Author's Note: Hi all! Book One of this series is finished finally! Don't worry there's still plenty more to come I just felt this was a natural breaking point before the next part of the story really kicks in. Your reviews are appreciated as always and give me such motivation to write (as seen with the flurry of updates hahaha). I love hearing your theories and any feedback is always appreciated :) Thank you all so much!

It was the searing hell that tore through depthless sleep that roused Valka. The burning sensation of nerves flaring to life had her groaning as she fought to peel her sealed eyes open.

She had really hoped the afterlife wouldn't be so damn aching. Had hoped perhaps it'd be filled with her own personal harem and a never-ending cask of mead she could glut herself on.

Apparently, she'd been wrong.

Fluttering her eyelids, she found herself staring up at off-white canvas, the whistling of spring breezes fluttering the tent flap and through the Steppes outside.

Or maybe not.

She'd survived being poked full of holes somehow. Blinking, she tried to recall what had happened after the arrows had pierced her chest as she'd pleaded with Cenric, tried to warn him of who was behind the rebellions—

"Blessings from the Mother," Valka felt ice fill her veins as the voice sounded above her, sparkling emeralds staring down at her. "I had feared you would be lost to the darkness."

I wish I had been, Valka thought tartly.

She swallowed, of all the bullshit she didn't want to deal with.

"The High Lady blessed you with her healing blood." A soft, polite smile, "I do wonder how it must have tasted on your lips."

Definitely not in the mood to deal with this.

"Mother-" Excuses, she needed excuses, anything to cover up that she'd protected the lord's son, even if for her own selfish reasons—

"Well done, my child," a soft, delicate hand landed on Valka's face, "your brilliance shines once more. Gaining their trust, showing your allegiance, you've done well."

She felt emptiness wash over her, a shiver dancing up her spine.

"Your dear Captain stayed by your side through the long nights," a delicate dip of her chin, the picture of a poised lady, "she left only when her mate needed her." A pause. "She doesn't trust me," a long finger trailed down Valka's face, the nail scratching. "I wonder where such distrust comes from." The finger lifted. "No matter, we've work to do."

Valka let a breath loose that she hadn't realized she'd been holding, the phantom feeling of her mother's hand on her face making her shudder. Oiliness pooled inside of her. Where was Cenric? Had he survived?

"What happened?" Unwise to question, but she needed information.

She struggled to pull herself into a sitting position but was immediately pushed back down, the too-perfect hands adjusting the blanket around her.

Valka had never felt such an urge to bolt.

"My late husbands' dear youngest brother suddenly felt the need to proclaim his loyalty to his nephew, our dear Silbah." She ran a gentle hand through her silky black locks, useless wings tucked tight. "He told them everything, a final defiance against the Lord and his kind."

Valka's eyes narrowed.

The last Ironwood Lord had been the only one to remain neutral in the fight for the throne, having supported neither her brother or the High Lord. Only his children, his relatives, bought into the ideology of a new King.

"Do not look so surprised, my dear," her mother hummed as she reached for a damp rag, wringing it before easing it onto Valka's forehead. "It took very little convincing, a small incision in his mind," more soft humming, her hand running down Valka's arm, "a slight nudge and he did as he was required."

Valka tried to keep her breathing stable, forcing herself to not yank her arm away from the caress.

She'd used another pawn, another move in this chess game she played.

She prayed Cenric was gone, winnowed far away back to his city of starlight when her mother's claws could not touch him.

"Heal," she dipped her head near Valka's ear, a mother murmuring her reassurances to her child. "There is much to finish." A squeeze, the flush of dark magic dancing, encasing her briefly, "They've found their peace and eyes are turned. The time is nigh."

She had to find a way out.

"Cenric please-"

"Did you even consider the consequences?" His voice was sharp as a silver blade, his room blanketed in shadow as he paced back and forth, tossing things haphazardly into a large canvas bag. "Did you even think about anything beyond your own selfish feelings in this?"

His pupils flared dangerously as he seethed, his lips peeling back from his teeth. I'd found him in his room packing, grabbing handfuls of his belongings as he'd gathered what he deemed essential, his closet door flung open from where he'd rummaged through his clothes.

He was leaving.

I'd done this.

"Cenric, I need you to listen." Just a chance, all I needed was a chance. "Let me explain things to you, let me apologize for this—"

The room shuddered beneath the power that rolled off him, the air visibly wavering. He was done with talking.

Leverage, I needed something to make him listen, to make him stay-

"An apology isn't going to change anything, it's not going to fix anything." He tore his hands violently through his shaggy hair, sending the raven tresses in every direction. "What did you think would happen?"

"Listen to your mother, let her talk." Rhys remained stoic, his voice low as he stood braced against the wall, monitoring the exchange. He'd joined us as soon as he'd felt the raw panic that filled me when I'd seen my son packing, when he wouldn't so much as look at me.

Cenric sent him a sour look.

"I was trying to protect you, to keep you safe," I sucked in a shuddering breath, frustration filling me, "to keep those bastards from killing you."

"I survived."

"Because of my blood," I snapped back, agitation saturating me. He had to understand what I was trying to do, that I had only wanted to protect him. He needed to know that I had only acted in his best interest.

"Then maybe I should have died on that mountain," a sneer, "it would have left a better impression of our Court that having my mother swoop in to save me. It would have prevented Valka from nearly dying."

I tried not to think of the grey-eyed female who'd saved my son not once but twice. She'd survived, barely.

As for the Illyrians-

"To hell with what they think!" I threw out an arm, willing him to see reason, part of me wishing he was small again so that I could swoop him into my arms and hold him, comfort him. "Your safety was what mattered, the only thing that has ever mattered in all of this."

"No, stopping them was." A pause, a shudder racing across his shoulders, "And it's over now and I'm done with this and with you."

The words struck hard. I flinched.

Rhysand straightened, his patience finally beginning to flag. I had no doubt that he was going to try his hand at placating our son, when I found my voice cutting in coldly.

"You will not leave." I could order him to stay, order him to stop until he calmed down, until we both collected our thoughts and we could sort through this logically. "As your High Lady I order it."

He froze, his eyes going wholly black as he dropped the notebook he was holding onto the dresser beside him. I could feel Rhys gaping at me, taken aback by the sudden, direct order.

"You can't keep me here." A flash of teeth, the groaning of the furniture as his power became a heavy blanket coating the room.

"I can and I will," I'd ward the entire damn house if only to keep him here, to keep him from leaving—"This conversation isn't over."

Feyre.

I shouldered out of Rhys' hold on my mind, ignoring his advice to think about what I was doing, what I was saying.

I needed to stop Cenric, needed him to stay until we could work this out-

"Do you really want to do this?" My son's face had gone stony, the light fleeing his eyes.

"You're not going to listen any other way—"

FEYRE.

A snap echoed through the room as the posts on Cenric's bed shattered, sending splitters flying the, wood tumbling to the floor.

Ice tore down my spine as I watched the bed collapse, when I heard the curse that slipped past Rhysand's lips.

"Then I resign my position within your Court." My stomach twisted in fear, the reality of what'd I'd just done rapidly flooding in, "I revoke my right as heir and say to hell with all of it." He shouldered his pack, readying to winnow. "Find someone else who wants to be coddled, who's willing to let their enemies bully them into submission."

My resolve had melted, my hands shaking with the understanding of the divide I'd just cleaved clean through. There would be no patching this.

I was acting like him—

"Cenric, please, you can't go," I swallowed past the lump in my throat, the tears threatening to overflow, my tone soft, barely audible. "You're my son, this is your home—" I love you.

"It stopped being my home the second you decided I needed to be locked up like some porcelain doll," The words struck a chord, a mansion appeared in my mind, one I'd long since forgotten, the splattering of red paint spilling down the wall. "You made your choice when you followed me into those mountains and now I'm making my own."

"Cenric." A plea from my mate, his eyes shadowed as he watched our son, his own power rallying as though he'd follow after him when he left.

All of it my fault.

"Stay out of this."

"You're not being reasonable."

"You're not part of this," A finger pointed at the door. "Get out, both of you."

"Cenric-"

He was gone, the spot where he stood empty and rippling with shadows, the remnants of his power that had flooded the room.

I felt myself slump, Rhys' arms enveloping me.

"I'll go after him," he pulled me close, lifting me up to set me back on my feet, "talk some sense into him. I never expected him to be this bullheaded—" I laid a hand on Rhys's arm, stopping his tirade.

"Don't," the tears leaked down my cheeks, creating dark splotches on my worn tunic, "he has every right."

"He's spent too much time in the Steppes, he's picking up the piss-poor attitude and temper."

"He should be angry." I wiped feebly at my face, feeling the world falling away beneath my feet, he'd swore off his birthright, his attachment to our family—what had I done?

Where had he even gone?

"He's just spewing," Rhys shook his head, grousing his annoyance, "I was no better at his age, wanting to buck and fight at any opportunity I got. He's probably run off to an inn somewhere to cool his temper, he won't be gone long-"

"No, that's not Cenric." Our son was a pacifist, a gentle soul who did not fight needlessly, who did not make idle threats when he was angry. But when his temper finally boiled over, when he sunk his teeth into something—

He had meant every word.

"I finally understand."

Rhys quirked a brow at me.

"Understand why I want to throw Cassian into a canyon at least once a week?" A subtle attempt at humor, to soften the blow, to make light of what had transpired.

"Why Tamlin did what he did."

Why he kept things from me, why he acted in the way he best saw fit when I wouldn't listen to his fears. He hadn't been right in his actions and neither had I when dealing with my son.

Understanding filled me. It would never excuse it but . . . clarity, there was clarity there. To love someone so much, to be so desperate, the desire to keep them locked away so no matter how much they hated you they would at least be safe. To care so much that your love become poison, leeching and deadly.

Rhysand stiffened, his voice tight.

"Feyre."

"I mean it." I pushed away from him, wrapping my arms around myself as I thought back on the emotions that had no doubt driven Tamlin to control me the way he had, to want to monitor everything I did- "I'm no better than he was."

For I'd threatened the same thing, trying keep Cenric in one place to get him to listen to my "good reason"—Mother, what was I becoming?

"It's not even remotely the same and you know that." Fury filled my mate's voice at implication that I would even compare myself to him-

But it was true.

"It is."

"Feyre, you're not even listening to me." A hand on my wrist, another on my face, forcing me to look at him. "Never compare yourself to him. To . . . that."

But I wasn't listening. All I could think about was a beautiful cage encased in vines and roses, the will of a male who'd nearly suffocated me with his need to control me. To protect me.

I finally understood.

Evening was falling over the Estate, the sound of servants finishing their tasks flitting throughout the manor and the echoing laughter of returning sentries resounding through the halls. Sentries that had been hard won again, their loyalty to their Lord slowly rekindled.

Lucien had helped in that effort, if only to soothe the guilt that had filled him upon finally being allowed to return to Spring, to the desolation that had consumed the place he had called once called home. The hell that had been wrought in his absence.

Reclaiming their loyalty had taken decades, grueling hours of negotiations and carefully worded speeches to call many of them home.

But they'd managed.

It had taken nearly that long to reclaim the shattered friendship that he had shared with Tamlin, the male having only been a shadow of his former self when he'd returned. A fragment.

After years and immense efforts on his part to repair what had been broken, to assist in building up the male to the person he'd been before the hell Feyre had reaped, Tamlin's old self had emerged.

A battle hard fought and barely won.

It was the trained, careful footsteps of said male that now approached, no doubt coming to call Lucien for dinner. He shuffled the papers before him, trying to ignore the enticing smell of perfume that curled from one of them, the tell-tale violet ink in the elaborate, bold script he'd know anywhere.

If he had any sense he'd throw it away, would send Bron or Hart in his place to deal with the temptress who beckoned him. He'd been defenseless against her, as though her every desire commanded him.

He'd never learned how she'd managed to entice him, how he could never seem to escape her when she summoned him, like a faithful pet.

He groaned, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

Yes, perhaps he'd send a sentry in his place, even have them dress in that jade doublet she was requesting just to sweeten the deal.

Somehow, he knew he'd still end up going.

"Letters?" Tamlin's deep voice echoed throughout the chamber as he leaned on the doorframe, his green eyes evaluating as he watched Lucien. "Anything of interest?"

A shake of his head. "Nothing new."

He pushed the parchment he'd read again and again away, having already shared the news with Tamlin.

They finally had leads, names and trade routes, receipts of people sold and where they'd been shipped to. A fighting chance to win back peace for both the humans and fae facing the slave trade.

He only had to meet with Fallon to acquire the information.

'Meet' with Fallon.

He rubbed at his eyes.

He'd already sent word to the other Courts about the developments on the continent, on the information Fallon had managed to gather. Even to Night Court, where Azriel remained with Elaine—

He clamped down on the age old instinctual need to claim her, the need to bleed the Shadowsinger. Years of practice had taught him how to deal with the urges well. He ignored the tug, burying it beneath layers and layers of control.

And with the announcement that their wedding was to be resumed, the party to follow . . .

She had made her choice.

And even if things had been better between their courts, between him and Feyre, his home was not there.

"I smell violets and plum," a knowing nod to the pile before him, "I thought you'd already read that letter." A knowing light flickered in Tamlin's eyes, his lips barely tilting upwards at the corners.

Lucien cringed.

"I'm trying to figure out how to respond to her." A sigh. "Perhaps I'll send someone in my place."

"Because that worked marvelously for you last time," Tamlin shifted his feet, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "You'd have more luck telling her you've died."

"At least her father would be pleased." Last he recalled, Vaerek was still furious with him. The man had a powerful left hook for a human, one that had left Lucien's immortal jaw sore for days.

Tamlin snorted.

"Well, you can dwell on it later." He nodded over a shoulder, "Dinner is ready."

He'd figure out how to maneuver around Fallon. Maybe he'd ask Tamlin to go, to have the chance to see how the High Lord wrangled the fiery sea captain.

No, he already knew who would win that battle, even if he would not admit such a verdict to the friend that stood before him. Tamlin had always been . . . less than successful with powerful women.

Rising, he bumped another piece of parchment, sending it gliding to the floor. He'd nearly forgotten that it had arrived.

There had been news to share, news that'd they'd be awaiting since word of her illness had reached Pyrthian's shores.

Tamlin had not been still since the initial message had arrived, mindlessly roaming the estate as though he'd leave at any minute to tend to her before deciding against it. He clearly wanted to keep his head where it was between his shoulders.

Lucien swiftly bent to pick it, contemplating if he should deliver what lay inside the note.

"What is it?" Tension filled Tamlin's shoulders as his sharp eyes caught the thunderbolt seal, the symbol he'd likely never forget. "Is there . . . news?"

Lucien nodded, holding the letter out to him.

"Just . . . tell me." His eyes flickered to the side, something like fear kindling there. "Is . . . did she…?"

"Alive," Tamlin visibly deflated, a breath slipping from his lips, "recovering, slowly."

The lord reached for the note, his eyes devouring the text. Lucien kept his face neutral as he watched Tamlin's face soften, something like peace draping over his features.

"I'm sorry there isn't more information." The informants he'd sent to glean information had been woefully useless, most having been chased away from her family estate by her feral sisters.

"It's enough." Tamlin rested his face in his palms, relief curving his shoulders. "As long as she's still here, still fighting." The eyes of the male that rose were older than Lucien remembered, filled with a heartache of failure after failure.

If Feyre had been a storm in Tamlin's life then she had been a hurricane, swift and brutal-everything that the male had needed to piece himself back together after his fallout with the High Lady of Night.

Even when she, too, finally fled him in the dead of night, furious.

His friend had never pursued her, convinced he'd failed another female in the way he'd sabotaged Feyre.

Lucien hadn't been so certain that was the case, having watched the way his friend had changed with her, the way he'd grown, softer and more open.

Not knowing what to say, Lucien gestured towards the door, beckoning Tamlin to lead. The lord slipped out, his air calmer than it had been for months.

Lucien followed closely, the smell of violets still lingering.

He was doomed.

End Book One