Nesta was back in the House of Wind, unaware of the conversation happening without her—like always. She had grown accustomed to this exclusion over the months, but the sting never fully faded. It was a wound that refused to heal, reopening with each reminder that she was not truly one of them.

At the River House, the Inner Circle had gathered—all of them. Even Elain sat among them, perched at the edge of her seat with her hands folded in her lap. Everyone except Nesta. She had not been deemed necessary for this discussion. Yet Cassian was here, his wings tucked tight against his back, tension radiating from every line of his body.

Feyre's voice sliced through the silence, sharp as a blade. "Are you insane, Rhysand?" Power crackled beneath her skin, a storm barely contained. "Was that what the dance was about? To get her married to him?"

"Calm down, Feyre," Rhysand said smoothly, though strain wove through his practiced composure. "I didn't expect him to actually fall for her after three dances." He leaned back in his chair, shadows playing across his face. "You downplayed her. We underestimated her."

A soft voice cut through the tension.

"If we're going to have a conversation about her, shouldn't she be here?" Azriel asked, his hazel eyes flicking toward Rhysand. Shadows curled around his scarred hands, restless and shifting.

"No," Amren said flatly, examining her silver-tipped nails. "Remember what happened last time?"

Azriel's gaze darkened. "And that is precisely why she should be included. If she's involved from the beginning, don't you think she'd be less likely to react as she did last time? Keeping her in the dark only ensures her anger."

Amren only shrugged. "We will tell her when the time is right."

Azriel's shadows thickened at his feet, his voice turning cold. "We have less than a week, then." His eyes flicked to Rhysand. "Since you invited the prince to Solstice."

Mor stiffened, golden hair swinging as she whirled toward Rhysand. "You did what?" she snapped, color draining from her face.

Rhysand exhaled through his nose, violet eyes narrowing slightly. "I told him that if he was sincere, he could come." A pause, weighted with unspoken implications. "He will behave." His gaze shifted toward Mor, softening slightly. "I should have warned you."

Mor let out a sharp breath, crossing her arms as she slumped back into her chair. She wasn't just angry—no, this ran deeper than mere outrage. Her gaze flickered toward Cassian, toward the brief, almost imperceptible flash of hurt that crossed his face before he forced his expression into careful neutrality.

And beneath her anger, beneath her fear—there was something deeper, something that made her chest tighten with unease.

What if Nesta actually said yes?

Rhysand sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "If I had known she could dance like that," he admitted, frustration laced in every word, "I never would have asked her to dance with Eris. Or brought her to Hewn City." His expression darkened. "Since that ball, I've been getting more offers—princes and nobles asking permission to court Nesta."

Elain, quiet until now, finally spoke. "Well, she always knew how to make an entrance." A soft, almost wistful smile touched her lips, memories flickering behind her eyes. "But that was the first time I've ever seen her happy. No one has ever been able to keep up with her before."

Rhysand exhaled, his gaze flicking to Feyre. "The problem is, that was one of the most difficult fae dances—most males struggle with the final steps, and even fewer females attempt it. But the way they danced…" He shook his head, troubled. "It was like they were made for each other."

Cassian finally spoke, his voice tight with barely restrained fury. "Nesta is not marrying him." His hazel eyes burned with conviction, something primal and unyielding clawing its way through his chest. "Not after what he did to Mor. If she marries him, he'll be just as terrible as Beron. Even if he's slightly better, he's still Vanserra."

Silence settled over the room, thick and suffocating.

Mor swallowed hard, her hands curling into fists. Because beneath Cassian's anger, beneath his outrage—it wasn't just fury driving him.

It was fear. Raw and undisguised. Fear that, for the first time, he had met a battle he couldn't win through sheer will alone.

Fear that Nesta had glimpsed something in Eris that none of them had bothered to see—a reflection of herself, uncaged and unbroken.

Fear that, all this time, while they had been trying to save her…

Nesta had never needed saving at all.

Nesta groaned as sleep evaded her for the second night in a row. No matter how many times she closed her eyes, the ball refused to fade from her mind. He refused to fade from her mind.

Eris Vanserra—someone she had barely spared a thought for before—had unsettled something within her, had stirred embers she'd thought long extinguished. He shouldn't have affected her this much. And yet, he had.

Because he had kept up with her.

Mor had explained, during one of their countless lessons, that it was one of the most difficult fae dances—one that even immortals struggled to master. Yet Eris had not only matched her step for step; he had challenged her, changing the traditional patterns mid-dance, improvising complex sequences that weren't part of the choreography. And instead of faltering, she had faced each deviation head-on, anticipating his next move before he made it. Each time she met his challenge without hesitation, that smirk of his had deepened—not mocking, but appreciative. Testing her limits, pushing her beyond what anyone else had ever dared. And she had met that challenge head-on, feeling something crack open inside her chest—exhilaration flooding through her veins in a way she hadn't experienced in years.

Not even the grand balls she had attended as a human, under her mother's watchful, calculating gaze, had ignited this fire within her. No suitor, no dance partner, no prince or lordling had ever struck that match inside her.

But she had played her role perfectly. Had told herself he was nothing.

And yet...

A flicker of irritation crept beneath her skin when she recalled how Cassian had cut in afterward, demanding his turn. He was an adequate dancer—better than most warriors, she supposed—but it wasn't something that came naturally to him. There was no thrill, no spark between them. Her blood had not pounded, had not sung the way it had when Eris's fingers had pressed against her spine, when his eyes had locked onto hers with that knowing challenge.

And then Cassian had made it his personal mission to ensure no other male outside their court could approach her. Protected. Managed. Controlled by the very same people who claimed they wanted to help her. To fix her.

As if she were something broken.

Nesta exhaled sharply and reached for her leathers. Perhaps training would burn off this restlessness, this frustration that coiled tight beneath her skin.

And then there was Rhysand.

It had been strange when he had approached her for a dance—the High Lord who barely tolerated her existence, who never spoke to her unless absolutely necessary. And yet, his hand had reached for hers, his expression carefully neutral. She had glanced at Feyre then, catching the barely contained anger in her sister's eyes. Something had happened. Something they had deemed her unworthy of knowing.

Rhysand's touch had been impersonal, his words clipped as he led her across the dance floor—not guiding, not dancing, but instructing. Teaching her how to be charming with Eris, giving her etiquette lessons as though she hadn't been trained for this very purpose her entire life.

And then he had walked her back into the ballroom.

Eris had made a beeline toward them, his sharp gaze locked onto hers like a predator that had caught the scent of something intriguing. She shouldn't have cared. She shouldn't have felt that sharp zing of anticipation at the prospect of another dance. But she had.

And Rhysand—without hesitation—had handed her over to him.

A small mercy, perhaps, that Cassian had been nowhere in sight to stop it. Because she didn't need to be protected.

She didn't need to be saved.

And then Eris had spoken words she couldn't forget, no matter how hard she tried.

"Rule three: choose your own chains, or wear none at all."

His words had been nothing like the careful, measured manipulation she had grown accustomed to in this court. He had not tried to diminish her power. He had not feared it. He had even offered her a choice, wrapped in riddles and veiled promises.

But why?

Rhysand would never give her a choice. She was a tool, a pawn to be used when it suited him, to be locked away when it did not.

The only way to truly escape was to go to the human lands. But even that was impossible now. She knew that. The moment the Trove had answered to her, any illusion of freedom had shattered. Rhysand would never let her leave—no matter what pretty words he spun about her being free to make her own choices.

After all, she hadn't even been allowed to walk the streets of Velaris in months without an escort, without watchful eyes tracking her every move.

If that ball had been a one-time thing—if that dance had been nothing more than a fleeting moment—then she knew the truth of what awaited her here.

Whatever she had with Cassian was nothing more than casual. And that was why she had been denying him, why she had refused to give him more. It had only ever been sex. A way to forget.

Forget how Feyre had locked her away in this gilded prison.

Forget how she had been forced to work for free while everyone else in the Night Court had gold to spend as they pleased—all of them living under Rhysand's generous protection, his endless wealth.

But not her.

No matter how much she appeared "fixed" for them, she was never truly included. Never deemed worthy of the simple pleasures they indulged in so easily. Not even of a glass of wine without it being watched, judged—without them waiting for her to slip, to fall back into old patterns so they could lock her away again.

She had done it, in part, because she hated the way they looked at her. Like she was something wild. Something that needed to be caged. Controlled.

Nesta sighed, running a hand through her hair, the strands catching on her callused fingers.

The House, as if sensing her frustration, placed breakfast before her—a quiet offering of understanding.

If there was anything in this cursed court that she truly loved, it was this House.

Because it understood her.

Because it never betrayed her.

Because it never gave anything of hers away without permission—unlike Rhysand, who had not even bothered to ask before handing away the dagger she had made with her own power, her own essence.

Her fingers curled into fists at the memory, nails digging into her palms until she felt the sting of it.

Nesta clenched her jaw and forced herself to eat, the warm food grounding her just enough to focus on something other than the simmer of rage beneath her skin.

Then she stood, stretching out her limbs as she made her way upstairs.

His parting words still echoed in her mind. "Until the Solstice, Nesta Archeron."

Why had he mentioned the Solstice? And why had Rhysand said nothing about it to her afterward? It seemed as though Eris had wanted to say more, had perhaps been planning to elaborate—but something had stopped him. Had Rhysand interfered? Another secret, another conversation she hadn't been deemed worthy of hearing. Another decision made without her knowledge or consent.

The mention of Solstice was deliberate—she had felt the weight of significance in those words, the promise of something unfinished. Yet no one had bothered to explain. Not Rhysand, not Feyre, not even Cassian.

She needed to move. To hit something. To pound her frustration into the training room floors until her muscles screamed and her mind finally, finally quieted.

She would not think of Eris Vanserra again.

She would not think of the way his eyes had seen through her, had not flinched from the ice or the fire.

She would not think of how, for the first time since being thrown into that Cauldron, someone had looked at her and seen not a problem to solve or a weapon to wield—

But a queen without a crown.

Feyre lounged in a chair, one hand resting against her swollen belly as their son kicked inside her. Even with Helion's libraries at their disposal, they still had no solution for how to deliver their child safely. And time was slipping away.

She exhaled, locking eyes with Rhysand. "Enough."

Rhys lifted a brow, his violet eyes calculating as he watched her. That look—the one he wore when plotting, when moving pieces across a board only he could see—sent a chill down her spine. She'd once found it thrilling. Now, she wasn't so sure.

"I went about Nesta the wrong way," Feyre admitted, the words quiet but heavy. "I should have tried to talk to her—to understand her. Not to fix her."

A shadow passed over her face as she considered what they'd done—locking Nesta away in the House of Wind, dictating her every move, treating her power like something to be contained rather than nurtured.

"I fear we may lose her entirely. If she accepts Eris's offer..." Feyre couldn't finish the thought.

Rhysand's expression shifted, that familiar glint of opportunism flashing in his eyes. "If she does accept his offer, at least we'll have a spy inside the Autumn Court. A useful one."

Feyre let out a bitter laugh. "And you truly think she'd spy for us after the way we've treated her?"

Rhys didn't answer. Instead, he crossed to the window, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out at the glittering city below. "Nesta has always been difficult. Even before the Cauldron. She was born with thorns."

"She's my sister," Feyre said, a hint of steel entering her voice. "Not a weapon to be wielded when convenient."

I don't want her to go to the Autumn Court, she added through their bond. She will be walking into a pit of vipers, and I don't want her to lose herself. Even if Eris is better than Beron, she is my sister.

Rhysand turned, a smile curving his lips that didn't reach his eyes. A sister you've barely spoken to in months. A sister who spits venom every time you try.

Feyre flinched.

I know, Rhys added, softer now. But perhaps this is for the best. Nesta was never meant for the Night Court.

Feyre straightened, resolve settling over her features. "Starting now, she will have a salary. No more escorts. No more cages. No more limits—she can go where she pleases." She paused, swallowing hard. "I only hope it's not too late."

She grimaced as a kick shot through her ribs but pressed on. "And she will be included in conversations. If she wants to join them."

Feyre hesitated before adding, "It may not change anything, but I want to try. I still want a relationship with her."

Rhysand studied her for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. "I had hoped she and Cassian were mates," he said finally, his voice deceptively casual. "It would have been... convenient."

"Convenient," Feyre echoed flatly.

Rhys shrugged one shoulder, the gesture elegant and dismissive. "We need her power controlled, Feyre. If not by us, then by someone who understands its worth. Someone like Cassian."

Feyre's stomach twisted, guilt gnawing at her insides. "Yes," she admitted. Had they truly been trying to help Nesta, or merely contain her? She wasn't sure anymore.

She lifted her gaze to his. I'm just scared Cassian will be hurt because of this. He's too kind, and he wears his emotions on his heart.

Something darkened in Rhysand's eyes. Cassian will survive. He always does.

"Can you fly me up to the House?" Feyre asked suddenly. "I want to tell her about Eris's offer myself. And I'll face the backlash myself."

Rhysand's jaw tightened. "And then?"

"You'll leave once you get me there."

His violet eyes darkened. "Why?"

Feyre exhaled, rubbing her temple. "Because she hates you."

Rhysand clenched his jaw. "And you think she doesn't hate you?"

Silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.

Finally, Rhys said, "If anything happens to the baby—"

Feyre placed a hand over his, squeezing gently. "Nothing will happen. Trust me."

He studied her for a long moment, then nodded—but there was something cold in his eyes, something that made Feyre wonder if she truly knew the male she'd bound herself to. If she'd ever known him at all.

Then, Feyre reached out with her mind, brushing gently against Nesta's shields in the House of Wind. For what felt like an eternity, there was nothing. Silence.

And then, the shields cracked—just enough.

What? Nesta's voice echoed in her mind, sharp and wary.

Feyre hesitated before saying, I would like to talk—if you don't mind me coming.

A beat of silence. Then—

You're actually asking? There was an edge to Nesta's voice, laced with disbelief.

Yes, Feyre admitted. If you don't want me to come, I won't.

Another pause. Then, carefully, Nesta asked, Is your mate coming?

Feyre responded without hesitation. Rhys will fly me in and then leave. This will just be between us.

She felt, more than heard, Nesta's surprise. That Feyre had asked instead of taking, instead of just showing up like usual.

Finally, Nesta's voice brushed against her mind once more. Fine.

And then, the shields slammed shut again.

Feyre pushed herself to her feet, one hand resting on her swollen belly. She couldn't shake the feeling that this conversation with Nesta would change everything—that she was already too late.

"Are you sure about this?" Rhysand asked, his voice carefully neutral.

She nodded. Without another word, Rhys scooped her into his arms, his wings unfurling in a whisper of darkness. As they took to the sky, Feyre caught the glint in his eyes—possessive, calculating, cold.

Whatever happened with Nesta, Rhysand already had a plan. He always did.

And Feyre was no longer certain their plans aligned.