Elain twirled once, her wedding gown billowing as she looked herself over in the mirror, admiring the handiwork of the seamstress who'd taken such care with every stitch and detail, weaving together a gorgeous tapestry of beading and lace, every square inch of fabric hugging her flawlessly.
The dress was absolutely perfect.
And done not a minute too soon.
"It's beautiful," Nesta supplied from beside her, her sister's icy eyes staring back at her from the floor-length mirror, draped in her own gown of the softest pastel lavender. The fabric was near-iridescent, the darling color and cut selected by Elain personally. "I don't think you could have picked anything more suitable."
"It is quite lovely, isn't it?" She twirled once more, the beaded chiffon catching the golden light of the evening, sending sparkles dancing throughout the room and across the pale walls.
A perfect dress for a perfect wedding to a perfect male.
She felt a blush race to her cheeks.
Married.
She was finally getting married.
Her joy was barely containable.
The flush on her cheeks was met with a soft chuckle from her youngest sister as she emerged from her own dressing room flanked by Mor, both draped in gowns identical to Nesta's.
Her bridesmaids.
The females who would stand by her side as she took the vows she'd longed to take for decades, sealing her life to the one male who had brought light into her life again so many years ago.
The guest list was miniscule compared to some of the events that the Court of Dreams had hosted, and a flicker of sadness filled her at that fact that Nuala and Cerridwen would not be standing with her, the wraiths politely having declined the offer. She knew it was their hatred of crowds that had driven them to say no, rather than any ill will.
Still, they would be there in the crowd, her friends and family looking on.
Well, most of her family.
Her father's and niece's absences would undoubtedly be felt, two holes in her heart that could not be repaired, but ones that she could fill with love and flowers.
With memories.
As though she sensed the trail of her thoughts, Feyre stepped up beside her and rested her hand on her arm, her eyes softening as she admired all of them in the mirror. Three sisters for three brothers, just as the Cauldron should have designed.
Not one of the sisters tied to a male she did not love, even if some small part of Elain's heart ached for what Lucien had lost and his current . . . predicament.
"You look lovely, " Feyre offered with a small smile, straightening the loose curls on her shoulders. "You're finally getting married."
"A decade later," Nesta murmured, though it was joy that shimmered in her eyes, her lips curling at the edges. "There's still time to back out, you know. We're stuck with the other two, but you might yet save yourself."
As if Elain would ever choose to run in any direction except towards Azriel.
"Nesta's right, you know," Mor chirped from the long couch that she now lounged on, the fabric of her gown scrunched beneath her, "still plenty of time to flee."
Elain huffed as they all shared a laugh.
"Azriel isn't nearly as brutish as the other two," she muttered, heat staining her cheeks as she smoothed her dress down.
"No, he's not." Feyre reassured, her lips tilting in amusement, her mind no doubt flitting to her own mate.
"I wouldn't bet on that," Mor quipped, "you forget, they're having their own little party tonight up at the House of Wind."
Feyre rolled her eyes with a groan as Nesta merely shook her head, not looking the slightest bit surprised, something like exhaustion on her features.
An old tradition both humans and fae shared, in which the marrying male and his closest male friends and family celebrated his future nuptials by drinking themselves into stupors, reveling in the debauchery that he might not find on the other side of marriage.
Females traditionally held a similar party, though perhaps with a bit less alcohol.
Though if what Mor claimed she had planned was true Elain wasn't certain she'd be following that tradition either. Elain could already feel the headache beginning to form at her temple just from the thought of it.
"We'll be lucky if they show up sober to the wedding."
"If the three of them show up at all," Nesta noted, no doubt considering just how much alcohol the males of their Court would be consuming that evening. They'd likely already started drinking once the sun had risen over the horizon.
"You mean the four of them," Mor interjected. "You forget they invited Varian to this particular little get-together."
Surprise flickered through Elain, she wouldn't have expected them to have included someone else in the brotherly festivities.
Seeing her confusion, Mor added, "Amren insisted, apparently she wants Varian to be more a 'part of the family'."
Or more likely, the tiny female merely wanted a quiet evening to herself and decided sloughing her lover off on her male court counterparts would suffice.
She didn't bother voicing that thought.
"I'm surprised Amren's willingly sharing her sex toy."
Elain flushed.
"Nesta . . ." Feyre griped, cringing as she too realized the truth of their sister's statement. Amren and Varian couldn't keep their hands off of one another even after a hundred years . . . not that any of the rest of them had been particularly well-behaved themselves.
"Sorry, 'Mother,'" Nesta snorted, "I didn't realize there were little ears listening."
Her youngest sister's face reddened.
Feyre's reprimanding had been a habit she'd taken up when she'd borne her babes, attempting to keep some semblance of propriety with her children, trying and failing to keep their exposure to their family's nonsense to somewhat of a minimum while they were small.
It hadn't been successful.
Especially when Celeste's first word had been "fuck", not some lovely variation of "mama" or "papa" from her baby babble like Cenric's had been, but a fully-formed curse.
That particular incident had been pinned on Cassian, holding a delighted Celeste who had loudly and proudly proclaimed her first word again and again. Her sister half-heartedly chastised the male for not watching his language around his niece, even if Feyre had barely contained her own laughter at the incident.
Elain hadn't bothered to mention it had actually been her own fault the toddler had picked up such a foul word.
The one time she'd uttered such an obscene curse after dropping a whole bowl of flour on the floor and the sweet toddler had been standing in the doorway watching her . . . it'd been a secret she'd never told anyone.
Well, except for Azriel, who had laughed himself hoarse at the truth.
And Feyre . . . well she'd never quite dropped the habit of telling the others to watch their language. Even when she was the worst of them.
"You know," Mor drew, having risen from the couch her brows waggling as she strode to join them, "we could always just crash their party after ours."
They all shared a look, one loaded with mischief as Nesta and Feyre shared a rare identical smile.
Mor shifted her gaze to Elain. "That is, if you want to. It is your party after all."
Elain laughed.
"We're going to need that alcohol first." She paused, considering. ". . . All of it."
Azriel was shitfaced.
Inebriated to such a point he'd nearly tumbled off the couch in his attempt to reach his drink moments before, Cassian's obnoxious howling laugh booming throughout the room as he'd had to grab the plush arm to stabilize himself.
Rhys was no better, his hair askew and clothes rumpled where he was sprawled across his own chair, drink loose in his hand. Sensing Azriel's attention, Rhys met his gaze and sent one phrase directly into his mind:
First rule of drinking: never let Cassian pour the shots.
And yet, Azriel replied, somehow, we still fail to follow that rule.
Rhys gave him a knowing grin.
Would it be any fun if we did?
Azriel's stomach would certainly think so when the morning came.
It'd been a silent agreement that Rhysand and himself had decided upon in their youth after the first time they'd snuck a bottle of spirits from his Rhysand's mother's cupboard and had proceeded to get thoroughly wrecked in the camp cabin.
Rhysand's mother had nearly skinned all three of them when she'd found the empty bottle that Cassian had cajoled them all into drinking and their half delirious, drunk selves sprawled across the carpet.
She'd made them clean and wash dishes through their entire hangover, not allowing a moment's rest until the mess they'd made was spotless.
It'd been the first of innumerable drinking escapades that had gotten them into more shit than should have been possible. And every time they handed the bottle off to Cassian to manage . . . Azriel always found himself exactly where he was now.
Fucking plastered.
"What's the matter, Az?" Cassian slurred from the floor, where he sat cross legged with a deck of cards in front of him, face gleaming in wild delight. "Is the husband-to-be feeling a little tipsy?"
Azriel narrowed his eyes before throwing a vulgar gesture at his brother. Getting up was far too much effort and he wasn't sure the floor would stay in place if he did.
Varian, from his position on the carpet that he'd assumed about an hour before, let out a groan of regret.
Cassian howled again.
"That's what I thought."
"I wouldn't be talking shit," Rhys mumbled from his own chair, eyes glazed as he swirled the dark liquor in his own glass, barely keeping it upright. "Fifty gold pieces says you can't even stand up straight right now."
"Fifty gold pieces says I can."
"Fifty gold pieces says he won't make it down the aisle as a groomsman," Azriel added. For at the rate his brother was drinking . . . he'd still be inebriated by the time the wedding date came.
"I'm more sober than Az is."
Azriel knew that statement to be fact, even if Cassian was only a few drinks behind.
Rhys smiled knowingly. "Then go right ahead and get up, brother."
Azriel already knew that his and Rhys's bets were the winning ones. It wouldn't stop him from enjoying watching his brother fumble though.
Matching Rhys's grin, Azriel watched as Cassian worked his feet up underneath him, wings flaring widely as he braced himself on the low table in front of him. With one surging motion he forced himself upright, only to immediately flail, wings flapping, and go crashing down on the carpet.
Azriel couldn't contain the bark of laughter that slipped past his lips, the alcohol loosening the control he usually held over himself.
"Fifty gold pieces it is then, brother."
"Hog shit," Cassian hissed, rolling over onto his hands and knees on the plush carpet. "I just lost my balance. I'll raise the bet to a hundred."
"You'll be out of coin by the end of the night if you keep this up," Rhys offered.
"Piss off."
They watched as Cassian's face soured and he tried, and failed, once again to rise, this time hitting the carpet with a thud that made him wince.
"Bastards."
"You're the one making the bets," Rhys snorted, chortling. "You've never been good at gambling."
"'Oh look at me, the little High Lord who knows everything,'" Cassian snipped back in a mocking tone, his face still buried in the plush carpet. "Feyre should murder you and rule us alone."
"Wouldn't work," Rhys replied cheekily, mischief sparkling in his gaze, "our life forces are tied together, remember?"
A foolish decision in Azriel's opinion, but one he hadn't bothered voicing.
Feyre and Rhys had always done as they liked.
"At this particular moment that is a sacrifice I'm willing to make." Cassian hiccupped and Azriel wondered if he might vomit on the carpet. "Let Cenric lead us, that is if he'll ever haul his ass out of the woods. Where is our nephew anyway, Az?"
"On the far southern border, though he didn't show me where exactly he was camping." His nephew hadn't exactly forthcoming with information when he'd seen him, having quickly purged his scent before Azriel had even gotten a whiff of his whereabouts.
His nephew was truly adamant about not being found.
He half-wondered how long it would be before Cenric forgave his mother, guilt tugging at his own gut for the events that had transpired that Spring. He took another swig of his brandy.
"What the hell is he even doing out there? Sharpening sticks? That's certainly not what I would have been doing with total lack of supervision and that much free time."
Cassian's words implied enough.
"My son doesn't want to stick his dick in everything he sees, unlike you."
"I don't think my nephew even knows how his dick works."
Azriel nearly choked on his drink, trying not to think about that underlying truth of that statement. Cenric was certain more poised and well-mannered than any of them had been at that age, fucking and fighting without restraint.
It was a miracle none of them had any illegitimate children running about.
"Our son has more restraint than you animals," Feyre's playfully tipsy voice cut through the room, startling them as her bronze head appeared, backlit by the light of the hallway. "Especially if the reek of alcohol in here is any indication. I'm starting to think we shouldn't have brought those extra bottles from the Moonlit Palace."
On the low table several crystal decanters appeared, filled with a variety of amber liquids, more ancient than even they were. Azriel watched as his brother perked up at the sight of his mate, his scent shifting in a way that made him want to flee the room.
Cassian on the other hand was now mimicking Varian, his face buried in the carpet as a pained groan left him.
"I thought you lot were having your own party over at Rita's," Azriel asked.
Elain's own gathering to celebrate their upcoming nuptials, which he'd been forbidden from attending by his brothers in lieu of his own celebration.
He caught sight of his beautiful bride to be peeking from behind her sister, her caramel eyes alight with amusement as she took them all in. Catching his gaze, she sent him a wink.
His heart stuttered.
"We went and then decided to crash yours," a sober Nesta supplied as she appeared behind Feyre, flanked by a cackling Mor. "Though it seems as though you've done enough partying for all of us."
"Give me a minute, sweetheart," Cassian slurred from the carpet, his eyes half lidded. "I'll be right back up and ready to party."
The look Nesta gave him said otherwise.
Feyre chuckled and strolled casually into the room, smiling brightly at him. Azriel returned the gesture with a smaller, more subdued smile. He'd always been grateful for his High Lady, for her friendship and for the joy she brought his brother.
He watched as Rhys reached for her like a child, nearly whining as she stood just out of reach taunting him, draped in a gown that showed more than it covered.
Mor had disappeared towards the kitchen, no doubt in search of bread and other refreshments.
And Elain . . . Azriel watched as his lover neatly glided into the room behind her sister, her hair pressed into fresh curls, wearing perhaps the most scandalous red dress he'd ever seen her in, the fabric shimmering with a slit that ran clear up to her thigh.
A piece from Mor's closet that he recognized and one that had sobriety instantly rushing in to meet him.
How the females of his Court had even convinced her to wear such a piece . . .
He'd never seen her look so tempting.
He drained the remainder of his drink, tuning out the sound of Nesta's playful chastising and Feyre's amused chuckling.
Elain turned her gaze to him and fluttered her lashes before strolling casually towards him, side stepping the still-grounded Cassian, her red painted lips curling into a smile. "Hello."
He fumbled for the right words to say, for the response he should give her, the compliments. The ones that didn't relate to the blood that was rapidly pooling in precarious places-
He sometimes wondered how he'd gotten the gentle and beautiful Elain to love him despite it and all of his other shortcomings.
"Looks like the cat's got Az's tongue," Cassian slurred, having managed to right himself into a sitting position, Nesta standing above him looking somewhere between laughter and annoyance. "Hopefully he doesn't lose it when he says his wedding vows too."
Azriel was about to growl something at his brother when Elain, smiling and ever cordial, cut in.
"Cas, it looks like you've got something on your face," she gestured towards her cheek, watching as Cassian ran a sloppy hand across his own, "I think it might be drool? Maybe you should get some sleep, you do seem awfully tired. That is, if you can walk."
She winked at him.
Pulling his drool-covered hand away, his brother let out a small snickering laugh.
Nesta nudged him none too gently.
Turning her attention away from Cassian and back towards him, Azriel heard Elain tut in that voice that heated him. "And you," her soft, warm hand came to rest on Azriel's face, nearly flustering him, "should join me for a walk."
A gag sounded.
Azriel didn't need to look to know that it was Varian.
He quickly righted himself, barely getting to his feet without fumbling as he gently took Elain's hand and steered her away from the disaster that he knew was about to unfold in the sitting area.
He'd just steered them clear of the archway when a loud retch followed by Cassian's howling laughter and Feyre's bark of horror echoed in their ears and chased them out of the room.
They'd been at this since dawn, this enrapturing never ending dance between the sheets-and on top of them, against the northern-facing cave wall, bent over the small table- that had left Valka nearly limp as she reveled in the pleasure. For a boy who'd never committed the deed Cenric had certainly learned quickly.
He took orders well too, better than any soldier she'd directed, better than any lover for that matter.
And she'd bedded plenty of males, females too.
And with absolutely nothing to do out in the wilderness, with the warmth of spring just now beginning to thaw the Steppes . . . they'd been copulating like bunnies.
She'd taken it upon herself to teach the boy a few tricks, a few little maneuvers that she'd explained in detail. The pleasant pressure and release between her thighs that had left her roaring her pleasure a half hour before that had enunciated the fact that he'd retained her little lesson.
And now sprawled out across the bed wrapped in the silken sheets . . . she wasn't entirely sure she was truly amongst the living anymore.
For when she'd made the choice to run, to enact her greatest defiance, she'd expected battle and gore, a fight for her survival, not getting bedded like a damned queen.
A clearing of the throat directed her attention to Cenric, standing beside the bed shirtless and looking akin to a god made flesh. And the way his uncut hair shot in every direction—he looked like a warrior who'd entered a vicious storm and emerged victorious. It made her core heat again.
Insufferable boy.
Beautiful, kind, foolish, insufferable boy.
He gave her his signature soft grin as he offered out a silver tray of tarts and fresh fruits for her that he'd conjured from the Mother knew where.
"Hungry?"
Oh, and she was being fed like a queen too.
She didn't even bother responding as she picked up one of the pieces of fresh fruit and bit into it, the flavor luxurious and elegant compared to the hard bread rations and hearty stews she'd become accustomed to in the camps.
Spoiled, she was becoming utterly spoiled and useless.
She reached for another piece.
Cenric let out a soft laugh. "I thought as much."
"You can't bed a female like that and not expect her to be starving after." She took the tray from him and settled it in her lap. "You'd be wise to learn that the quickest way to enrapture a female is with a fine physique," she gestured towards the boy's perfect body, the sinful thing still glistening with beads of sweat, "and a delectable array of food."
"Oh?" Cenric sat on the bed next to her, peering at her through his dark lashes. "Is that the only thing that's needed?"
Flirtatious little shit.
She swallowed the fruit she'd been munching on and leaned in ensuring that her naked breast brushed against his arm. She nearly snickered as his pupils flared.
"No, there is one other thing," she reached for the tray of food in her lap and swiped up a tart, deftly shoving the whole pastry in Cenric's mouth. "Silence."
Startled he looked at her wide eyed, cheeks puffed. She crowed a laugh.
"See? The only things a female could ever desire."
He huffed in amusement before chewing, his dark hair falling into his eyes. Valka flopped down onto the bed, stretching her wings wide as she looked up at him over a shoulder, admiring the gentle face and soul that had sparked the faintest ember of trust within her.
Even if she was courting death by allowing it.
"I assume you'll be leaving soon."
A casual observation, one she'd be thinking about more than she would have liked to admit.
He swallowed the pastry, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned back against the headboard, the black ink of his tattoo stark in the faelight, the curled edges of the lilies beautiful. For Celeste, she thought a bit sadly, considering the child's life who'd been taken as a pawn in this rebellious game. Whose wings had been ripped from her to show the High Lord who exactly held the power in the Steppes.
She slammed down on her mind before it could flicker to Silbah, to the truth she knew about the young lord's sister's death . . .
"Why would you think that?"
She barely contained the eye roll.
The boy honestly didn't remember.
"Because your dear aunt and uncle's wedding is at the end of the week, unless you've forgotten." The flicker of surprise and the sudden color-stained cheeks told her that was exactly what had happened. "And unless you've decided you're not attending, you will be leaving soon."
"Shit," he murmured, running a hand over his face, "has it really been that long?"
"We've been a bit preoccupied, if you hadn't noticed."
He leveled a look at her that said they surely hadn't spent the last few months doing nothing but pleasuring one another.
She quirked a single brow, asking him if he really believed that before gesturing casually to the array of empty wine bottles and vials of contraceptives he'd been drinking religiously littering the floor.
He swore under his breath before flopping back onto the bed, rubbing at his eyes as he let out a groan.
He'd no doubt just realized exactly how much time he'd wasted.
Time they'd both wasted.
"How is it already spring?"
"There's this little thing called time, you see," Valka replied sarcastically, resting her head in the palm of her hand. "Besides, isn't it about time you made amends with your family?"
For it wouldn't be long before things started brewing again, before the rebels began moving, no doubt seeking a way to strike the High Lord once more.
Before that monster she called Mother made her next move.
She had to be ready. Had to be prepared to face whatever would inevitably come after her once the Steppes thawed, once she longer could hide in this stone sanctuary.
And Cenric, with her allegiances . . . she wouldn't risk him. Wouldn't let that one bright light in a sea of darkness be doused in the horseshit that was the Illyrian rebellion.
And the sooner he was back in Velaris . . . the sooner he would be safe.
Even if she couldn't bring herself to admit that she truly didn't want him to go.
He raised a single finger to her, his other hands still rubbing at his brow. "Shush, no more talking. Time for quiet, nice, peaceful quiet—"
Time for him to avoid thinking about the evitable confrontation he would face with his mother. To avoid thinking about returning to the place where he needed to be.
Something playful and foreign flickered to life in her chest.
She knew exactly how to fix his little dilemma.
Without warning she pounced, jumping on top of him. He let out a grunt as she sat perched on his stomach, smirking down at him and his request, no hint of annoyance within herself.
A testament to the strange lighthearted dynamic that had developed between them.
Something she'd never thought she'd ever possess.
"What was that, little prince? Are you going to stop me from being sarcastic?" She pinched at his cheeks, tugging at his ears, eliciting a deep laugh from the male as he playfully swatted at her, grumbling at her to stop. "See, I thought not—"
She yelped as he dug his fingers into her hips, relentlessly tickling her. Growling, she fumbled for control but lost it as he hooked an ankle beneath her knee and flipped her over onto her back, straddling her across the waist and pinning her arms beneath them.
Nevermind, there was the annoyance.
The deep irritation that he thought he could subject her to such a demeaning act-
She yelped as he hit a particularly sensitive spot.
"Cheater!" she roared, trying to dislodge him, tears streaming down her face as she laughed in spite of herself, as her body revolted against the sensation that had her gasping for breath. "Bastardous, asshole cheater—"
If she could just get her blasted foot out from under his ankle, could shift her weight just a little the left-
"Ah ah! All is fair in war, you've said it yourself." He leaned in close to her, lips peeling back in amusement as he continued to tickle her, her body jerking as she tried to dislodge him, willing the ridiculous sensation to stop.
She hadn't been tickled in years, hadn't been played with.
Not since before Silbah had discovered his beast form, when he'd been nothing more than the useless, overlooked youngest son. From the time when he'd gently picked her half-frozen from the cold, dead arms of her mother who had collapsed in that snow drift on the eastern wastes outside of camp looking for food. A young helpless female who'd been exiled for bearing a bastard babe, a female who had hidden her.
She'd never forgotten how he'd wrapped her ice-coated form in that soft woolen blanket, hushing her gently as she fought against him begging for a mother who would never hold her again.
It had been the same year when that monster of a female had found her hidden in Silbah's worn tent and had dragged her into the biting cold, writing the curse into her very blood—
"I-I'll show you war in a minute!" she hissed, trying to dislodge him from where he'd pinned her arms beneath his legs, desperate to get his obnoxious little hands off of her and to suppress the memories drifting through her mind. "Oh, just wait till I get free—"
"All you have to do is say please."
"Over my dead body—"
Her resulting squealing and his laughter reverberated throughout the cavern, filling their sanctuary with the temporary sound of joy.
"Well, that's ominous," Anelisse said, pulling the hood of her cloak further over her face as lightning cracked through the sky above the marshlands, illuminating the towering tangle of razor-sharp thornbushes and the array of hanging bodies entangled in their depths, she hadn't seen anything quite like that yet. An old wooden sign with the lettering scraped away, no doubt having once borne a warning against the labyrinth of death and decay they faced, sat beneath the corpses. "Are we sure we want to go this way?"
For they'd been on this path for several tedious days, winding in and out of landscape that seemed more inclined to kill them than the slavers had been. Miles and miles of rough terrain filled with thorns and sharp grasses that had cut her arms more than once, the air so hot and thick she'd felt as though she were drowning.
And the soaked, unstable ground, hiding holes and all sorts of poisonous creatures . . .
She'd already sunk waist deep into one when she'd strayed just a little too far from the path, Gandriel and Celeste having spent the better part of an hour pulling her free of her muddy sand prison.
She hadn't bothered to find a distant tree to relieve herself behind since.
At least they hadn't encountered the beast Ithaca had warned them about.
Yet.
Anelisse surreptitiously increased her pace to match her sister's.
"There isn't any other path," Celeste replied, nearly sliding into the sopping mud as she made her way down the barely marked trail, mindful to not touch the thorns as she tested the stability of ground. "This is the only way into the marshland without having to cut our own path."
"We should have brought Koda," Gandriel grumbled, bringing up the rear of the company with Ithaca, offering out a stabling hand as Anelisse eased down the muddy slope. "He could have burned through the thorns and saved us the trouble."
"Not without setting the whole place ablaze," her sister muttered, eyeing the tall, dead bushes that loomed above. Something about them made Anelisse uneasy. "We'll have better luck lying low and going slowly."
For if they lit a fire that big . . . everything in a hundred mile radius would come running. Monsters so old they likely hadn't tasted human or fae flesh in a very long time.
And she wasn't exactly keen on being an ancient monster's breakfast.
Just the thought made Anelisse shudder.
"You wouldn't want to disturb them regardless," Ithaca offered, dark eyes scanning as she followed after, her clothes barely soiled while the rest of them were filthy. "These are no ordinary lands, all things are aware here."
"Fabulous, could you kindly tell them to move then and to tell us where the hell Dermot and Dune are?"
Ithaca smiled wryly at Gandriel, "If you're willing to offer yourself up as a sacrifice I'm sure I could strike up a deal."
Gandriel's face soured but he said no more, instead moving closer to Anelisse as they followed Celeste under a low-hanging branch.
"No sacrifices," Celeste said from the front of the pack, her hand resting on the sword at her hip, "we all go in and we all come out. Is that understood?"
Ithaca huffed, eyes rolling. "Take away all of my fun, why don't you."
"I think your definition of fun is very different from ours."
"I wouldn't be so sure of that, my dear Gandriel," Ithaca sent her a soft, knowing smile, a grin that meant her friend was about to irk the male. "Anelisse quite enjoyed the time we spent together crafting little concoctions."
The long afternoon lessons when the woman had taken time and care to teach her an art that Anelisse was certain was not only very old but also very lost to both men and fae.
She certainly hadn't complained about that, had actually quite enjoyed them and the woman's company in fact. She hadn't been able to understand the disdain people held for the woman.
Even if Gandriel's hatred of Ithaca was palpable.
"Anelisse doesn't eat people for fun."
"Oh from the sounds you two make, I would think that isn't true either—"
An exasperated sigh from Gandriel had Anelisse's lips curling at the corners. "Must you make everything sexual?"
Ithaca let out a huff of amusement. "Considering it's in my nature, I would think the answer to that question is yes."
"Quit arguing and hurry up," Celeste called, her voice muffled from where she'd navigated through a particularly thick patch of undergrowth, "and keep your heads low, those thorns are the sharpest I've seen yet."
Following behind Gandriel, Anelisse saw the low arching path her sister had taken. Kneeling, she nearly had to crawl as she ducked beneath the brambles and began to inch her way through, mindful of the thorns that sat poised to stab her if she rose too high.
After what felt like an eternity of maneuvering she emerged in an open clearing of sorts, a brown, turbid pond lay before her and what appeared to be flat stable ground stretching into a valley of sorts and across that expanse . . . unnatural, jagged white objects stuck up from the ground in an odd array-
"Bones," Celeste muttered, seeing where her attention had gone, Gandriel's face went pale as he too took in the sight. Upon closer inspection Anelisse could see they were a variety of types, from animals and other creatures and few that looked distinctly humanoid . . . "Something has claimed this territory." Something big. "We need to keep moving." Celeste paused, considering, before gesturing towards the far side of the valley. "They seem to thin out in that direction, it's likely our best bet to move that way."
Anelisse didn't flinch as Ithaca seemed to materialize silently behind her, her dark eyes narrowed.
"You're wrong," the woman interjected, something knowing flickering to life in her gaze, "yes, this is territory marking, but it's to mark neutral ground. It's a trap of sorts for the creatures of this swamp, designed to lure prey directly into their hunting grounds." She pointed toward where the bones thinned. "If you go that way you will be killed as soon as the sun sets."
"So, what? We follow the ominous bone trail instead?" Gandriel grumbled, gesturing towards where the piles were most dense. It was also the direction where the overgrowth seemed to thin the most, turning into what appeared to be an old floodplain and shallow pools.
Anelisse had no interest in knowing what lay beneath those dirty waters.
Ithaca shook her head. "Neither is good. We stop here for now." For the sun was beginning to dim, only an hour or two of daylight remaining. "I can mark wards so that nothing will bother us for the night. We will need to consider carefully which way we go in the morning."
"And Dermot and Dune?" Celeste asked, surprisingly not questioning Ithaca's advice, "Anything on them?"
The woman's lips pinched, the most irritation she'd show. "Nothing. They've completely blotted out their trail."
Anelisse frowned at that, annoyed that the filthy man who'd caused so much turmoil had figured out how to circumvent even Ithaca's powers.
"So we set up camp for the night," Celeste said, her brow furrowing at the lack of cover in the open plain, no doubt tactically evaluating just how they would hold their own if ambushed, how they might escape this virtual dead end. "We'll take turns with the watch and immediately set out at the first morning light."
"I think we should keep moving," Gandriel supplied, inching closer to his captain.
"Scared of a few little monsters, boy?" Ithaca cooed.
"Scared that we're setting ourselves up to be killed," he snarled back.
"Enough," Celeste groused, stepping between the two, though it did little to alleviate the tension. "Start making camp, I want everything set up before the last rays of light fall beyond the horizon."
"This is a terrible idea," Gandriel murmured but set to work, dragging his pack from his shoulders.
She didn't know what it was, but something inside Anelisse knew he was right.
Elain had seen Azriel in a state of inebriation many times before but she'd never seen him quite so . . light. Childlike, almost, as he'd tried and nearly failed to brace himself against the railing of the balcony of her room as they chatted, the spring breeze that wrapped around them heavy with the scent of the sea and jasmine as it rustled through his night-black hair.
Realizing he'd almost fallen, he'd smiled apologetically at her, a smile that made heat pool in her stomach, a longing for him manifesting in her mind.
And the way he'd watched her draped in that scandalous dress that Mor had coerced her into after a few drinks before going to Rita's . . . she'd half considered if she should buy something similar just for herself to share with Azriel.
Something that could be a secret just between them.
He'd kissed her soundly in the night air, a promise of the life that now lay before them, a reminder of what he freely gave her everyday and would continue to give until he drew his last breath.
She'd nearly exploded with happiness.
And when they'd stepped back into her room, heated and both a little breathless and had made for the bed . . . he'd sat down and fallen asleep. Instantly.
She'd merely gone to shut the door to the balcony and had turned back around to have found her lover soundly asleep on her bed, having failed to even undress himself, his wings splayed behind him as he snored lightly with his face buried in the pillow.
He'd looked so young as she'd sat next to him and traced the outlines of his features, marveling at the beautiful male that would forever be her own.
Smiling, she rose quickly before pulling his boots free and quietly tucked him into the bed, relieved to see that he'd fallen into a truly deep and undisturbed sleep, something that often evaded him even on the best of days.
And to know that he slept peacefully . . .
She had something she needed to do, to retrieve. A small thing that was best obtained with her lover soundly napping and unable to snoop.
Slipping from the room, she'd made toward her eldest sister's chambers, hearing the bright trilling laughter of her family echoing from the sitting area as she peeled the door open. Stepping inside, she quietly shut it behind her, soaking in the balmy air of the magically heated room.
She'd asked Nesta to hide something for her, a small trinket that she wanted to keep out of Azriel's path until their wedding day. And she knew her sister had kept it carefully hidden in the second drawer of her nightstand, having promised to keep it safe all those weeks ago.
With quick, quiet feet she made her way to the small set of drawers and pulled them open, easing the package free from beneath two of her sisters smutty novels. She didn't bother to open it to confirm it was there before she quickly pocketed it and rose.
It wasn't much but . . . it meant a lot to her.
And she hoped it would mean the same to Azriel.
Turning to leave she was surprised to see a lone, flat canvas pressed against the door she'd just come through, its presence having not been there moments before. Curious, she strode toward it, carefully pulling the broad painting towards herself.
What she saw on its surface left her dumbfounded.
A portrait of her deceased niece, but rendered in a way that told Elaine it had been painted recently and to a likeness that none of them, not even Feyre, could have captured.
Surprised and taken aback, she studied the portrait, her brow furrowing as she considered where exactly her eldest sister had gotten such an item. She was so focused that she didn't hear the door creak open as someone stepped in behind her.
"Elaine?"
Startled, she nearly dropped the painting, whirling around to face her sister who had crept in on silent feet, looking quite tired. "What are you doing in here?"
"I was getting that package you'd hidden for me," she explained, watching as Nesta quirked a fine brow at her, then at the canvas in her arms, recognition registering on her features.
"Where did you find that?"
"It was by the door," Elaine said a bit breathlessly, confusion growing within her. "Where did you get this? What is this?"
"By the door . . ." Nesta looked in confusion at the door, her brow furrowing further. "The House dropped it for you to see too, then."
"The House? What are you talking about?"
Where had the House acquired such a piece? How had it managed to find such a thing? Was it a piece one of the citizens of Velaris had completed? Some fluke?
"Cassian found it in Marchedor, some young human woman supposedly painted her sister." Nesta ran her hand down the canvas, tracing the features. "Yet how she managed to capture exactly how Celeste would have looked is beyond me."
The name sent a shock through Elain, sending her stomach tumbling, the memory of seeing her niece's death stark in her mind. She'd seen her fall from the sky that night, burning out in a way that could not be undone. And she'd seen nothing of Celeste in her visions since . . .
Could she somehow have been wrong?
What if Celeste had been alive all that time, and in the many years since she had never tried scrying for her again? Had merely overlooked her?
Horror leached into her heart. She handed the painting back to Nesta.
"Could she have lied? What if this is Celeste? Have you shown Feyre and Rhys?" For if she hadn't . . . they needed to know, to even consider it might be a possibility.
Nesta was silent, her gaze distant.
"Nesta," Elain felt frantic, bordering on the urge to bolt from the room to rouse Azriel, to tell him exactly what Cassian had stumbled across, even if it meant waking him from his deep slumber. "We have to tell them now."
"And what?" Nesta finally replied coolly, holding the painting in such a way that told Elain just how much her stoic sister missed the youngest of them, reminded her of how raw her own heart still was. "Open up old wounds that are finally healing for the first time? Send everyone on another wild hunt for something that isn't there? Your wedding is in a week, Elain. What will you have us do, postpone it?"
"If she's alive?" And by the Mother, if she were—"Yes!"
It could wait for as long as it needed, for even the slightest possibility-
"You're falling down a hole of idealism." Something sour entered Nesta's tone, a weariness Elain hadn't seen in an age. "She's dead. We know she's dead. And this coincidence . . ." Nesta rubbed at her brow, suddenly looking much paler than she'd seemed earlier that evening. "It's just a coincidence."
Even the way her sister said it did little to convince Elain otherwise.
Concern filled her as she looked Nesta over, noting the way the bags under her eyes were more prominent, her lips wan. Elain vaguely recalled that Nesta had hardly touched her food at dinner.
Or eaten much in the previous days.
Nesta knew something she wasn't saying.
Concerned, she reached a comforting hand towards her sister.
And immediately gasped.
Elain's eyes widened in horror as the world around them seemed to twist, hollowing out as the room shifted before her eyes. A desolate battlefield emerged, dark ash raining down from the sky above them, coating the land in the ichor of the burned dead.
Coated it so thickly it looked as though snow had merely fallen, the land itself was so still it was as though everything slept, as though life itself had faded entirely.
The stench of burning bodies burned Elain's nose, the scent so vile and rancid she nearly gagged.
And those that still remained . . . their wailing rose to a fever pitch in the distance.
Burned, she'd burned everything to the ground. Had destroyed everything in her path, annihilated any threat, friend and foe, the glory of the conquest burning like liquid fire in her veins. This land was hers for the taking, a world of light primed for conquest, ready to be plunged into a sea of darkness-
Worse. This was so much worse than the war with Hybern had been. So much worse than any war this land had ever seen.
"Elain?" Nesta, or what was once Nesta, raised an empty gaze to her on that battlefield, the whites and iris of her eyes dark as void. Elain watched as her sister's porcelain skin cracked with black fissures, an oily ink seeping from them, her gaunt cheeks hollow, lips bloodless.
Those lips twisting into something straight from a nightmare, both too wide and too narrow to be her sister's features. The thing that was Nesta tilted its head mockingly, almost challenging her as it sized her up, hunger in that blackened gaze.
A walking corpse, nothing more than a vessel of shadow-
Elain gasped as the vision reeled away from her, snapping her back into the moment. She nearly tumbled as Nesta jumped to steady her, her features blessedly returned to normal as the sound of their family's muffled laughter echoed through the door.
Pain, such unending agony and the joy that had flowed through that creature as it feasted-
"What did you see?" Nesta kept her grip on Elaine, the only force keeping her from plummeting to the floor.
"War," she whispered, the dizziness making her lightheaded, "Death and war and you . . ." She met her sister's knowing gaze. "Your powers—"
"What about them?" Her voice was tight, controlled, not the rasping, haunting hiss that had spoken her name moments before.
Nesta was herself.
Not whatever manner of being she'd seen in that vision.
And that tone . . . she knew.
"You'd become a monster," Elaine tried to steady her breathing, tried grounding herself as she let reality flow back in. "I've never seen anything like it." She paused. "You've seen it."
Not a question.
"Not physically, but," Nesta pressed a hand to her chest, as though rubbing an old ache. "I can feel it here, rising, gnashing, and crawling, trying to get to the surface."
Elaine sucked in a steadying breath.
"I-Is it you? Your power?"
"I do not know."
Elaine stared at her sister in worry as she eased her onto the bed and plopped down beside her, her head resting in her palms.
"It's why you haven't followed the lead then," she nodded toward the portrait her sister had casually set onto the ground. "Why you haven't pushed for it."
"Yes and no," Nesta huffed, rubbing at her eyes. "None of it makes sense. And that portrait . . ." She gave a long sigh. "I don't think it's a sign, I think it's a warning."
"A warning?" Chills raced up Elain's arms.
Nesta nodded.
"Of what is to come, of whatever's hiding in those mountains. I think there's more than meets the eye to the rebellion."
A warning against those who had harmed their family again and again.
Not a marker of her niece's survival . . . but a marker to ensure no one else would be lost to their cruelty.
"But Feyre said it was over, that you'd killed the last of the traitors—" when they'd nearly murdered her nephew in cold blood almost a year ago.
"Or they'd like us to believe that." Nesta shuddered against an unknown cold in the balmy room. "There's something not adding up, something oily slithering under the surface. And Valka-" that was true fear in her sisters gaze, worry. "I think she knew too much, that she fled to hide what she knew."
Nesta's second and a female that Elain knew her sister trusted to a fault. She'd been hunting relentlessly to find her. And Elain . . . she'd seen nothing of the female in her visions.
"Do you think that they . . ." she struggled for the phrasing, "You know—"
"Killed her?" Nesta shook her head, huffing a knowing chuckle. "Unlikely, she'd have torn them limb from limb, but her mother . . . when Valka was injured she kept creeping in, watching in a way that was entirely unnatural."
"You mean the Ironwood widow?" The mother of the rebellion's "king", the poor female who had borne both the warrior Enalius whom her sister had slaughtered in the Rite so long ago and the fledgling King Silbah. "I thought you and Azriel had found her innocent?"
For her lover had spoken of the female, of how frustratingly clean her hands had been. How unnervingly compliant and helpful she always was.
It had made Azriel uneasy.
"Yes, but when Valka was injured, laying on death's door, she kept watching, waiting, as though . . ." A true shiver went through Nesta's shoulders. "As though she were counting the breaths until Valka drew her last. Like a predator waiting for its prey to die. And when Feyre offered her blood to save Valka . . . her fear was palpable."
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet, sending a shiver up Elaine's own spine.
"Whether because of Feyre's powers or because her daughter had been saved I don't know, Elain. I have to find her, to figure out where she's fled to. I know she's being hunted, just not by what, and . . ." She paused, considering her words, "and I have to figure out whatever this is. To catch it before whatever is brewing grows any larger."
Before whatever was after her sister's power consumed her.
Consumed everything.
Sorrow filled Elain, but she spoke the words. "We can postpone the wedding, tell Azriel and the others what is happening. Your life is more important than that."
She took her sister's cool hand in her own, squeezing it gently.
For her sister she would freely and willingly give that. For her family.
Nesta stopped for a moment considering, looking at the painting by her feet before she gently squeezed Elain's hand back.
"It will not change anything to postpone it again," Nesta said, guilt evident in her voice. "I was hoping to deal with this alone, to not drag everyone into it."
Like she had done the first time her powers had manifested and she'd nearly blown the entirety of the Illyrian people from the mountains until her mate and her family had raced to intervene. Had fought to keep her power from consuming her.
And it nearly had.
"Let's have this wedding, Elain, let you and Azriel have your happiness." Her sister looked at her with soft eyes, a rare open moment. "This will come to pass no matter how we move forward. The least we can do is enjoy what we have right now."
Nesta lifted the painting and gave it one last soft glance before handing it to the Elain, the canvas heavy in her hands.
"And I will let you choose what to do with the painting: if you want to tell Azriel and the others or if you wish to wait until this," she gestured vaguely, "is resolved."
Elain pulled the canvas close to her chest as she stole down the hallway, her heart a thunderous beat as she made her way back to her own quarters. Nesta had said little else of what she intended to do regarding her own powers and the secrets that lay in the Steppes.
She'd left Elain with a parting hug and the simple words, "Choose what makes you happy."
As though that were such a simple thing with the vision she'd seen, with the signs the fates were trying to give them. For chaos was likely coming. War of some variety.
It seemed to never cease.
She gnawed at her lip nervously as she stood before the door to her chambers, the sound of Azriel's soft snoring echoing quietly through the oak.
The fact that he'd slept through her departure was a miracle in itself.
That beautiful male who had finally found a moment's peace. The same male who would abandon and endanger everything, including himself, especially himself, if it meant protecting those he loved the most.
And the status of their wedding . . . it would neither hinder nor quicken what was to come.
She looked at the painting, memorizing the details of the woman whose likeness was nearly identical to the little girl who should have been there celebrating with them. Who should have been there a decade before, when the event had first been scheduled, who should have strode down the aisle with her basket of flowers and her arm tucked through her brother's . . .
Who would have to die next before they could find their happiness?
Elain made the decision.
The selfish, greedy decision, and turned on her heel, heading for the library that lay below the House. She knew of a few nooks and crannies where she could hide the painting, at least for a little while, where her sister and her mate would never see it.
Where Azriel would never find it.
For whatever was to come . . . it could wait.
It would wait