Princess, but your life isn't worth more than the Illyrians who will die trying to save you."

Out—push her out—Celeste had to push her out—

Truth-Teller sank into her stomach with that same lethal efficiency that Azriel had taught her to wield. Perhaps he had taught Nylla, too. She plunged the blade in to he hilt, and she did not balk at the blood that stained her hands. The Illyrian had done this before.

Nylla twisted the blade, grinding it against bone and severing flesh and muscle.

Celeste screamed.

"Be quiet," Nylla snapped. She dug the knife in further, until her knuckles were pressing into the wound. "I told you—"

Her wings flared. Nylla lifted her chin, listening for what Celeste could not hear. She cursed.

Celeste's blood was pounding in her ears, and she could not breathe. The pain—she had never felt anything like it. She could not bear it, not as Nylla ripped Truth-Teller from her gut and let the ancient blade clatter to the ground. Blood gushed from the wound, and darkness that was not her own swept in to lay claim to her.

Shadows skittered across the ground, racing for her. Searching.

Nylla gripped Celeste by her fighting leathers. "You'll tell no one I was here," she snarled. "If you're not dead before they find you, you'll take my name to your grave. You do not know who attacked you."

The Illyrian-steel talons released her mind as Nylla threw her to the ground. The sob that broke from her was little more than a wet plea for air, for her mate, for someone to find her and save her. Nylla was right—she was weak—and there was nothing she could do as the Illyrian vanished into a pocket of rippling darkness.

She did not hear the deafening roar of outrage that shook this land to its core.

Shadows gripped her, and Celeste was swept into oblivion.

Author's Note: Well, that happened. Lol. Hopefully you all remember Nylla.

It's late and I've got nothing to say for myself.