A.N.: Here we get into the politics and recent human history! Because I have issues with how the human realm is treated as a whole. I also want to go into more detail about Nesta's distrust of and lack of respect for Rhysand and the IC and just what she did to prepare the human realm for the invasion and war, playing on Rhysand's arrogance and his total underestimation of her cleverness – and his hubris in believing he knew better, re the Queens. We're going to get into the histories between the human realms.

Also, a few hints that what we think we know isn't the truth – not by a long shot. It's all from Feyre's perspective, which was unreliable when she was still human (she was warned by Alis not to trust her own senses UTM) and biased after she is remade due to a certain psychic bond with someone.

Oh, and Tamlin's new clothes were inspired by Daemon and Aemond Targaryen's costumes on S1 of House of the Dragon.

I have a question: how could there have been human queens before the Wall went up when all humans were enslaved?! In my head, the High Fae who allied with the humans named royal lines before the Wall went up, which is why Rhysand and the IC assumed they knew anything about the Continental politics!

A House of Flame and Flower

13

Band of Exiles

Following the sound of gentle humming, he stopped short as he entered the kitchen-gardens. Snapping in the breeze were freshly-laundered linens and neat lines of socks, petticoats and undershirts pegged side by side. The brittle winter sun shone down, offering just enough warmth to chase the worst of the damp from the washing. Hens clucked placidly and his ears twitched at the sound of green things striving against the cold, the raised beds overflowing with crops thanks to that strange magic that perpetually provided for the residents of the Gardens.

He heard the soft creaks of a wicker basket and stared open-mouthed as one of the linen sheets billowed and Nesta Archeron appeared.

Dread and suspicion instantly flooded his body and Lucien frowned warily. He could taste the tang of her unique power drifting about her like a warning. In a single glance he took in all the details: her warm wool-twill dress and the work-apron she wore over it, the flush of colour high in her cheeks and her shining hair coiled up neatly. Her sure footsteps as she navigated the raised beds and her ease as she chatted amiably with the chickens that flocked about her skirts.

She was the last person he would ever have expected to see in Tamlin's kitchen-gardens. And he noticed that she looked healthier and calmer than he had ever seen her.

He had only had a few interactions with the eldest Archeron, and aside from believing her to be the shrewdest and cleverest of the three sisters, Lucien was also the most wary of her. Her sharp tongue left deep wounds: he had privately nicknamed her the Queen of Thorns due to the protections she had raised around herself and her sister Elain, keeping everyone at arm's length. There was no-one he had ever met less impressed with Rhysand and his sycophantic circle of trusted advisors – lapdogs who did little more than yip when he demanded their agreement, fed treats for their compliance and never realising how tightly they were kept on their leashes.

It said a lot about the nature of Nesta Archeron that world-weary Fae quaked in their boots at the very sight of Rhysand and his enforcers yet Nesta straightened her back, met their eye and stared them down.

And she was here…

"Well, wonders never cease!" Nesta pulled a face that said everything at once: her raised eyebrow was condemning, her grey-blue eyes taking inches off him as he tried to withstand the intensity of her gaze. "I'd heard you were well shot of this place."

"From Rhysand and his equally well-informed favourites, I imagine," he drawled.

"Tamlin, actually," Nesta replied sharply. Lucien froze and she noticed.

"He said it's unsafe for people to be near him," Lucien said, aware how sad his voice sounded.

Nesta's eyes narrowed and he flinched when she said, "You left: now he believes it."

"Is he here?"

"Gone away, I know not where," Nesta said lightly, though Lucien saw the lines of tension radiating from the corners of her eyes. She'd always had those, he realised: she had always been tense with worry.

Lucien frowned at her. "Does he know you're here?"

"Unless he has a very convincing decoy," Nesta said tartly. Lucien's frown deepened.

"What are you doing here?" he asked more aggressively than he intended. If he knew anything about Nesta Archeron, it was that words were her weapons: he wasn't in the mood to wage war with her while worry about Tamlin gripped at his insides and chided himself for antagonising her.

Why was Nesta here? Had she been sent by Rhysand? Was this his first step toward usurping control of the Spring Court? He knew he shouldn't have left Tamlin here alone, vulnerable to Rhysand's plots.

Nesta gazed at him. In a tone one might have used to explain to an overwrought toddler that one plus one equalled two, she said, "The laundry, Lucien. It doesn't wash itself."

He scowled. "Did Feyre send you here?"

She scoffed. He was startled by the anger glinting in her silvery eyes. The bite of her glacial tone made him wince. "Contrary to what my sister and her mate seem to believe, the Spring Court is not a southerly outpost of Rhysand's realm. The Night Court has no authority to send anyone here, let alone me."

"What does that mean?"

"You've not heard?" Nesta mused, her eyes sweeping from the tip of his ears to the scuffs on his boots. "I thought you were well-connected."

"Chatter about you has…become quiet," Lucien admitted, annoyed that he was curious.

"I daresay they haven't deigned to give me a moment's thought since I left," Nesta said distractedly. "Out of sight and all that."

Lucien stared at her. "You left the Night Court?"

"Now I understand why they call you the clever one." Nesta glanced over at him sharply, her gaze cutting. He remembered how fiercely she had protected her sister in the library. Then, she had defended her sister. Now, to protect herself, she attacked.

"Cleverer than you've associated with," Lucien countered and she smirked.

"Though still not half as clever as you think you are," she said, eyeing him in a way that made him bristle. She had won that one. Her eyes sharpened with intensity and she demanded, "Why are you here?"

"We'd arranged to meet with Tamlin today," Lucien said.

"We?"

"Myself, Jurian and Queen Vassa," Lucien said, the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickling with awareness as Nesta grew still as a predator, her expression dangerous, a wicked, derisive smile playing on her lips.

"Queen!" she scoffed, her eyes glinting. "Still maintaining that, is she?" Lucien frowned but did not want to admit he had no idea what she meant. Nesta watched him carefully and her eyes glinted as she made a thoughtful noise of realisation. "Ah…now I remember. Jurian and Vassa are the chosen ones."

"They were named as envoys between the human realm of Prythian and the Courts, yes," Lucien said tersely. Nesta smirked, her eyes glinting.

"They were appointed by Rhysand," Nesta said lightly but her eyes shone like the honed edge of a blade. "What business have they meeting with the High Lord of Spring?"

"The same business they would have with the High Lord of Night."

"Rhysand shares no borders with Prythian: he doesn't remotely have the same business with Prythian as the Spring Court. And besides that, Vassa and Jurian do not speak for Prythian," Nesta said sharply, her eyes narrowing. Her voice full of authority, she demanded, "Why is Tamlin meeting with Vassa and Jurian?"

"As no other humans have volunteered themselves to play envoy to the Fae courts, Vassa and Jurian have stepped in as de facto emissaries," Lucien said, frowning when triumph flashed in Nesta's silver eyes.

"A resurrected slave-soldier, a faerie courtier and a foreign queen acting as ambassadors to the Republic," she said, sneering and rolling her eyes. "This I must see for myself."

"Tamlin can decide whether he wishes you to be present for the meeting," he said firmly, irritated by Nesta's tone – and by the niggling feeling in the pit of her stomach that she was right. What they had been doing the last few months wasn't, well, wasn't the work of envoys. Truthfully, he couldn't say they had been doing anything of value to anyone. Wondering why Nesta showed such disdain for Vassa, he stifled a wince. He remembered that Nesta's father had spent more energy on Vassa than he ever had his own daughters, least of all the eldest and fiercest of them. Nesta's eyes gleamed.

"Shall we wait for him to appear and decide for himself, do you think?" she asked, a challenge in every word.

"How long until he returns?"

"I imagine he will be running late," Nesta said, her tone deceptively light. What did that mean? She gave him an imperious look and her eyebrows flicked expressively. "He fled the Gardens three nights ago: I haven't seen him since. But I would be more than happy to pass on any information from the," she cleared her throat delicately, dismissively, "envoys."

"He's been gone for three days?" Lucien asked quietly.

"He has bad turns sometimes," Nesta muttered darkly. Lucien had seen a few of those, both before and after the Occupation. They were always harrowing – not because he felt physically threatened but because the emotional toll they took on Tamlin was so tangible. It hurt to see him go through whatever he suffered alone. Worse was not knowing exactly what Tamlin relived when he sank so deeply into his memories that nothing could prise him from his own mind. Whatever torture he endured was so all-consuming that even his magic could do nothing to ease it.

"I've seen them," Lucien said quietly. He frowned at Nesta. "Three days is nothing. He's been gone weeks before."

"Not anymore, not for a long time," Nesta said, and Lucien raised his eyebrows in surprise. She squinted in the sun at him. "He doesn't tell me what he dreams of."

Lucien exhaled shortly. "He never will." He eyed Nesta curiously. What had been going on in the Gardens? "He's never spoken a word about what he endured Under the Mountain, not to anyone – even Illidan."

"What do you mean, never spoken a word – you know what happened to him," Nesta frowned, mildly disconcerted. "You were there with him!"

Lucien stared at her. "We never saw Tamlin – not until Feyre was plunging an ash knife in his heart."

Nesta stared at him. Something glinted in her eyes – something like realisation – and her posture altered ever so slightly. Not relaxing but shifting her weight, as if her body reflected a shift in her thoughts. Something had slipped into place.

"He has never shared what he experienced Under the Mountain?" Nesta murmured.

"He doesn't believe in spreading misery," Lucien sighed grimly. As much as he loved Tamlin, the male frustrated him to no end. He was desperate to help his friend. But Tamlin had always maintained that it was his responsibility to support and protect others. Whatever Tamlin had endured Under the Mountain as Amarantha's prisoner, Lucien had only vague inklings and his imagination to fill in the blanks.

Nesta frowned at Lucien. He could tell she was thinking yet he had no idea what she was thinking. Usually he could read people with ease. Their body-language always betrayed them, even the tone of their voice or choice of words. But Nesta… He had been condemned to wear a mask for five decades yet it had never concealed as much as the one Nesta wore. Even her eyes, expressive as they were, gave nothing away.

"He didn't show up for your meeting," she said. "You came here to check on him."

"He asked me to leave," Lucien said, sighing heavily. "Just because I did doesn't mean I stopped caring."

"You didn't expect him to show up."

"I'd hoped he would."

"Is the matter urgent?" Nesta asked.

"Somewhat, yes," Lucien frowned.

"Then let us not delay," Nesta said firmly. She waved her hand idly: the laundry pulled itself from the line and folded itself neatly into her large wicker basket. A pile of socks nestled themselves neatly on top of the linen sheets and petticoats. Nesta untied her apron, folded it and added it to the pile. She waved her hand a second time and the wicker basket disappeared. She reached up to neaten her immaculate hair and strode toward him. "I have one hour; the brisket must go in the oven or I'll be eating at midnight."

Lucien blinked, gaping. She sighed irritably and rolled her eyes. He offered his arm; she looped her arm through it and he winnowed them away.

It wasn't home but the manor-house had beautiful grounds he enjoyed riding through. Oaks and horse-chestnuts lined the road toward the house and inside the redbrick walls, elegant parterres offered a promise of beauty yet to come. He hadn't realised how much he would miss the Tamlin's perpetually-blooming gardens. Everything here felt rather barren.

Nesta frowned up at the windows shining as the sun dipped lower in the sky, flirting with the woods that spread out as far as the eye could see. She murmured, "A wealthy architect and his family lived here."

"I imagine they felt it too close to the Spring border once the Wall came down," Lucien remarked. It did not elude him that the manor-house had very recently been vacated – and in great haste. Whoever had lived here – and he was startled to realise Nesta knew that detail – they had left the majority of their worldly possessions behind.

"They will not be the last to flee south," Nesta said darkly. "How many of their neighbours remain?"

"Too few. Those who stay cannot afford to leave, I believe," Lucien said, glancing at Nesta out of the corner of his eye. "I do not get close; they distrust even Jurian."

"This part of Prythian's wealth comes from farming, fur and timber," Nesta said, following him into the chequered-marble entrance hall. "Are people tending the fields?"

"They tend the fields, though they struggle with harvest-time. Anyone who could flee south has done so," Lucien said. "As for fur and timber, only the most desperate go into the woods now, even in the height of summer."

Nesta muttered, half to herself, "Faeries hunt through all seasons."

"Indeed. That's what we specifically wanted to discuss with Tamlin," Lucien said, guiding Nesta into the drawing-room. There were piles of books on a side-table and a cocktail-mixing set on the sideboard glinting in the faelights that started glimmering as soon as they entered. Soft snores drew his attention to the hearth, where Jurian sat slumped in his favourite armchair. In sleep, he always looked younger than Lucien had ever seen him. He noticed Nesta's eyes on him and tried to see what she likely saw: a weary young man with silver at his temples, lines shining brightly against his deeply tanned skin, hands calloused from weapons and work, wicked scars concealed beneath his clothes. He looked older than his true age and ill – thin, with deep shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep. Lucien and Vassa knew how little Jurian slept: they left him to it when absolute exhaustion gripped him. Lucien also knew better than to startle him awake. He led Nesta back out of the room and into the dining-room.

"We've heard whispers – more than rumours," Lucien sighed. "Terror is spreading through the villages here in the north. They say a dark shadow has settled in the woods."

"Don't keep me in suspense," Nesta said archly, taking the seat at the head of the table beneath a portrait of an elegant woman wearing a diamond choker. Lucien glanced at her, taken aback; despite her plain wool dress, she looked incredibly imposing. She commanded the room as if it had been built and furnished especially for her.

Lucien checked the windows. The sun was dipping behind the trees, heralding sunset. He would leave Jurian to rest but wanted to wait for Vassa. She would never let him forget it if he didn't; she was relentless. "First thing's first – would you care for a drink?"

"Tea, please," Nesta said. Her grey eyes took in all the details of the dining-room, as they had the drawing-room. They had altered nothing in the house; all of the ornaments had been abandoned by the architect who used to live here.

"She should be down by the time the water's boiled," Lucien said, again checking the windows. The jacquard curtains were never drawn. He summoned their tea-set from the kitchen and set about making tea while the stubborn sun sank slowly toward the horizon.

"Who?" Nesta frowned distractedly.

"Vassa," Lucien told her. "She transforms at sundown."

"There's one person in Prythian enjoying the longer nights," Nesta muttered, her pretty eyebrows drawing together in a frown. He noticed the tension in Nesta's shoulders and wondered whether it was being in this house – had she known the architect and his family? – or being in his company. He set the tea-tray down on the table and passed Nesta a cup of tea. She eyed the offerings and added a slice of lemon to her tea rather than the milk.

He glanced up as a fiery-haired woman entered the room, tying the sash of her elaborate robe around her waist. Lucien noticed Nesta stiffening instantly as Vassa flounced into the room, declaring, "I always make the most of them."

"Let's sit," he said hastily, watching the way Nesta's eyes, cold and shrewd, tracked Vassa's every movement. Vassa swept her long red hair over her shoulder and settled into a seat as Lucien heard footsteps in the hall. Rumpled, Jurian entered the room, a haunted glint in his eyes that Lucien knew only too well. He had seen that look all too often on Tamlin's face.

The only person in the world who could have any clue what Tamlin had endured was Jurian, a disembodied eye bound to Amarantha's arm: and he kept silent.

"You said you wished to discuss something particular with Tamlin," Nesta said, her eyes tracking Jurian as he sat down. "What is it?"

Jurian answered her, sighing heavily, "A kikimore has found its way to a bog - do you know what a kikimore –?"

"Yes. Population control, isn't that right, Lucien?" Nesta said, glancing sharply at him. "The Autumn Court is lousy with them."

"Among other things that go bump in the night," Lucien muttered.

"A half-dozen trained bowmen can despatch it with ease," Nesta said dismissively. Her sharp eyes pinned Lucien. "You mentioned a dark shadow haunting the woods."

"Yes, the kikimore," Lucien clarified. Nesta's expression did not change but she seemed a hundred times crueller. He had to suppress the urge to shiver as she radiated an eerie chill, becoming incredibly still.

She delicately set her teacup down and adjusted herself in her seat, as if preparing herself. Her tone dangerously soft and silky, Nesta hissed, "You mean to tell me that not only have you heard about this kikimore terrorising the woods but instead of handling the problem yourselves, you want Tamlin to deal with it?"

Lucien winced.

Vassa drew herself up, her eyes narrowing on Nesta. He had seen that gleam in her eye before, the look Vassa got when confronted with a challenge. She raised her chin and glared at Nesta, saying coldly, "The kikimore got through the Spring Court to reach these woods –"

"It must have slipped past Tamlin's notice as he dealt with errant cerunnos, raided nests of neoptera, eradicated an infestation of Insidiaie, stopped a rogue minotaur war-band in the Northern mountains, tracked a Druzkelaiae and settled a dispute between the Queen of the Arachnaie and the Invidia," Nesta said, every syllable like a blade. She glanced from Lucien to Vassa to Jurian, who was watching her carefully, frowning as if he hadn't heard a word she had said, too consumed by his own thoughts. Nesta's expression grew more dangerous, her eyes sparking like molten ore. "You mean to tell me you have summoned Tamlin here to complain that one kikimore found its way to the woods? Instead of hunting it down yourselves to prevent more deaths, you want to use it as an excuse to harangue Tamlin. I can't tell if you're plotting some nefarious conspiracy to assassinate the High Lord of Spring when he trespasses uninvited on human lands to hunt imaginary monsters or you're just lazy." She glared around imperiously, her voice lethal as a wolf-trap when she demanded, "Which is it?"

Vassa drew herself up, chin raised, and began, "We…"

One withering glare from Nesta silenced her.

"I told you, we should have dealt with it ourselves," Lucien muttered, glancing at Jurian and Vassa.

Lucien knew Tamlin would have dealt with the kikimore the moment they mentioned it.

And he knew it would be taking advantage of Tamlin's nature to do so; he wouldn't ask what they had been doing, why they had so little of true importance to discuss with him.

Nesta saw through it.

She inhaled sharply and seemed to will herself to calm down. "What does Lady Endrew have to say about the kikimore on her lands?" she asked. Vassa frowned; Lucien glanced at Jurian, who shrugged. Nesta noticed. She scowled around at them. "From the looks on your faces, am I to infer that you have no idea whose lands you are living in? Therefore you have no idea the role Lady Endrew plays in the Trust?" She sighed irritably. "Do you know what the Trust is?"

"We know the Republic is ruled by influential men and women in the Guilds; they form a Trust that governs on behalf of its people and they are held accountable to them. A new leader is elected every seven months, except during wartime, but the role is mostly ceremonial; decisions are made by the Trust and voted by the nation. Every person of age must vote," Lucien said, summarising all he had learned of the Republic. "We know that Prythian is the centre of a renaissance devoted to exploring and surpassing ideas and achievements of antiquity. Prythian has been the cultural centre of the human world for centuries. And Prythian alone resisted occupation when foreign powers threatened to conquer it."

Nesta glanced shrewdly at Vassa, cleared her throat delicately and turned to Lucien.

"And who would you approach about opening trade routes between Spring and the human realm? Which Guilds and Trust Departments should you meet with to ensure the human realm retains absolute economic independence if foreign Fae trade is encouraged? How is an exchange-rate to be established based on our different economies?" she asked, her voice delicate and lethal. "How are fishing vessels monitored now that they can slip into unfamiliar waters beyond the Wall? Whose responsibility is it to rescue such vessels if they find themselves in distress? And what of the Children of the Blessed? Must Tamlin contend with their stupidity while he wrestles with Rawraxxa that have slithered in from the deserts of Summer?" Lucien felt the urge to shrink away from her gaze as Nesta glared around them. Her voice was calmer and softer than ever as she continued, "How do you propose protecting the boundaries between Spring and the human lands to ensure neither Fae nor human falls victim to the other? Who in the Trust do you approach to discuss your ideas? What about the sharing of cultures – art, music, literature? Which of the Guild leaders would be best to approach with ideas to nurture a greater understanding of each other's cultures? What about the border defences? Tamlin is a powerful line of defence against invaders from the north but what of our neighbours across the seas? Hybern has been all too quiet; the Continent can only be diverted so long…" They remained silent; Lucien felt like cringing. Across the table, Vassa's eyes glinted with anger – with humiliation. "What is the position of the Trust on the Spring Court as an ally or a potential aggressor?" The question caught him off guard and Lucien resisted the urge to glance at Jurian or Vassa. Nesta sighed and leaned back in her chair, glaring at each of them in turn. "I would ask what you've been doing here but your linens speak for themselves."

Lucien froze. Vassa was flushed, her eyes glinting with impotent humiliation. Jurian sprawled in his seat, grinning lazily as he glanced between Lucien and Vassa.

Nesta turned her disdainful gaze on Vassa. "Really, do you expect his seed to be the solution to your problems?"

Jurian coughed. Lucien glanced sharply at Nesta.

Nesta glanced at Jurian. "Do you have a pen and paper anywhere in this house? You may as well make yourselves useful and take delivery of my post."

Vassa asked angrily, "Why would we do that?"

"Tamlin's paying you, is he not? And Rhysand as well?" Nesta said idly, glancing at Vassa as Jurian disappeared into the study. Vassa stiffened; Lucien winced guiltily. "By all means, continue on as you have with him. But I will not tolerate you taking advantage of Tamlin's generosity." Jurian returned with a stationery set, which Nesta took with a murmured word of thanks. She swiftly penned a letter and addressed the envelope. "You will do everything I ask when I ask it and to the utmost of your abilities – which I know are many and varied."

Vassa hissed, "And if we don't?"

"Then you are free to tender your resignation as envoys to the Spring Court and accordingly lose any and all incomes and protections offered by the High Lord of Spring," Nesta said, her tone very fair.

Vassa seethed, her voice tremulous with emotion, "How dare you try and bully us –"

"I have caught you out in a lie," Nesta interrupted coldly. "You have been taking Tamlin's money and done nothing to earn it."

Vassa glared, starting to rise from her chair. Her eyes narrowed and she hissed, "This is about your father. He spent his last months with me –"

Lucien glared at Vassa as Nesta froze. The burning cold drifting from her intensified. When she spoke, her voice was calmer and softer than ever before: her eyes burned with silver fire. Lucien's instincts screamed that they were in danger; Vassa seemed to realise it, too, and seemed to shrink back, her eyes widening.

"You continue to enjoy your asylum here in these lands because your neighbours remain ignorant of the danger you pose to them in staying," Nesta hissed. "I will not mince words, Your Grace: if I hear so much as a whisper on the wind that Koschei intends to punish the people of Prythian for enabling you to violate the terms of the bargain you struck with him, I will drag you to his doorstep by your hair. Your actions during Hybern's war are appreciated for what they were."

Lucien stared at Nesta as Vassa gulped.

"Yet you would send me back to slavery?"

"Never again will a drop of Prythian blood be spilled on account of your family," Nesta hissed and Vassa recoiled. "If I must throw you back to your jailer to ensure it, I will do so without remorse."

"I thought you grew up in Prythian," Vassa snarled. "Don't you vote on such matters?"

"The vote would come down to the answer to one simple question: how many millions of lives have already been sacrificed to your family?" Nesta said, her voice glacial. Vassa clenched her jaw, her eyes sparking.

Lucien realised that the two women had entered a conversation that only they understood; he had no idea what they were talking about, why Nesta had said 'Your Grace' with such derision or why mention of Vassa's family set her on edge.

Vassa whispered, "I had nothing to do with it."

"You. Your father," Nesta shrugged. "It doesn't matter. You share his blood; their children died fighting him." Lucien glanced at Vassa, frowning.

"And what of the famed Prythian laws of freedom?" Vassa rallied. "To fight tyranny and oppression and uphold personal liberty above all? Would people forget the basic tenets of their own society?"

"Anger and grief makes people act in ways they ordinarily wouldn't. Prythian has been defined by its grief for decades. People's families are broken because of your father. Because Prythian fought to preserve the freedom of everyone he sought to eradicate," Nesta said calmly. "You are the progeny of the most despised man in the world. The best person will hesitate to condemn you; the rest will clamour to protect what little they have left."

Lucien's ears twitched as he heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path.

"Excuse me," he murmured, reluctant to leave Nesta and Vassa while Vassa looked to be spoiling for a fight. As he reached the front-door, he scented the air and breathed a sigh of relief. Tamlin stood bathed in faelight, which gleamed off his leather coat and the subtle silver buckles on his long tunic and the adornments on his belt. It was strange to see Tamlin without the bandolier he used to wear religiously; now, he wore his immense greatsword and a dagger at his hip.

What he noticed overwhelmingly was how good Tamlin looked. He had bulked up since the Winter Solstice, his torso thick and strong; he had pulled his shorter hair away from his face with a simple silver cuff and his jewel-green eyes were clearer than Lucien had seen them in ages, the shadows beneath them almost gone. He looked calm and tired as ever.

"I'm here," he said in greeting.

Heeled boots clicked on the floor and Lucien glanced up as Nesta appeared in a whirl of skirts, saying, "We're leaving."

Without pausing, Nesta swept over the threshold. Lingering in the hall, Jurian leaned against the wall with his arms crossed idly over his chest, watching Nesta with animated eyes, admiration and interest in his smile.

Tamlin frowned as Nesta fell into step beside him. "But I wore a jacket."

"And you bathed," Nesta remarked. She scrutinised Tamlin's appearance and seemed to melt with affection as she reached up a hand to touch his hair at the nape of his neck. "Though you didn't manage to get all the blood out."

"Did I not?" Tamlin sighed. He shrugged unconcernedly but his tawny brows drew together as Nesta stalked past him, her boots crunching on the gravel pathway. She disappeared into the darkness surrounding the house.

Tamlin raised his eyebrows at Lucien, flicking his gaze at Jurian, and Vassa, who stood with hunched shoulders and a furious expression.

"Did she turn you over her knee and give you a spanking?" Tamlin asked.

"It was more of a verbal flagellation," Jurian remarked. With great enthusiasm, he exclaimed, "By the gods, she's magnificent. Pity you've snatched her away for yourselves."

Tamlin frowned, glancing over his shoulder. He turned back to Jurian and said quietly, "I do not think her loyalties will ever deviate. I would say use her well but…"

Jurian grinned. "But she is not a woman who was made to be manipulated."

Lucien glanced over his shoulder at Jurian and Vassa. They took the hint and disappeared into the drawing-room. "Tamlin."

"Mm?"

Lucien murmured, "What's she doing in Spring?"

Tamlin shrugged, glancing over his shoulder again. Carefully, he said, "She reached her limit."

Lucien remembered that though Tamlin believed himself to have no skill with politics, and had a natural irritation toward those who were, Tamlin was very good at guarding his words and intentions. It had been a long time since Lucien had been on this side of the wall that Tamlin put up. His heart panged, realising how much he regretted the distance between them. You left. Now he believes it… Nesta's comments earlier haunted him.

Lucien glanced out into the front gardens, where Nesta was peering into the barren parterres. Ominously, Lucien muttered, "They'll want her back."

"It's such a wonderful irony, isn't it?" Tamlin said, his eyes gleaming dangerously. "Lucien, what happened here?"

Lucien sighed. "Nesta will fill you in," he said quietly, shame filling him. He had been idling his time here, enjoying the companionship of Jurian and especially of Vassa, who indeed did make the most of her freedom.

"That bad, was it?" Tamlin sighed.

"We needed a sharp slap," Lucien said. "We've become…apathetic."

"You're wasted here," Tamlin said simply.

It's good to see you, Tamlin," Lucien said honestly. He hadn't seen his friend in months and the last time he had, Tamlin had not been in a good place. Yet now he looked healthy – strong. He looked calm and confident as if surer of himself in his own skin. His new clothes helped: they suited him more than anything Lucien had ever see him in, unfussy, with attention paid to the details and the focus on the immaculate tailoring. "You're looking well."

"They aren't," Tamlin muttered, nodding to the door of the drawing-room. He sighed and said, "Come by the Gardens whenever you wish."

"I shall," Lucien promised, though he did not think it would be for some time. Nesta was right: they had been taking advantage of Tamlin. Not just his generosity financially but his emotional state. Lucien knew Tamlin wasn't in his right mind to question their efforts as envoys when he himself was so focused on eradicating the underfae that continued to threaten his own lands. He had a lot of work to do to make up for it.

Tamlin clapped a hand on his shoulder and strode from the house without ever stepping foot over the threshold. He met Nesta at the parterres and Lucien watched from the door as he offered his hand to Nesta and she, without even looking, took it. They disappeared and Lucien heard Vassa immediately start to mutter furiously. Jurian barked a laugh. Lucien watched the space where Tamlin and Nesta had stood and felt a heavy swooping sensation in his stomach, his heart too heavy to bear.

"She's in a foul mood," Jurian grunted, tugging on his coat. He liked to walk when he was agitated and after the meeting with Nesta, Lucien knew they were all nettled.

"We have only ourselves to blame," Lucien said grimly. "We have taken advantage of the High Lord's trust… Nesta has given us the opportunity to make amends."

"That was her being kind?"

"Kind isn't the same thing as nice," Lucien said quietly, finally closing the front-door. "From what I have experienced of Nesta Archeron, she is a kind person."

"Ever the wordsmith," Jurian said, clicking his tongue. "Stop speaking in riddles."

"I'm not," Lucien rolled his eyes. If he was the silver-tongued diplomat, Jurian was the easily-irritable general enraged by the politics. "Nesta responds to those around her; she reacts accordingly to how she is treated."

"What was that about between Nesta and Vassa?" Jurian muttered in a low voice. Lucien glanced at the door to the drawing-room: he could hear Vassa tinkering with the cocktail-set, preparing herself a drink as she muttered angrily to herself.

"I don't know," he said slowly. And that worried him; he should know. Who had Vassa's father been, to be considered the most hated man in the world? Why did Nesta believe enough of the Republic had bled for Vassa's family already?

Nesta's visit had highlighted far too much that Lucien was ashamed of. It had brought it, frankly, into stark relief. And he was ashamed. He had spent months doing absolutely nothing but idling, drinking and – well…fucking. He hadn't learned anything about the Republic that could be remotely helpful to Tamlin, hadn't built relationships with important figures in the Trust or even learned just why Vassa's father was despised.

He realised how little he knew. And how much time he had already wasted. Time he should have devoted to helping Tamlin the only way he was allowed while his friend kept him at a distance, thinking it would protect him.

They reappeared in the kitchen-gardens. Amber light glowed from the soaring kitchen windows, illuminating the parterres and their path and guiding them to the backdoor. Nesta shivered and hastened to the ovens as Tamlin shut the heavy door behind them.

He asked quietly, "What happened?"

"A queen with no crown, an ambassador with no home and a man who has lost his humanity live in a manor-house… It sounds like the beginning of a tragic joke," Nesta said, scowling. She checked on the contents of a cast-iron pot and nestled it carefully into the oven. She glanced across the kitchen at him. "They know absolutely nothing about the Trust or who to treat with. They have done nothing in the months since the battle."

Tamlin raised his eyebrows. "Why do you seem so happy about that?"

"Because they haven't had opportunity to wreck relationships before you can even begin to build them," Nesta muttered, half to herself.

"Why would they have wrecked them?"

"General incompetence," Nesta sniffed. "All these months they've been living here, they haven't made a single enquiry or friend worth having. They had the temerity to summon you there to complain about a single kikimore on the loose in a bog somewhere."

"A kikimore?" Tamlin frowned. "I'll send Torin or Foalan to handle it."

"Don't," Nesta said firmly.

"Why not?" Tamlin asked, eyebrows raised.

"Because it is not on your lands. You are the High Lord of Spring; you have no business being in Prythian unless specifically invited by the Republic, no matter how good your intentions might be…" She sighed and shook her head. "We have to learn how to handle these new problems ourselves."

Nesta froze, her eyes widening as if startled. He knew what had made her bristle: she had said we and ourselves.

Referring to herself as one of them – as one who was still human.

The stark reminder that she was not had caught her off-guard.

"I will not allow untrained men to go to their deaths to deal with something my sentries can handle without effort," Tamlin said, to distract her.

"If we know what we're fighting, and how to fight it, we need not rely on anyone for protection. It is like me with the garden pests – the more I learn, the more I understand, the less I worry…" Nesta sighed, her shoulders turning inwards slightly. Her eyes shimmered despondently, hiding how deeply it hurt to be reminded that she was now other. "Prythian needs to be reminded what it can handle, and learn how to handle it." Tamlin unfastened his belt and removed his sword and dagger: Nesta cast the weapons a scornful look as he set them on the scrubbed table. Hastily, he removed them, leaning them against the wall by the door to the corridor. Nesta watched him, frowning thoughtfully. "How would you feel about offering to educate soldiers to identify and exterminate troublesome underfae? What?"

She frowned at his smile. "Teach humans how to recognise friend from foe?"

"Well…friendlier. Much of what we once knew of the Fae has been lost," Nesta said softly, wincing in discomfort. They were all treading on new ground. What should have been settled centuries ago was now left to them to work through: the Wall was only ever supposed to be a temporary safeguard while they came up with a better solution. Now they had to decide what the best way forward was. "We remember the monstrous ones…but hatred for the Fae is so prevalent that it would not matter if it was a kikimore or a chidbil lurking in the woods; people will hunt it out of fear and ignorance.

"So we must educate Prythian, then," Tamlin said, using the terminology Nesta used: the Courts were the Courts and Prythian referred to the human Republic.

"Without being seen to be influencing them in any way," Nesta remarked thoughtfully. "They won't trust knowledge that is shared by the Fae."

Tamlin shrugged and said, "That depends on how it's shared, and by whom."

Nesta frowned and stared at him. Then, seeming to remember that he had been absent for days, she said quietly, "You could have woken me, you know."

Just by the tone of her voice, Tamlin knew Nesta felt more raw and vulnerable than she let on: whatever had been discussed with the others had upset her. Or perhaps it was purely because he had left without waking her. Either way, she was upset. She had stopped masking her sorrow and dread with anger, at least with him; she wasn't afraid to show when she was feeling overwhelmed by grief or worry.

He shook his head. Silently, he approached her; he dipped his head and rested his brow against hers, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, calm filling him as her scent embraced him. He could never have woken her, not after ripping himself from those hated memories, the ones that he hated and feared more than anything else. He was desperate to touch her yet was ashamed of doing so, feeling unworthy, knowing the damage, the scars, the stains on his soul that festered beneath his skin. He loved that her every touch soothed him. Hated the idea of her ever learning just how tainted he was.

After what seemed like a very long time, he sighed and stepped away. Nesta frowned up at him, calm and curious. They left the kitchen to sit beside the hearth: Nesta went to his desk and as he sank onto the daybed he watched her writing swiftly. She went through pages, setting them neatly on top of each other and referring back to each several times as she wrote more.

Her dip-pen stilled and Tamlin tasted the change in the air. Nesta sat gazing into nothing, her expression aghast.

"Nesta?" he murmured.

"The last time I saw many of these people, I was still human," she said hoarsely. She set the pen down. "Now I am an enemy."

Tamlin sighed heavily. He didn't need to ask who she was writing to; her human friends and contacts. He stood from the daybed and went over to her, crouching down beside her at the desk to peer curiously at the letters she had written. Her handwriting was beautiful. Her phrasing was courteous but direct.

"The ones who matter won't care about the shape of your ears, Nesta," he assured her gently. "You're discerning; you already know exactly who your allies will be."

"I wish to entreat with Prythian on your behalf," Nesta said, her voice stronger. She caught his eye and explained, "I feel I am uniquely situated to serve as a neutral party between the Spring Court and the Trust."

"Neutral, Nesta?" he smirked. "I don't think you will ever be neutral."

"I will never be personally unbiased but I can, I think, set aside my own predisposition. There is no-one north of the Wall…" She drifted off, working her jaw. She twisted her fingers, as she did when she was anxious. "There is no-one in the Courts who understands and respects Prythian and the Trust more than me, and I am learning what the Spring Court values. What you value. I can see the similarities – I can see how you can build the foundations of a relationship with Prythian."

Tamlin watched her, surprised. "Would you enlighten me?"

Nesta stared at him, open-mouthed. With quiet exasperation, she exclaimed, "Everything you've built, Tamlin… All the work you've put in over centuries to make this Court what it is now, in spite of every obstacle. You are crippled by the weight of your sense of responsibility to even the lowliest of this land – especially them… The Spring Court and Prythian have many more similarities, despite the obvious differences."

Pouring them a glass of wine, Tamlin brought out one of the new jigsaw puzzles they had bought in Fioren-Daara: he had learned that Nesta could talk for hours if plied with a glass of wine and a game. And he savoured every hour he spent gazing at her across a game-board, talking about anything and everything.

Sipping her wine, Nesta talked: she spoke of Prythian's laws, which every child learned at their parents' knee, and of historical events that had shaped Prythian, the wars and assassinations and coups and exceptional men and women who had shaped their nation. She described their flag and some of its historical significance. She told him about the Great War fifty years ago: he remained gripped by dread as she told him of the ensuing World War that had almost claimed the human world thirty years ago. He was fascinated by the developments humans had made with weaponry and astounded by Nesta's understanding of the politics that had triggered the wars and the military tactics that had ended them. He was intrigued how the borders of the Continental nations had shifted over time, but struggled to follow as Nesta explained the histories.

"If you wouldn't mind me defacing a map, I could show you," Nesta said, brightening. "I used to do the same for the children I taught. Otherwise it remained too abstract."

"Not a paper map," Tamlin said. "But… Come with me."

He carried their wine-glasses in one hand and led her by the other to the back wall, where a great mural spread. It showed legend and the past that to him was not so distant: the Cauldron and the creation of their world – he heard Nesta's heart stutter as she tripped past the depiction of elegant hands tipping golden liquid – life, his mother had always said, everything that ever was and ever will be – from the upturned Cauldron, past a grand map of their world as it had once been millennia ago. He hurried her past a stretch of the mural that brought a coppery taste to his mouth: he heard her heart beating faster as she recognised the Slaves' War, depicted as a single moment frozen in paint, bristling faeries a heartbeat from ripping to shreds the gathered legions of human soldiers – men and women and child-warriors who had died for their freedom. He led her to the new map of the world, with all its continents, and a colourless smear denoting anything south of the Wall.

"We had no way of knowing how the world south of the Wall looked," Tamlin explained to Nesta, as she gazed at the map. Everything north of the wall had been painted in staggering topographical detail; each territory featured royal crests or flags, some even had small portraits of reigning sovereigns, while the Courts were indicated by insignias and symbols of their territories. It was a beautiful map of their world.

"So it was left off as if it had never existed," Nesta said sadly.

"But it provides a blank canvas," Tamlin said, smiling coaxingly at her.

"If only I had some paint," she said softly. He glanced at her and gently caressed his magic, thinking of what he wanted; the paint set he had bought in the Atelier. He summoned it to him and handed the beautifully simple maple box to Nesta.

"What's this?"

"Open it," he said simply. She frowned but did as he asked, lifting the removable lid to reveal over fifty small rectangular pots sealed with waxed paper. He stroked his magic again and highest-quality brushes, a ceramic palette and a glass jar and jug appeared. "Will these suffice?"

"This is a beautiful set," she said softly, awe in her tone as she carefully peeled the waxed paper from one of the pots. Glossy, opaque paint was revealed. Nesta inhaled sharply, her eyes widening; a smile lingered at the corners of her lips. "These are gouache paints."

Tamlin frowned. "I asked for watercolours: you said you used to paint with them."

"Gouache is opaque watercolour," Nesta said, smiling warmly. "I suppose we have different names for the same thing." Her smile faded and she stared at Tamlin. "Did you buy these for me?"

He could have lied and pretended he had always had them lying about: but she would know. She'd inventoried too many of his rooms not to know what he had lying around his palace.

"I thought you might find them useful," he said, shrugging. Nesta beamed.

"Oh, I shall," she said warmly. "Thank you, Tamlin."

"So… May we begin my history lesson?" he prompted.

Sat on the floor with their wine glasses and Nesta's new set of paints spread before them, Nesta gave Tamlin a visual history of the Continent. She used one colour to demark the borders of the human lands as they had been established after the Slaves' War. With each successive conflict, she used a new colour to paint over the borders and alter them.

"Here is Farrhan," she explained, using the end of her paintbrush to indicate a relatively untouched swathe of land. Unlike many of the other nations, Farrhan's borders had remained mostly intact over the centuries. "Twenty years after the Slaves' War, people's lives were no better under the reign of the Queen than they were under the Fae: there was no progress, no freedoms. So the humans revolted, killing the Queen. Like Prythian, Farrhan is a Republic: it is famous for its power-hungry noble families as much as its exquisite courtesans… And this is Iacopo. You remember the empress I told you about, whose jewels are on display in the museum in Prythian? She was Empress of Iacopo. Two centuries ago, a revolution took place: the entire imperial family was executed."

"Except for the children," Tamlin remembered.

"Except for the children; they were smuggled out by their cousins in Loraq," Nesta said. "After the revolution, the country was divided into duchies: the most influential nobles at the time seized power in their territories and established themselves as royal dukes and princesses; their succession laws all favour primogeniture. The last two centuries have been a succession of wars over land. When King Eman of Scythia ordered the assassination of one of the princesses, it triggered a global conflict. Nearly thirty years later, they were still fighting over borders when Eman's heir, his brother, King Vox simply walked his armies into two of the duchies and by the time the banners had been called and the armies had mustered, Scythia had conquered all of the duchies bar one, thanks to its impassable mountains…"

"What about that nation?" Tamlin asked, refilling their glasses and pointing to a stretch of land south of where two mountain-ranges met.

"That is Orlon," Nesta said, bristling. "The direct line of the queen who was named by the High Fae at the end of the war died out within a generation but several cadet branches established themselves. Over five centuries, there have been six dynasties that ruled Orlon, all of them however tangentially connected to the royal line. When Iacopo imploded into revolution, Orlon followed suit; they executed their reigning queen and installed a Commonwealth. It didn't last long – too austere. They brought back the queen's youngest daughter to rule: Bonnie Queen Betha oversaw the Restoration but the nobility imposed strict constitutional laws on her sovereign rights. Their current queen has been outspoken about her desire to restore Orlon to the glory of Queens past."

"What is her name?" Tamlin asked, watching Nesta scowl at the map as she painted a small portrait, mirroring the ones in the Fae territories.

Nesta exhaled sharply. "Briallyn." She glanced at Tamlin. "You saw her in Hybern. She demanded to go into the Cauldron first once I appeared to have emerged unscathed."

Tamlin frowned and cast his mind back to that horrible day. He would never forget Nesta's screams of rage or Elain Archeron silently weeping in her sodden nightgown. He watched Nesta painting: a woman with black hair and crow-like black eyes and a cunning beauty took form. Gazing at the painting, he now remembered her. Cunning but vain, the black-eyed queen had gotten exactly what she deserved.

"What about the last country?" he asked, eager to draw Nesta's mind away from Briallyn, from Hybern.

"Loraq," Nesta sighed. "The only country still ruled by the direct descendants of the Queen chosen by the High Fae. Demetra was their Queen and she will be much-mourned. The golden one… Her sister Crisantha is known to be fierce and relentless."

Tamlin frowned, staring at the map Nesta had started to piece together. "What I don't understand," he said, "is why the six Queens were involved at all. Hybern treated with them as if they were potentially powerful allies. In truth, of the six queens, only Queen Demetra and Queen Briallyn are still rulers of their lands."

"They were invited to treat with Hybern because the Night Court identified them as powerful and influential figures amongst the humans – because they remained utterly ignorant of the politics that have shaped the mortal world in the last five centuries," Nesta said. Her back straightened and she smirked. "And because Rhysand treated them as important, Hybern believed they were… When Rhysand demanded I reach out to the six Queens, I did nothing to enlighten him about how futile such a thing was."

"Why did you keep him ignorant?" Tamlin asked curiously.

Nesta glanced sharply at him. "Rhysand threatened war. I was not going to point him or anyone else to those who had any part in ruling Prythian or keeping the human realms united."

"They were a diversion," Tamlin said, smiling. He was impressed, though he should not have expected any less from Nesta.

"I do regret that Queen Demetra died," Nesta said quietly. "She was young but she had a reputation for being just, and putting her people above herself. Crisantha has inherited quite the legacy to live up to."

"Nesta…why didn't you tell Rhysand the truth about the queens?" Tamlin asked quietly. He gestured at the map she had painted for him. "Why not tell him what you've told me?"

"All I knew of Rhysand when he first appeared in my home was what Feyre told me before she returned to the Spring Court, to return to you," Nesta said. There was no accusation in her voice but Tamlin fidgeted awkwardly. "She had told me that Rhysand left disembodied heads in water-fountains and threatened to scramble Feyre's brain, forced you to your knees to save her… Then she flounced in, dripping with jewels fit for an empress, telling all sorts of stories about what happened Under the Mountain…but she focused on the wrong details… It sounded wrong; it was not my sister, not as I knew her… He stripped her of all bodily autonomy, all dignity, he enslaved her to his will, and somehow she believes it was romantic. He has her convinced that he did everything for her when in truth, he used her as he would any weapon he could get his hands on to eradicate his enemy, to punish Amarantha, to maintain control over what he views as his…" He could tell she was getting worked up; her chest rose and fell sharply and her knuckles were white as she gripped her paintbrush. Despite it, her hand was steady as she painted. The distraction seemed to soothe her; she painted away and gradually relaxed. Her eyes turned dull, her voice devoid of emotion when she said, "We thought she was dead."

He sighed and cleared his throat.

"She did die," he said quietly, and Nesta nodded silently.

"Yes. My sister Feyre died Under the Mountain… Some other creature came into being that day," Nesta said quietly. "He quite literally remade her exactly as he desired her."

"We all had a part in that," Tamlin said quietly.

"In giving her life," Nesta acknowledged. "Not in shaping her. He has moulded her just as he wishes her to be, like a sculptor with clay… I had not had time to understand that Feyre was alive and altered when she demanded we involve ourselves in whatever conflict was brewing… When I denied her, she brought him in – and those overgrown brutes he keeps leashed…" Nesta flinch. She grimaced and took a sip of her wine to conceal her expression.

"She intimidated you into complying," Tamlin understood.

"I vowed the moment he sauntered into my home that I would do everything in my power to protect Prythian from him," Nesta said coldly.

Tamlin sighed. "You saw through my glamour," he said quietly. Nesta nodded. "You saw through Rhysand."

"I had the measure of him pretty quickly," Nesta said, her lip curling as she finished the small portrait of Queen Briallyn with a flourish.

"And he severely underestimated you," Tamlin said, smiling to himself. He sipped his wine and reached out to tap the untouched part of the map. Not a speck of paint decorated the slice of land directly beneath the Spring Court's southern border.

"You've told me about the Continent," he said. "What about Prythian?"

With almost visible reluctance, Nesta told him about Prythian and its place in the tangled knot that was Continental politics. As an island they remained in a position of privilege, removed from Continental squabbles that decimated the land: for centuries they had defended their shores, viciously throwing back invaders into the sea, against sometimes insurmountable odds.

Nesta told him of Splendid Angharad "the Hammer" and her two sisters, who had united Prythian as one distinct sovereign nation, putting an end to nearly two decades of bloody turmoil following the end of the Slaves' War. Queen Angharad had united the people of Prythian through sheer force of will – and her dragons.

Tamlin's jaw dropped.

"Why do you look like that?"

"She had dragons?"

"They all did," Nesta said. "Angharad, Ceridwen and Heledd were all dragon-riders; they were warrior-queens."

"I don't recognise their names from the War."

"They were children during the Slaves' War," Nesta told him quietly, "but Angharad remembered. Legend says she and her sisters were born where immortals go to die."

Tamlin gaped again.

"That I've heard of," he muttered. There was only one place in all of Prythian – of the world – that had a dark reputation for being the location of a place sought out by the desperate, the inconsolable, a place where the Fae went for absolution. Subterranean networks of rivers and lakes of molten lava that could burn through even the most ancient Fae in a heartbeat. He blinked and stared at Nesta, realising with cold dread, "They were born in the mines."

"Angharad's recollections describe a place of catacombs deep in the heart of the world where mithril gleamed like rivers of starlight in the stone and dragons nested in pockets of magma, jealously guarding their clutches of eggs," Nesta said quietly, her tone dreamy – as if she was recalling poetry she had once read. He imagined she had. "She said slaves were born and died in the red darkness, nameless and forgotten, their bodies scorched inside and out from the brimstone they inhaled and the stone they mined."

"Slavery is abhorrent in and of itself but even amongst slaves, those condemned to the mines endured unimaginable conditions," Tamlin said grimly.

"Where are the mines?" Nesta asked curiously.

Tamlin sighed and frowned, raising his eyes to the Courts. Any information that had been gathered on the other Courts over the millennia was never to be entirely trusted but some things were irrefutable. Thanks to the sparsity of such mines, mithril was nearly priceless. The mithril mines were fiercely defended due to how coveted mithril was; the location of one of the few places where it could be mined – the place where immortals went to die – was common knowledge.

He pointed to the most northerly point of the Summer Court's eastern shore. The map showed a wash of fiery red magma and a silvery gleam, denoting both the mithril mines and the dragons that dwelled in them.

"In Summer?"

"That's where your Queens were born," Tamlin said softly.

"Our stories say that before the Wall went up, the sisters' parents smuggled dragon-eggs from the catacombs," Nesta said. "They had to cross through the Summer and Spring Courts through them?"

"They were lucky to have made it to the human lands," Tamlin said grimly.

"How old were you when the War ended?"

"When it ended? I was seven years old," Tamlin sighed. "Ten when the Wall went up."

"The humans had three years to make it south to the lands given over to them?" Nesta asked, raising her eyebrows.

"There were many who did not make the journey," Tamlin said. "Here in Prythian, their journeys were protected by their Fae allies… But on the Continent, anyone who fell behind was left behind. They were hunted all the way to the border. Thesan estimates that more humans died in those three years than during the entirety of the War."

"So much for the treaties," Nesta sighed, frowning. "What about the Fae kingdoms on the Continent? Now that the Wall is down…" The question hung in the air as Nesta caught Tamlin's expression.

"I can only control my people," he said softly. "I dread what is to come for Prythian's allies."

"I feel a great swell of pity," Nesta said, "for anyone who turns their gaze to the human lands looking for trouble."

A.N.: I had to fix things! Many things! And give the Continent a rich history! And show how Rhysand used intimidation on Nesta to make her compliant – and how in his arrogance he completely underestimated her! I love the idea that the Night Court actually has no idea what the world really looks like, that their information is woefully outdated and that Nesta used their ignorance against them, protecting Prythian. I'll get more into why the humans didn't make a fuss about the Night Court dealing with Lord Nolan, and why Azriel, the spymaster, didn't tell the IC that they were being played.