Did you think you were free?

"The Princess of Threads—or should we call you the Ender of Threads? Your reputation precedes you, creature." Rhysand's voice was a silken blend of growl and purr, each word laced with a calm, dangerous amusement. He strode forward with the ease of a predator, his steps deliberate, as if the distance between the door and Azriel was his to command. His hands slid casually into the pockets of his impeccably tailored dark suit, the fine tunic beneath it adorned with delicate threads of gold and silver that glinted faintly in the dim light.

Ever the High Lord of the Night Court—ruler of death, shadows, and endless night—he wore his power like a second skin, every detail of his appearance a testament to his mastery over himself and the world around him.

I refuse to respond, to meet his gaze. I know how these games end. Every one of my father's lessons began the same way—questions that seemed innocent, even inviting, but answering them always led to pain. A honey-coated trap, with punishment waiting just beneath the surface.

The hum of the wards settles over me once more, filling the void left by Azriel's retreating shadows, now coiled on his shoulders like silent sentinels. No doubt they've whispered their findings to him—deliberating over what they gleaned at the edge of his blade, leaving him to decide what's worth relaying to the High Lord.

My hand trembles as I lift it to my throat, pressing against the sluggish flow of ruby-dark blood. It leaks between my fingers, a futile attempt to stem the tide. Useless. Weak. A pawn passed from one master to the next, bloodying my hands to keep theirs clean. There's no use in fighting, no sense in begging. These are the most powerful players in the world, and me? I'm nothing more than a sword—wielded, fought-over, used. Stolen and accused.

Azriel's wings shift slightly, his shadows tightening around him as though echoing his irritation. "She's close," he says, his tone steady but edged. "Her silence—either defiance, or a type of unraveling. Either way, I can use it." A type of unraveling. Code for her mind is broken. It's no secret; the King and my father knew and used it well. I'm damaged goods. Even I see it—the last threads of my sanity slipping through my fingers, fraying a little more each day. A Thread Bearer with a damaged thread, oh the irony.

Only Seren thought differently. She used to say I was unique. Different but with a purpose. That my powers were a gift, something given to me by the Mother herself. If only she knew how those powers had been twisted. How I let them be used.

Rhysand tilts his head slightly, his violet eyes narrowing as they sweep over me. Slumped against the wall, too drained from the brief interrogation to summon even a flicker of protest at being discussed like some caged animal. His gaze lingers, piercing and calculating, as though dissecting every crack in my armor.

"Twenty-four hours. That's all I need," Azriel says, his voice steady but edged, shifting his stance as if to anchor the High Lord's attention. He wants the satisfaction of unraveling me, of being the one to pull apart the frayed threads of my existence. I don't blame him. In truth, I almost hope he succeeds. "I can break her," he adds, the finality in his tone sending a wave of nausea rolling through my empty stomach.

My only prayer is that it will be swift and the last fragile hope I dare cling to is answered. That wherever I'm sent after this, I'll see them again. That the unbearable weight crushing my shoulders, the endless whispers gnawing at my mind, the tightness in my chest that has haunted me for twenty years, will finally—mercifully—lift.

Rhysand exhales slowly, his violet eyes narrowing slightly, as though weighing the merit of Azriel's argument against something unspoken. His gaze sweeps over me again, lingering this time, as if the answers to his deliberation are etched somewhere in the cracks of my soul. "Perhaps," he murmurs, stepping forward with deliberate slowness. "Or perhaps she's already in pieces."

Before Azriel can respond, Rhysand's power brushes against my mind like a cool tide. It's subtle at first, almost gentle, before it pushes deeper, dark claws cutting through the thick fog that clings to my thoughts. I flinch, trying to shove him out, but it's like fighting against an unmovable force. My breathing quickens, and I press myself harder against the wall, as though I can escape the intrusion.

It's pointless.

Rhysand's voice echoes in my mind, quiet but firm. Stop fighting. It will be easier that way.

The memories he touches are jagged, sharp edges of a shattered mirror. Blood-soaked threads, ashes falling like snow, and the King of Hybern's cold laughter as he forged me into the perfect weapon. My thoughts scatter, slipping through my grasp, leaving only the suffocating weight of guilt and whispers that never truly go silent.

Then, as abruptly as he entered, he's gone, withdrawing from my mind with a swiftness that leaves me gasping for air. My body trembles, weakened by the intrusion, every breath a struggle to reclaim what little strength I have left.

Azriel's gaze flickers toward me, sharp and assessing, his shadows coiled tightly around him. Whatever Rhysand saw, Azriel will demand more. He'll keep pulling until every thread of me is unraveled and laid bare.

Rhysand's face is unreadable as he turns back to Azriel, his hands slipping casually into his pockets. "Three months in Hybern's cage, and now this one—she's endured enough to test the limits of anyone's resolve. Take her to the House of Wind. We need a different approach."

Azriel's wings twitch, and his shadows dart away, riled by the Shadowsinger's thoughts. I flinch instinctively, jerking back as far as the chains allow, the iron biting into my wrists.

Rhysand's gaze flickers to me, sharp and assessing, though his expression remains unreadable. "Hmm," he murmurs softly, almost to himself, as if filing away my reaction for later use.

Azriel doesn't miss the movement either. His shadows retract sharply, coiling back around him as he straightens. "I haven't had enough time with her," he says, his tone calm but laced with an edge. "Rushing this will cost us more than it gains."

Rhysand exhales slowly, tilting his head as though weighing the cost of disregarding Azriel's plan—and the sting of undermining his efforts. "This mountain has ears, Az" he says at last, his voice calm but carrying an unspoken warning. "And she is a princess, after all. Word of her capture reaching Hybern would bring consequences we can't afford. Take her to the House of Wind. If she won't provide information, she might still prove useful… in other ways."

My mind races at his implication—in other ways. Death, quick and clean, that's what I'm destined for. That is salvation. But being used again, forced once more into the role of ending... it's worse than my own end.

"No," I plead, the word tearing free before I can stop it—the first I've dared speak out of turn. Tears spill over, trailing down my cheeks and landing on my chest as I shift my knees beneath me, chains clinking softly. I am willing to beg.

"Whatever information you want, take it. You're a Daemati," I add, my voice breaking, trembling. "Walk my mind. Take everything. But please..." My breath hitches as I choke back a sob, the ache in my chest too heavy to ignore. "Please, take my life as well when you're done."

It can't happen again. It can't keep happening over and over. I killed him, thinking it would stop. And it did. The cell was awful, suffocating, but the killing stopped.

Rhysand doesn't respond immediately to my outburst, his violet eyes fixed on me with that same unreadable expression. The silence stretches, a crushing weight that presses down on my chest. Finally, he exhales, his gaze flicking briefly to Azriel.

"She's finished here," Rhysand says, his tone quiet but firm. "Take her to the House of Wind."

Azriel's wings flare slightly, his shadows rippling as they lash out in quiet protest, though he reins them in before they can reach me. "I need more time," he counters, his voice low and measured, but the edge beneath it is unmistakable. "She's breaking."

Rhysand's gaze flicks to Azriel, sharp and deliberate. "No," he says evenly. "She's begging for death—and offering her mind to get it. That's not breaking, Az. That's surrender." He steps closer to Azriel, his tone softening but still laced with command. "Whatever you're hoping to find, it won't come from here."

Azriel doesn't reply immediately, his sharp gaze cutting to me where I remain slumped on the floor, trembling. Something flickers in his expression—so quick I can't name it, can barely believe I saw it—but it's gone as fast as it came. His shadows still around him, an almost imperceptible hesitation lingering before he steps forward.

"Get up," he orders, crouching to release the chains around my wrists. His voice is colder now, sharper, as if he's deliberately burying whatever moment of humanity had passed through him. I try to move, but my legs won't obey, frozen under the weight of fear coursing through my veins.

"I said, get up," Azriel repeats, irritation creeping into his tone. When I still don't move, my breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps, he mutters something under his breath that I can't make out. Before I can register what's happening, his arms slide under me, lifting me off the floor as though I weigh nothing.

My body stiffens in his hold, but he doesn't acknowledge it. His grip is firm, almost punishing, and yet his shadows pool silently at his feet, their usual whispers absent—too far to let their taunts reach me.

And then we were falling. Wind, stars, and shadows swirled around us, an endless cascade of light and dark, as though we were tumbling through time itself. Winnowing. That must be how he breached The In-Between—a door opened between realms, threading us through the impossible. I've only heard of it in rumors.

My mind reels, struggling to grasp the shift as the stars stretch into sunlight, blindingly bright after endless months buried in darkness. The wind roars in my ears, wiping away my tears, its fury accompanied by the steady, rhythmic beat of great wings cutting through the air. Squinting, I catch glimpses of a vast, endless blue sky, streaked with gusts of thick, fluffy clouds.

The Above.

My breath catches, stolen by the sheer brilliance of it all—the staggering brightness, the warmth. Even as the wind tears through us, the sun presses against my skin like a soft, golden blanket. Gentle. Welcoming. Foreign.

"You've never been Above before, have you?" Azriel's voice cuts through the roar of the wind, cold and edged with something unreadable. He doesn't look at me, his focus fixed ahead, but the question lingers in the air like a blade poised to strike, sharp and deliberate.

"Not for a very, very long time," I reply, my voice barely audible over the gusts. For the first time in decades, my mind feels startlingly clear, the chaos within it muted by the wind's deafening roar. Or perhaps it's the pace at which we're soaring—so fast even my thoughts can't keep up.

It doesn't take much longer before we're falling again, Azriel's powerful wings tilting us downward toward a rust-colored mountain. At its peak stands a sprawling palace, its jagged towers and arched windows carved from the same stone as the mountain itself, as if it had grown from the rock rather than been built.

Each mighty wing beat propels us closer, the wind roaring in my ears as we approach a massive balcony jutting out over a sheer cliff. The height alone makes my stomach lurch, but before I can take in the view or catalog my surroundings—possible escape paths included—I'm unceremoniously dropped from Azriel's arms.

I hit the warm, red stone hard, the impact jarring enough to make my bones ache. My palms press against the rough surface as I try to steady myself, but the wind still howls around us, making it impossible to focus.

Strong, calloused hands grip my arms, hauling me upright with a force that makes my head spin. My feet stumble against the stone, but there's no time to steady myself before I'm dragged forward, through massive glass doors that shimmer in the sunlight like the surface of a still lake. The sudden warmth and quiet inside hit me like a physical blow, the roar of the wind replaced by an eerie, suffocating stillness.

The room feels like stepping into a gilded trap—Jewel-toned rugs stretch across dark, polished floors, their intricate patterns drawing the eye in dizzying swirls. Deeply stained wood trims the high walls, every edge and corner carefully carved, while plush chairs and smooth marble tables are arranged with an elegance that feels entirely out of place for someone like me. The air is warm, scented faintly with something rich and earthy, but there's no time to process it.

Before I can gather my thoughts—let alone form a single word—Azriel stops abruptly, his grip tightening just enough to send a warning. His shadows ripple like a storm gathering around him, and his voice, low and biting, cuts through the stillness.

"Rule number one," he growls, his wings shifting behind him, shadows reaching like claws. "You don't leave my sight unless I permit it."