Authors Note: SO I have to note-I had the idea about the kelpies way before ACOSF came out so they're very different from how Sara describes them BUT since this is divergent after ACOFAS it should be okay. :) Enjoy!

The sweet draught of spring danced lithely through the garden, weaving about the vines and flowers delicately adorning the arbor, and gently rustled the soft rose chiffon draped around every chair, neatly arranged in long rows. The wisp of wind sent droplets of water in a spray from the lazily gurgling fountains onto the plush emerald lawn, carrying the fragrance of the garden in full bloom, laced with the sweetness of roses and lilacs, into the Riverside Estate. The scent wove past the ballroom doors thrown wide, passing along the array of tables bedecked in pastel hues, carefully set with rows of the finest china. Each table was adorned with long tapered candles, a colossal variety of hand-selected flowers spilling from arrangements at their centers. Along the ceiling, an array of golden faelights twinkled, swathing the room in a rich, warm light accented by the fat beams of sun streaming in through the windows while the gentle hum of violins and cellos echoed through the enormous room.

Every minor detail, every bit of fabric and lace – it had taken days, nearly a week to set up . . . yet it was executed perfectly.

Down to the tiniest of details – not a petal nor fork out of place.

Just as he had promised Elain it would be.

The shadows at Azriel's shoulders fluttered in pride, each one having helped ensure everything was placed as it should properly be-

Well, except perhaps for the glass vase filled to the brim with flowers before him, this particularly stubborn decoration on the central table with the rose jutting just a little too far out, something his shadows had bemusedly pointed out to him not a moment too soon.

"Are you really adjusting centerpieces?" Cassian huffed a laugh from behind him, no doubt watching as Azriel carefully pressed the stem further into the water, twisting it just so.

He answered with a curt, "Yes."

His brother had been at this commentary for the better part of the morning, following him about, making a nuisance of himself, as he made the adjustments necessary for the ceremony that was only an hour away.

Each little adjustment and detail . . . all of it for Elain.

For the kind, beautiful female who had waited a century for him, who had tolerated his lowest lows and darkest moments all out of her love for his withered soul. The crumpled, ragged thing that she had nursed back into something whole, something that perhaps was worth having.

Even if he was rapidly realizing that a future of interior decorating was perhaps not for him, and that he'd likely be one brother short before the ceremony even began if Cassian didn't shut his mouth.

His eternal patience was flagging.

Cassian's barked laugh grated down his nerves, sending Azriel's already heightened senses flaring as he accidentally tightened his grip on the bloom and felt the stem snap beneath his grasp. Horrified, he immediately released his hold on the flower, frowning as it drooped sadly to the side, looking far more out of place than it had before.

Cassian snorted. "Maybe you should leave the decorating to Nuala and Cerridwen, brother, despite your newfound domestication."

The rose finished breaking on its own, a few petals falling from it as it landed softly on the table.

Now this would be the only vase with thirty-one roses instead of the designated thirty two Elain had requested, having taken the time to design and help arrange them herself.

Azriel barely contained his snarl as he turned to face his brother, eyes narrowed, inclined to show Cassian exactly how domestic he'd become when he threw him into the Sidra, fine clothes and shined shoes be damned—

"Stop harassing him, Cassian," Rhys' voice chortled, his other brother appearing from the corner of his vision, no doubt having returned from finishing the arrangements for the cake. Azriel watched as the rose on the table vanished into ash and was swept away by a night-cooled breeze, instantly replaced with an equally beautiful bloom. "Perhaps you should be helping instead."

Azriel wouldn't have trusted Cassian in a million lives to adjust the centerpieces, they'd all undoubtedly end up completely uneven or smashed to bits on the floor.

The very thought of his brother even looking at them only an hour before the event made his stomach churn.

The thought must have shown on his features because Rhys continued with a smirk. "Though from the look of things perhaps you should just find somewhere else to be before he beats you within an inch of your life."

"Sorry, Rhys, can't do that. No tussling, remember?" Cassian snorted as he gestured towards the fine black suit he wore, selected by Elain herself. A blushed rose sat pinned carefully to its front, his eternally messy hair combed and oiled for once as it brushed his shoulders. "Elain told me specifically I wasn't allowed to get it dirty, that she'd personally have my head."

"Sounds more like something Nesta told you," Rhys replied drily, knowing the full nature of his sister-in-law.

Cassian shrugged. "When it comes to the Archeron sisters, the promise of death from one sister ensures it from the other two, it might as well have been Elain."

And with the lengths that Feyre and Nesta had gone to ensure this event was everything their middle sister could have ever dreamed of and more . . . Azriel firmly believed Nesta's threats.

And if they did follow through on them . . . he certainly would.

He adjusted the collar of his own jacket, close cut and fashioned of the darkest cobalt brocade, the high neck embroidered in silver: the finest piece of clothing he'd ever bothered owning, finer even than the ones Rhys wore.

He hadn't forgotten the way Elain's eyes had sparkled in surprise when she'd first seen him in it, the first time he could remember wearing something other than his signature black, the hint of longing and arousal that he'd scented on her when she'd tentatively ran her fingers along its intricate collar approvingly, her touch as delicate as a fawn—

He'd never seen such joy on her face, such pure and utter happiness as she'd told him it was perfect.

And though he'd still cringed at the shined boots . . . that moment alone had made every dark thought fade from his mind, his shadows skittering away into nothingness and being replaced with a lightness that only Elain could give him.

"Surprising wisdom coming from you, Cassian. Besides," Azriel felt Rhys clamp a hand down on his shoulder as he squeezed it reassuringly, "we can't blame our groom for being nervous, now can we?"

Or perhaps it was in mockery.

Azriel kept his features schooled into cool neutrality, refusing to acknowledge his brother's comment. Foolish to think he was nervous; no, he was only keen on ensuring that his bride had everything she wanted, and while he trusted Nuala and Cerridwen's judgement . . . he had to be sure.

The knowing grin that stretched across Rhys' face said it was anything but that.

He didn't have time for their nonsense.

Especially not as he heard Cassian mutter, "Oh, he's definitely nervous," as he turned on his heel and swiftly made toward one of the other center tables, checking one last time to ensure that each setting had the right number of candles and the correct number of dinner placements spaced apart just so—

A hollowing sensation filled the room before a burst of shadows appeared and a tall figure emerged from them, dressed in a fine suit similar to his own, except as the same onyx color as Rhys' and Cassian's, a finely wrapped package tucked under his arm. Cenric glanced furtively around the room as he appeared, looking the same as the last Azriel seen of him, but . . . different somehow.

Changed.

And it wasn't the low ponytail that now sat at the nape of his neck above his ornately embroidered jacket collar.

"And so the wayward son returns," Cassian quipped, his brow shooting up as he evaluated his nephew, no doubt sensing the same change Azriel had. "Took you long enough, boy. We were all starting to wonder if you intended to grace us with your presence at all."

Cenric craned a look around his uncle's wings, no doubt evaluating where exactly his mother was and how he was going to avoid her, then leveled an irritated look at Cassian that had his father chuckling.

The sheer dominance in that familiar cobalt stare, the way he stood, the arrogance in his pose . . .

Azriel tilted his head as a flicker of surprise wound through him; his nephew had certainly been doing more than hunting during his time in the Steppes.

It was more a question of who.

"Apologies, Az, I was a bit . . . preoccupied this morning." A blush raced across the young male's cheeks that confirmed Azriel's growing suspicion – but who could it be? "I hope I'm not overly tardy."

The shadows at his shoulders whispered in excitement, thrilled to focus on something other than flower arrangements and adjusting tablecloths, gleaning fine details about Cenric's morning—

He silenced them.

"Not at all." He nodded toward the garden where the seats gleamed blindingly in the midmorning light, scattered with the handful of guests milling in the garden that he and Elain had specifically selected – the son of Autumn blessedly absent, despite his invitation. "We've still got an hour before we begin."

"And Az is playing wedding planner," Cassian quipped, slapping his nephew on the shoulder as he came up behind him, his voice dropping to a conspirator's whisper. "He's been adjusting centerpieces and counting forks all morning."

Cassian wasn't going to make it to the ceremony alive at this rate.

"You can imagine how that has gone," Rhys supplied, relief and joy written across his features at the return of his son.

"I'm certain Cassian has been of the utmost help," Cenric said dryly, a smile beginning to form on his lips as his eyes crinkled in amusement, the light of his old self shining through in a way it hadn't since the rebellion's beginning.

They'd all changed, had all healed.

Turning toward Azriel, Cenric presented the package he'd had tucked under his arm to him, a small square parcel wrapped in a lovely rose paper, the same color scheme as the decor. "A small gift for you and Elain."

Taking it with ease, he murmured his thanks to his nephew, knowing that whatever was inside would have been selected with the utmost care and thought. Even if the true gift had been the fact that he'd willingly returned for the wedding, if only for Elain's sake.

Respite that stole through his own tattered soul at the sight of his nephew, their family whole for the evening.

At least, as whole as it could be.

He tried not to think of the smooth skin on his hands that had somehow replaced the ripple of burns and twisted scars. He'd stared at his pristine hands for a good long while that morning, the unmarred golden flesh that he had kept hidden beneath dark gloves since her death, the same ones he wore now that matched his fine jacket.

A knife twisted in him as he truly realized she would not be walking down that aisle alongside her brother, leading the way for his bride. That there would be no basket of rose petals, no ribbons streaming in her hair and no clever remarks that surely would have had the entirety of them howling.

And certainly no gentle tugs on his shirt to politely ask for his attention, none of the quiet whispers and secrets that they had kept between themselves, their clever little silent language that none of the others quite understood. There would be none of her insightful wisdom that had been beyond her years, none of that quiet understanding that even his brothers hadn't been able to give him.

That point of innocent, precious starlight, bright as any sunbeam, that he'd allowed to be extinguished, nothing now more than a fleeting memory-

Azriel felt a familiar pull on his leathers, a slight tug meant to get his attention and found owlish violet eyes peering up at him curiously from where Celeste stood sheltered beneath his wing as they peered into the shops window, her small body and small wings protectively tucked against him away from the blistering cold. They'd been wandering through the snow encrusted streets for hours now, stopping at each of the jewelers in the Palace of Thread and Jewels, searching for the perfect piece.

And the willful thing . . . she'd flatly refused to go home, even as she'd started shivering, her round cheeks rosy from the chill and nose dripping. Her stubborn heart was too focused and determined to give up on the secret mission they'd departed on that morning.

Even if they had still had several weeks to find it, several weeks to have it commissioned if the need were to arise.

Yet she'd insisted they had to get it done that day, that there was no other option and that since he'd asked her . . . she would find it, that she wouldn't fail him.

As if she could ever do that.

And her opinion . . . it was frankly the one he trusted the most.

She was the one he knew would never speak of what they sought, who would never utter a peep of the surprise he had planned.

So they'd negotiated and compromised: they could continue shopping if she stayed close and kept herself warm. And she'd done as he asked without complaint, her gloved hand tucked in his own as they meandered.

"Uncle," Celeste murmured, gently extracting herself from her warm cocoon, and him from his reverie. She tugged him along behind her, the long raven tendrils of her hair peppered with fat snowflakes as she moved away from the window and down the icy cobblestone. "Not those."

Away from the plain silver and gold bands with the fine cut diamonds on their velvet beds, their facets so finally filed they reflected liquid pools of blinding starlight. Away from those set in the designs of flowers, in the shape of lovely rose petals that reminded him so much of the female he loved.

"Elain needs something more delicate, like she is," Celeste mused, making her way down the street, politely weaving around patrons strolling about, a girl on a mission. She clicked her tongue knowingly. "Also something more colorful, the white stone is boring. It needs to be pink, but a pretty pink—"

He chuckled at his nieces' musings, catching her easily as her scampering suddenly became a slide, and her boot-clad feet slipped out from under her nearly sending her sprawling across the ice, her wings flaring as she struggled for balance.

"Careful," he gently reminded her, smirking as he lifted and righted her, adjusting her jacket before pulling her hood up over her head. "We won't be getting any rings if you crack your head on the ice."

A blush flushed across her cheeks as she murmured her acknowledgement, shame leaking into her scent. She never wanted to disappoint him, always so careful to make sure she did as he asked, to ensure that she was on her best behavior.

She'd gone so far as to have cried in secret when she thought she'd upset him, something he'd instantly righted when Feyre had told him of it. So he'd always been aware of her emotions, aware of the standard she held herself to when it came to him.

Knowing that, he knelt beside her and gently gripped her shoulders. "Don't be embarrassed, I'm not upset." He nodded at her, solemn violet eyes watching him. "I just want to keep you safe. Take it a little slower, all right?"

She sharply nodded once, "I will. I'm sorry, Azriel."

"No apologies," he reminded her gently, offering her a tentative smile as he rose and took her tiny hand into his own large palm once more. "It's all right to make mistakes, just learn from them."

"Right." She grinned up at him, her freckles crinkling. "Slower this time."

And she did, slowing her pace and carefully watching the hidden patches of ice, her recklessness abandoned for a more methodical approach, heeding his advice with ease.

So very different from how she acted with Cassian, or even with her own father and mother, when she was nothing but pure, willful, stubborn grit.

Ornery if only for the sake of being ornery.

And yet whatever he asked of her . . . he'd never gotten a single rebuttal.

How you do it is beyond me, he could still hear Rhys bemusedly lament, my own flesh and blood, and yet she still only listens to you.

He'd only been able to smirk at his brother, knowing the words he spoke to be true, pride flickering through him that he was the one she trusted most.

Yet somehow . . . they'd always had that understanding, had that respect for one another, ever since she had been nothing more than a tiny ball of tears and raucous giggles that had clung to him when even Cenric had shied away from his shadows.

They shared a silent bond that no one could ever replace or break. And Celeste, she was a point of bright light that had never balked at his shadows. No, she had only giggled and swatted at them as a babe, had only crawled closer when they darkened, whispering to them, had learned to chase them away with cheek kisses and well-timed hugs.

And the horrendous things he'd done, the stains on his shadowed soul that could not be erased . . . he had never deserved such understanding from such an innocent soul. Yet here she was, full of life and love that she offered him unconditionally.

His niece that he had come to love the most of all his family, not that he would ever say as much. His love for Celeste rivaled even that of his for Elain – even if it was a different sort of love.

A love of protection and guardianship.

Something he knew in his heart that the Mother had entrusted him with.

And he would protect her with every piece of himself, whether it be from the horrors of the world, or tricky patches of slippery ice.

"There!" she breathed in excitement, her eyes widening as she made her way to another glittering window, this shop smaller than the others. He watched as her breath fogged up the glass before her, as she honed in on a single ring that had immediately caught his own attention, a rose-gold band adorned with leaves and vines, the stone in it a lovely shade of green, no doubt an emerald of some variety. It was more perfect than even he could have imagined.

"The stone is wrong, but the band—" Celeste looked up at him and grinned, excitement shining in her violet eyes. "This is the one."

It had taken the jeweler only a few days to craft another band like it, heeding the slight shifts in detail that he jotted down from a very well-spoken and polite eight-year-old. And when Azriel had picked the finished ring up from the shop . . . flawless, as he'd known it would be.

Just as it still was, adorning the waiting hand of his bride-to-be.

He blotted out the pain and memory as his nephew nodded toward the vases, no doubt seeing the fine details that Azriel had undoubtedly missed. "Anything I can assist with?"

Azriel set the gift aside, reeling in the emotions that he so rarely acknowledged and looked at his nephew, considering, the thoughts of centerpieces and menus fleeing his mind as another idea took hold.

"Yes."

Anelisse huffed as she flopped down onto her sleeping roll, the blistering heat making her sweat miserably as she tried and failed to cool herself. She'd already stripped out of every piece of clothing she had but her underthings. The canvas tent that Ithaca had erected for them at the edge of the swamp where they now waited like patient dogs was doing little more than trapping the wet and heat inside with her.

Awful, this whole trip had turned out awful.

And with her sister and lover deep in the heart of that slaver and monster-infested swamp alone . . . she nearly screamed into her pillow as she cursed her own mortality, her own frailty that had led them to this place.

It'd been nearly a week since they'd parted ways, nearly a week since her sister had said those awful damning words.

She'd been furious, glaringly so.

They'd have a word when Celeste got back, Anelisse had firmly decided as she'd sullenly followed Ithaca out of the swamp, cursing under her breath with each hill they climbed and descended. Oh, they'd have several choice words, many of which were not polite, when her sister returned to her unscathed.

And Gandriel . . . she wouldn't touch him for a month, no, a year. Would make him suffer alone in a cold bed for abandoning her in a time when she had needed his support the most.

At least, that had been her decision when they'd first set up camp on this ridiculous hill, when she'd given Ithaca nothing but the silent treatment as she fumed, watching the imposing thorns throughout the night and into the day. Yet now, as the time dragged on and her sister and lover did not appear . . . she would forgive all of those transgressions if they would only return to her in one piece.

She'd nearly begged Ithaca to go back to them, to help them, but knew that her pleading would be in vain under her sister's protection order.

Ithaca was to keep her safe at all costs.

Such nonsense.

"You're mulling again, girl," Ithaca said by way of greeting as she peeked her head into the tent, her dark eyes narrowing as she assessed Anelisse laying on the bedroll. "You'd do better to get up and work on something rather than sulking the days away."

For Ithaca had been erecting wards for days, working silently as she'd branched further and further out, driving all of the dark things away from their campsite. And Anelisse . . . well, she'd done nothing – absolutely nothing.

Except worry.

"Easy for you to say when you're an immortal who's not hindered by this ridiculous heat," Anelisse grumbled, sitting up in nothing but her underthings and crossing her legs before her, caring little for modesty in front of her friend. "I don't know how you go out and about in this without wanting to perish."

Ithaca gave her a genuine smile, one she saved for when they were alone, one that Anelisse knew her sister and Gandriel had never seen. "The places I've been, girl, the places I've lived . . . this is pleasant by comparison. Come, I have food for you."

"I don't think I'd like to know the places you've been, then," she murmured as she rose, debating before pulling on her soaked leggings and shirt, cringing as she stuck her feet into damp boots. "I don't think I'd like them very much at all."

Anelisse half wondered if she could get Ithaca to tell her of those places, to recite some of the history she liked to spool when the evenings were dark and she wasn't in a particularly foul mood.

Which she'd been in since her sister had given her order.

That made two of them.

Pushing the canvas tent flap back, she was met with the rich scent of stew, no doubt some form of rabbit and tuber concoction, and the bright flickering light of a fire pushing away the gathering darkness as the sun set beyond the horizon.

Ithaca gracefully dipped a ladle into the metal pot and poured several spoonfuls of thick brown liquid into a small wooden bowl before handing it to her. "Sit and eat."

Taking the bowl Anelisse nodded her thanks before she found herself a place on a low rock, digging her wooden spoon into the liquid. She watched as her friend sat back on the rock, clearly uninterested in the food that she and other living beings were required to eat.

She had never once seen Ithaca eat . . . well, except for the night in the hull of the Loreley, and even then . . . that'd hadn't exactly been a mortal meal.

It had apparently never stopped her from learning to cook though, Anelisse had learned. Rather, the woman had a penchant for flavors, something at odds with her imposing presence. So she quietly bit into the stew, delicious and far more hardy and filling than the rations of dried deer she'd been subsisting on.

She nearly moaned as she sucked some of the broth from the spoon.

Ithaca smirked. "Glad to know my cooking skills haven't entirely faded, girl."

"You've cooked for me before," she reminded her while shoveling in another spoonful. "That lamb dish with the spices, the one you made shortly after we met."

Ithaca hummed her acknowledgement, her beautiful head of dark curls bobbing as she recollected the first occasion they'd spent time alone together; the array of poison recipes and formulas for explosive powders they'd discussed at length deep into the night.

Anelisse had never understood Gandriel and Celeste's distrust of her.

"I'm glad you've enjoyed the meal, it's meant to last you a few days," Ithaca said as she rose from her rock and made for the light pack she'd discarded across from the tent.

Anelisse cocked her head questioningly, spoon partially raised to her mouth. "You're leaving?"

"Yes," Ithaca said, shouldering her pack and looking towards the growing darkness, her beauty amplified in the fading rays of sun. "I've business to attend to in Rask."

"Right now?" Anelisse asked a bit incredulously, curious as to what would make the woman have to leave in such haste. "Why right now?"

"These are things beyond your understanding, girl."

Only because you don't want to tell, Anelisse thought a bit bitterly.

She was willing to bet it had to do with the mysterious artifact the woman had been seeking since long before they met, the one she couldn't seem to get her hands on.

The one that sent her running anytime she got half a whiff of its presence.

Anelisse wasn't entirely convinced it even existed.

"Can't I go with you?" For going anywhere, doing anything was better than sitting on this hillside slowly going to madness. She stopped for a moment, considering. ". . . Will you be able to, with Celeste's order?"

Wasn't leaving her alone in the middle of nowhere exactly the opposite of what Celeste had bound the woman to do?

Ithaca looked over a shoulder, dark eyes devouring the light of the fire, so strange that they never reflected light, only consumed it. "I was ordered by your sister to keep you safe, and to take you with me would put you directly in the line of danger. With that curse–" a nod towards the mark that had still not faded from her arm, the iridescent gleam still bright – "Well, let's just say I'd rather your sister not use that cursed tether of hers against me further."

"And leaving me here," Anelisse widely gestured around her, at the sharp brambles and grasses that would tear flesh from skin if touched, "is better?" She deadpanned. "I'll be dead before morning, Ithaca."

And she was sure Celeste and Gandriel would be so thrilled with that prospect.

That was if they still drew breath.

She shoved the thought away, ignoring the surge in her chest that sent her heart racing in fear.

"Highly unlikely, with the wards I've erected," Ithaca reassured, adjusting her pack and turning her too perfect body towards her, every curve of the woman downright sinful. "No creature will touch you within their confines."

"Because that worked fantastically with the caoin," Anelisse muttered sarcastically.

Though she hadn't heard any beasts since their arrival, in fact to the contrary, the swamp's edge had been incredibly quiet, bordering on peaceful — if you could call this hellscape such a thing.

Ithaca snarled, remembering the terrifying wraith that had slipped its way through her wards. "I didn't have days to set those wards. I lacked the time and focus that I've had now. These wards are solid, no ghoul nor monster can step through them. You are perfectly safe, you have my word."

And with Ithaca's tone . . .

Well, there'd be no reasoning with her either, would there?

Anelisse huffed. "And what am I to do then? Sit here and wait until either you or Gandriel and Celeste return? That does nothing for my sister's order for you."

For Ithaca wouldn't make it more than twenty feet from the camp before the order pulled her back and kept her here until Celeste's return.

"No one said you had to sit the whole time, you can walk about . . . perhaps dig a hole . . ." Ithaca replied, a smirk forming on her lips as she watched Anelisse's features sour. "If I did not truly believe you entirely safe I will not be able to leave this place. However—"

A way to work around the order, she realized, a loophole—

" –Because I know my wards will hold . . . I can leave for a time. I will be gone no more than a few days."

"Wonderful," Anelisse grumbled, setting her bowl down as she ran her hands across her face. "Fantastic. A camping trip all by myself here in the wilderness surrounded by beasts—"

"Anelisse," Ithaca's voice cut through her groaning, gravity creeping into her tone. "You will be safe here alone, safer than anywhere else you could be right now."

Ithaca spoke the truth.

Always to keep her safe, to keep her out of danger.

"Do as you please," Anelisse snorted, standing and making for the tent, too tired to argue any further, to try and reason with immortals who saw her as nothing more than a fragile doll. "I'm going back to bed."

For if she was to be alone here for the foreseeable future, well, what better way to pass the time?

She had just stepped into the tent when she felt the shift in air as Ithaca disappeared. Several long moments passed before she realized the woman's loophole had worked and that she had effectively vanished, leaving her alone in the swamp.

"Immortal codpieces," Anelisse muttered as she stripped from her clothes once more and threw herself down on her bedding, half hoping someone would splash a foul liquid on Ithaca's pristine cloak and attire on her dire errand. "Every last one of them."

"One more—" Elain heard Feyre mutter next to her ear, her fingers deftly making a few last-minute adjustments to the flowers that Nuala and Cerridwen had painstakingly pinned in her hair that morning. Her friends had loosely braided it and pinned half of it up, while the other half cascaded down her exposed back in a waterfall of delicate curls; the golden sheen complemented by the lovely soft rose shade of her gown.

The same gown she'd been admiring in the full-length mirror of her dressing chamber, running her fingers over the light gossamer and delicate gold beading that crossed over her ribs in an intricate floral pattern.

It had been her little secret, having selected a dress color other than the traditional white she'd originally planned to wear as a nod to her lost human life, having decided that perhaps it was time to move on from the past in more than one way.

She tried not to linger on the memory of her father, the distant imprint of her hands as she'd woven flowers in his hair before Feyre had sent him to rest in a blaze of flame. Or on the memory of a doe-eyed little girl who'd danced about her feet as she'd baked, asking every question her little inquisitive mind could conjure. A girl who'd fallen from the sky and burned away into nothingness.

The thought of the painting she'd hidden in the library of the House of Wind also danced in her mind, the lovely thing she'd spent a long while staring at, trying to understand how and why.

Her father's death she had long since accepted . . . but her now-immortal heart still ached for that other lost little soul.

She dismissed the tinge of guilt that flitted through her as she avoided Feyre's gaze in the mirror, her sister who had always given everything of herself to protect the ones she loved. Who'd never hidden anything from her.

Later, she could tell her later.

And Nesta, who stood coolly on her left, her sharp eyes bright beneath the kohl she'd lined them with, full of life, so unlike the empty being that had stared back at her only a week before, full of hunger and void—

She halted her thoughts, willing their silence.

It WOULD wait.

Even if her heart, at its core still very much human, longed to know the truth.

The fragile thing that had never quite acclimated to the immortal realm.

Something the male she loved had always cherished about her, having always seen the deepest parts of her when even she herself had been blind to them.

Elain smiled at the thought of her groom, knowing full well how breathtakingly handsome he would look in the fine suit she'd selected, his broad shoulders filling the material perfectly when she'd seen him don it the first time.

He didn't have the slightest clue as to how lovely he was, how genuinely pure and kind.

The thought only amplified the butterflies that fluttered inside of her, replacing the lingering guilt, sending her bobbing nervously on her toes as her sister made her miniscule adjustments. Minutes now, they were minutes away from her descent down the stairs into the broad gardens below—

Into the bright future that awaited her.

Awaited them all.

"Done," Feyre announced with a smile as she pulled her hands away, her artist's eyes evaluating the adjustments before nodding approvingly and stepping back, swiping up the lovely bouquet of flowers she'd discarded on the vanity before handing them gently to Elain.

The cluster of blooms she'd painstakingly grown herself, an array of roses, daffodils, irises, lilies and carnations colored in a variety of lovely pinks, blushes, and whites, each one she'd selected to represent the love she planned to swear, to represent the beauty of the union she was to enter.

The distant sound of violins trilled, the musicians only waiting on the cue from their High Lady before they would play her wedding march, an announcement to all who eagerly awaited them in the garden, no doubt now seated and ready.

That was, minus one red-haired male who had had the courtesy to not attend, as Nuala had quietly informed her that morning.

Elain hoped with the entirety of her heart that he'd find love, someone who cherished him as deeply as she cherished the prince of shadow who patiently awaited her arrival. Wished nothing but eternal happiness and joy for him.

She felt Nesta's hand on her shoulder, a calm, reassuring presence. "Are you ready?"

She paused only for a moment, admiring herself one last time as an unmarried female, knowing it would be only minutes before she tied herself eternally to he who she loved the most.

She bobbed her head once.

"I am."

How they'd survived she didn't know.

Gandriel had somehow managed to winnow them from the jaws of the monster at the last second sending them spiraling off into the creeping darkness of the swamp, where they'd landed with a thud on a pile of brambles.

The distant crunch of the creature's feasting had still been within earshot.

It had been her first mate's yelp of pain that haunted her though, the harrowing sound that still echoed in her ears. He'd barely kept conscious after the jump, trying to write off just how bad the bleeding had gotten.

That was, until he'd stood and immediately slumped to the ground, his skin turning ashen.

She'd only even see him that pallid once, the moment when he'd been dead upon the floor of his apartment so long ago.

Celeste cursed viciously.

It hadn't helped that the wound in his arm had already started to fester, and even though she'd tried to dig the ash from it, had tried to wrap it with a piece of cloth torn from the bottom of her soaked shirt as she willed the stubborn thing to seal . . . it remained a wide gash, bleeding profusely.

Whatever they'd tipped the arrows with . . . well, their pursuers certainly hadn't intended to take prisoners.

And the slavers . . . gone, without a trace.

As she attempted to right the male, trying to get him onto his feet, that they might at least find shelter for the night . . . she'd felt it. A presence so heavy the hair on the back of her neck stood on end, her breath freezing in her chest.

They were being followed.

Something had sensed them on their impromptu flight through shadow that had landed them at the heart of the swamp, in the center of its territory.

And it wasn't by something made of scales and fins, of sharp teeth and razor claws….

It was far worse.

She felt her breath fog in front of her, the temperature plummeting into frost.

Whatever it was it was cloaked in an aura colder than ice, the biting, burning chill of frozen metal, sending shivers racing down her spine as she felt the caress of phantom talons scrape tauntingly down the gates of her of very soul, prodding, inquiring—

She felt it smile, a predator finally having tracked a worthy prey.

Or at the very least, an interesting toy.

So she did the only thing she could . . . she ran.

Well, at least the best that she'd been able to.

The bulk of Gandriel's weight had slowed her as she maneuvered through waist-high grass and stagnant, muddy pools that seemed to grasp and pull at her feet with a will of their own, moving at a snail's pace. She hissed at the male as he muttered some line of delirious nonsense regarding toads and their political endeavors, willing him to step with her, to stay awake and keep upright long enough for her to formulate some solution to the shit situation they'd managed to land themselves in.

They stumbled through the swamp for what seemed like hours, Gandriel slipping further from consciousness with every passing minute as brambles shredded their clothes and Celeste began to find herself truly lost this time. The creature hunting them remained no closer, but no further away either, keeping easy pace with them, never daring to show itself.

Playing with its dinner.

After what seemed like an eternity of wandering between identical trees and pools, Celeste finally emerged from the thicket to find the edge of a small pond, surrounded by thorny vines and creeping strands of moss. Swearing internally, she scanned the treeline, attempting to figure out how'd she'd get Gandriel across the murky depths, when the faint glimmer of a lantern waking caught her eye.

"What the fuck is that?" Celeste breathed, tugging her first mate protectively into her side, debating whether she should attempt to turn and flee into the unforgiving brambles at her left and find another way around, or remain and take her chances with whatever new horror awaited her.

She tried not to flinch as the eerie lantern flared to life in an unnerving shade of emerald that illuminated only the few tree trunks closest to it, doing nothing to reveal who, or what, it belonged to.

Dim enough that even one blessed with fae sight and senses would struggle to see, dim enough that someone not looking would certainly not notice the glow.

The lantern bobbed, and its owner stepped forward into its wan light: a massive, hulking figure cloaked in shadows that stood by the pond's edge on the opposite shore, the hood of the cape so deep Celeste could not make heads or tails of the figure's features, could see nothing more than the gloved hand that held the lantern aloft.

A second hand appeared from beneath the cloak, the lantern's glow just enough for Celeste to see the figure raise a single finger to its lips: a cue to be silent.

So, she'd finally found their other tracker.

The stealthier one who moved like shadow as they had tailed them when she'd led the slavers in dizzying circles, the one who'd had numerous opportunities to strike but had only held their distance and watched, as though assessing and evaluating . . .

Who the hell were they?

Clearly, their intent was not immediate harm, though that spoke nothing of ulterior motives, or what their true intentions of tracking them were-

The hair lifted even further on Celeste's neck as she felt the monster at her back dare to creep closer, as though growing impatient that its chase had been stalled. Her breath fogged in front of her, a few crystals of ice forming on the surface of the pond before her.

Fucked, they were completely fucked.

Wracking her brain for a solution, she demanded something present itself to her, any trick or spell that could get them somewhere safe and clean. She was running out of time, would have to make a choice soon if she and Gandriel had even a shot at survival—

The cowled figure motioned toward her, the gloved hand waving in the dim lantern light, beckoning at her to come to them, to follow.

And with her predicament—

Celeste scowled.

It was either the hooded stranger or the mass of burning ice at her back, both equally likely to get them killed, if the wound in Gandriel's arm didn't do the trick first—

The water in front of her crackled as the ice thickened with hoarfrost, the few remaining crickets and insects instantly quieting their songs. The eerie cry and slither of creatures echoed as they fled in the gathering darkness, even the ever-present fog recoiling and retreating between the trees.

She had no choice.

Releasing a long breath she pulled Gandriel more squarely onto her shoulder and took a step forward, prepared to wade through the half-frozen muck, when the water at her feet gurgled, a few bubbles rising to the surface. Startled, she pulled back, staring deeper into the icy blackness of the pool.

And was met with a pair of blank, white eyes staring back at her.

Celeste stumbled back from the water's edge and shoved Gandriel behind her, quickly considering whether the icy creature pursuing them might in fact be the better option. The eyes stared a moment longer, then vanished, the water bubbling and rippling in earnest as a figure formed before her, as though made of the water itself.

She watched in mute horror and fascination as a dripping head materialized before her face: a beautiful mare, the white of its coat gleaming the same ethereal greenish hue as the ever-shifting mists of the swamp. The creature could have passed for a horse, albeit a fine one, at first glance, but as it pricked its ears at Celeste and peered at her from beneath its dripping mane, the breath caught in her throat. Something about its eyes was . . . off. Forward-facing.

The eyes of a predator.

It snorted at her in greeting, amusement and intelligence gleaming in those deadened eyes.

She huffed a breath of surprise.

A kelpie.

The spirits of the marshes.

Stories told of the phantom horses said to come to travelers lost in the mazes of bogs, beautiful and tame, offering their backs to the unwary and exhausted. The tales always began the same, but the spirits were fickle, choosing to either help those who dared to ride them, or drag them down into the shadowy depths of their pools, never to be seen again.

The kelpie standing before her considered her for another moment before bending its leg into a bow, offering her its back.

Celeste only hoped this particular kelpie was not in a drowning mood today.

She glanced up, and the figure awaiting them across the pond beckoned again, more urgently. Praying to the Mother and any other powers that might be listening, Celeste slid Gandriel's bulk off her shoulder and onto the kelpie, gingerly swinging a leg over its back herself behind him.

The ground lurched as the creature rose beneath them and she grabbed at its mane, steadying Gandriel before her as he slumped to the side.

Excitement filled her as much as the terror as the spirit turned from the shore and stepped directly onto the surface of the water, the spreading fingers of ice pulling away from it as it cleared a path across. The kelpie moved like a ripple of the pond itself, smooth and utterly silent, as though it were only an extension of the water beneath it. Glancing down, Celeste caught sight of other pairs of blank eyes in the water watching their progress, whispers of flowing manes, of tails and gleaming coats.

She felt her breath catch.

She'd read about these creatures as a child, had heard the tales of their history, but to see one, to be so close as to touch one and without it trying to devour her –

She was almost sad that Gandriel was nearly unconscious. The squeal that he would have produced upon riding such a monster would have amused her endlessly.

But to control such creatures, to have bargained with them in such a way that they willingly helped and obeyed orders—

Whoever the hunched figure was must have known their ancient language, lost to the ages, must have made an agreement with them, a rare pact that kelpies so rarely agreed to.

That same hunched figure now reached out a hand towards them, humanoid and broad, beckoning at the beast to hurry as it cleared the last of the distance. The kelpie tossed its head and almost purred in affection at the figure, quickening its pace while ensuring Celeste and Gandriel remained steady.

Reaching the shore's edge, the kelpie gave a whicker of greeting to the looming figure, the sound more like gurgling water than the sound of any mortal creature. It stepped up the bank, standing patiently, waiting for Celeste to step safely onto dry land.

Unable to resist, Celeste reached down a hand and patted the mare's neck in thanks, her fingers coming away damp and cool. The kelpie jolted in surprise at her touch before snorting, pleased with the thanks it had received.

Sliding from the kelpie's back, Celeste kept a hand steadying her first mate as he slumped even further forward. She doubted she would be able to carry him much further.

She took in the hooded figure looming in the shadows, so much taller now that she actually stood before them. The green lantern they held cast them in an uncanny glow, their form seeming nothing more than a wraith.

Terrifying, the massive figure should have been utterly terrifying . . .

Yet Celeste found she only felt resolve rather than unease as she took in the cloaked figure as it strode closer, booted feet leaving deep imprints in the thick mud of the shore.

Foolish, she knew, and perhaps the exhaustion and dehydration that had gotten to her, but she found no fear within her, no sense of terror as the figure stopped before her and finally spoke in a deep male whisper, gravely and halting, utterly raw from prolonged disuse–

"I've been looking for you."