In the front door of the cold golden death, Feyre thought about whether she should have sold the fur of the huge cat for a lot of money, to feel rich for an instant. Although she didn't think of that possibility before, and wasn't going to be anything that matters in this story. But she did. And, anyway… of course she should have! What a stupid question.
She also thought about seeing for the last time that cat that she used to date from time to time. That one with the horrible name that nobody remembers, never. They were not totally satisfying encounters, but at least he had all his paws. And all his whiskers. And almost all the teeth.
After those seconds in which she also reviewed her entire life, moment after moment, she turned to see a massive cat on the gate, the owner of the great meow. It was tall, furry, powerful, and muscular. And he was going to kill them all for sure. At least he was tall, furry, powerful, and muscular.
Then, a piece of iron flew just above her head and fell near the paws of the massive cat. It was Nesta.
—Run, run! He can't move now. Run, run! —shouted.
Again, the same piece of iron flew above Feyre's head. This time, it reached the head of Nesta, who sinked on the grass. It seemed, as she always told her sister, faecats didn't mind about iron (strictly speaking, that was because they were not real; now, they maybe are, amd they didn't mind either).
Elain and father run before Feyre could react or Nesta could recover. She knew she had to let them starve so much time ago. Traitors. Hoped it was another great cat in the other direction.
It was the time to confront reality. She was going to be eaten by a monster. Maybe the voices in her head were his allies. That made sense.
—You killed… my friend.
—Well, not exactly. It was a lightning bolt.
—You… killed him. You… are a liar —repeated with rage.
—No. It's not my fault if he wanted to eat me and got closer and got bad luck.
Feyre was sure it would be her last moments. She thought about all the things she didn't do in her life: learning to read, learning to write, learning to fight, painting a picture, taking a warm bath, eating cake, having a decent lover (Feyre was a very dreamy cat, always wanting, always wishing, even when there was not much time left).
—To atone your fault… you are coming with me… to my palace.
—As your meal? —hissed Feyre.
—As my guest —sibilated the great cat.
Feyre thought it was a joke. She knew, for the little times she paid attention to the tales of Nesta, the faecats din't take prisoners. Much less visitors from the mortal lands.
—So… I… favored your friend… death… and now you invite me… to your… place?
—That's right… come on. There is a long way.
Indeed it was a long walk. All the night rambling through the woods, in the dark, hearing noises that seemed to follow them (but not a single word from the voices in her head, cowards).
And then, they reached The Wall. The colossal wall… that wasn't there. Feyre was sure it was going to be a great structure, guarded by cats dressed in black furs because the cold winter was coming. No. It was just air. And they trespassed it.
Feyre felt so stupid. Magic wasn't real. Her kidnapper was some kind of mutated cat with good aim (poor Nesta, on the floor, she hoped she would wake up before some animal attempted to bite her).
But, there was another but, they arrived at the palace of the great cat. There was a large gate of iron (Nesta, oh, really?), magnificent, colossal. When they trespassed, her companion changed. He was smaller now. Bigger than her, yes, but not as an abomination. And in his face, a mask of gold.
Nesta, it was magic after all.