Chapter Text
If there were two things that Nesta Archeron could rely on, they were that the halls of the Hewn City would always be dark, and she would always hear the echoes of some unfortunate soul screaming from the prisons down below.
Even with the sconces lining the wall, carved from bone (she never dared to ask what kind), the darkness of this place infiltrated her skin, seeping into her being until she couldn’t distinguish between the two. The small candles, with flickering little lights, weren’t enough to combat the atrocities of this place. They never were.
Nesta glided down the stone hallway, Tomas at her side. Elain and Feyre would enter with their parents, as they were still unwed, and in no particular rush to change that.
The doors to the throne room opened for them to reveal high fae clad in their formal attire: the males in crisp, tailored shirts and jackets, and the females in scratchy lace and chiffon — meant for the males to have something pretty to look at for the night.
No one spared her or Tomas a second glance.
“I’ll be in our quarters late,” Tomas said, his voice cold as it so often was. “You don’t have to wait up.”
That meant that Tomas would roll into bed smelling of another female’s perfume.
One of the few advantages to these wretched parties is that she often didn’t have to deal with her husband for the night. He was inclined to leave her alone, as long as he received the company he desired.
“Alright,” she said, careful as always to not show him any of what she was thinking. “I’ll leave a candle lit.”
He grunted, apparently not interested in continuing the conversation. Then he was gone, blending into the crowd, presumably to find the crowd of males that he called his friends.
Nesta sank into the crowd, gliding between partygoers towards the table on the far wall. That was where the delicacies of the night were laid for all to see. A roast pig, seafood from the coast that she’d never visited, and fruits that spiked and exuded colors she could only dream of.
She left it alone. She had to.
So much food, so much luxury, and she wasn’t to touch any of it. Partly because she wasn’t allowed, no one was, by some ludicrous rule of society, and also because mother would throw a fit if the measure of her waist ever increased before she came to be with child.
Wine, however, was acceptable, as long as she didn’t make a spectacle of herself. In the moments where she sipped from her cup, she could allow her mask to slip. Upholding it in the face of this place’s cruelty could be exhausting.
Such was life in the Hewn City.
The wine on her tongue was rich, one of their finest barrels tapped open for the arrival of the High Lord. Tonight, the High Lord would be returning to his city, after fifty years stuck under Amarantha’s rule. Nesta had only ever seen him in person once — otherwise, she’d merely glanced over the portraits of him that lined the gallery.
Arrogant. Preening, with his crown that appeared made out of stars.
The first and only time she’d seen him, she was a youngling of only five, still under the belief that gripping tightly into her father’s hand might spare her from any of the horrors of this place.
She learned, later, that no one escaped them. No one in this city was deemed worthy enough to leave, instead cast into the shadows for all eternity.
Scanning the room, she saw heads of gold: Morrigan’s family. Nesta was distant cousins with her on her mother’s side. They rarely associated with her, ever since her father fell from his fortune. It was only when she wed Tomas that they deigned to offer her the slightest hint of a smile, of their approval. All that power, they would say, needs to be tied to a worthy bloodline.
Just like Morrigan.
Morrigan escaped. She was lucky.
Morrigan had a powerful high lord as her cousin.
Nesta was the barren witch, deserving of everything she had.
A figure pushed through the crowd, approaching Nesta’s side. Her sister.
“There you are,” Elain said, face too bright for the room. She’d never belonged here, Nesta thought, with her cheerful smile and face that favored bright, lovely colors. “Father said you would be coming tonight.”
Nesta drew her sister into an embrace, kissing her cheek, before glancing over her sister’s shoulder. “Where’s Feyre?”
In the back of her mind, Nesta knew — Feyre wasn’t here. Her youngest sister, nineteen and reckless, had the tendency to disappear and find herself in trouble, often at inopportune times.
Elain’s mouth twisted into a frown. “She’s snuck off with Isaac. I promised to not tell mother or father, but…”
Nesta fought to keep her steady expression constant. Isaac Hale. Feyre’s newest…fling, or teenage obsession, or whatever she wanted to call it. There was no good way for it to end, as Nesta knew the boy had his eyes set on marrying another wealthy female from the city — from a family whose daughters were notably not barren.
But she couldn’t deny the relief that was etched in her chest, at Feyre’s disappearance. Maybe it was better if Feyre wasn’t here when the High Lord appeared. At Feyre’s age, she’d never seen so much power in one place.
“Nesta. I need to tell you something,” Elain whispered, after the silence. “Kier still wishes for the alliance with Beron. Mother and father have agreed–”
The doors to the room opened.
The entire room fell to their knees. Whatever Elain had been speaking of vanished from Nesta’s mind, as she watched along with the rest of the crowd to greet the expected newcomers.
Power simmered in the air, thrumming like a beating drum. The power of night, of darkness and death, wrapping itself around her. She’d read, once, about snakes that wrapped around its prey, suffocating them until they were ready to devour. The feeling must be similar to this, she imagined. Suddenly, she felt like a mouse, wriggling around before its inevitable death.
Morrigan and the witch, Amren, entered first. Morrigan in red — a flowing silk gown, her golden hair curled behind her head, and Amren in a deep purple.
His warriors walked in next. Tall, muscled, winged fae that her father had told her stories about, when she was little.
Illyrians steal naughty girls in their sleep, he’d said. They’re scattered all over the north, the damned vermin.
She should have lowered her head. Should have offered them the deference they were owed, as members of Rhysand’s court. But she couldn’t help pouring every ounce of hatred into her glare, especially at the tall, large one who grinned wickedly as he walked.
His name was Cassian. She’d seen him once as well, before Amarantha, but luckily he hadn’t noticed the ten year old sticking to the shadows that night.
Now, she hated everything about him. How he walked around this place like he was better than her. Better than any of them.
She hated him as he stopped in the middle of the aisleway, turning a head over his shoulder. Locking eyes with her.
She hated how his nostrils flared, how his wings spread behind him in an instant.
The High Lord had entered as well, but Nesta paid him no mind. Within a second, she knew what they were.
Whatever she had done in her sixty years of life, the Mother had deemed that she deserved this fate.
***
This was the last place Cassian wanted to be.
Even though he knew that it was necessary to make an appearance after Rhys’ fifty year absence. One night — he could get through one night. And then he could work out his frustration in the camps as they prepared for this damn war.
He’d never get over what this place did to his friend. His sister. How her family could live with themselves after nailing her to that tree in Autumn. And the rest of them had stood by and let it happen, without a word of protest.
He was thinking of that, and forcing all of his frustration into his menacing smile, when he locked eyes with her.
Her, and he didn’t even know her name. Her, and it was undeniable what they were to each other.
Her, and he could tell, with one look, that she hated everything about him, from his spot at Rhys’ side, all the way to the wings he wore on his back.
A woman from the city, kneeling on the floor as he passed — in black gossamer that covered more of her body than was typical here. Her golden-brown hair was braided into a coronet. Her eyes were blue-gray like the sea, but only fire lived in her irises, her glare breaking down all of his defenses from across the ballroom.
Something between them snapped, making him unable to look away from her, and practically demanded that he snatch her up and wrap his wings around her until nothing here could harm her anymore. Which was odd, because Cassian wouldn’t be surprised to learn that she was the apex predator of this place.
His control over himself faded away. He lifted his foot to take the first step towards her, to do what he didn’t know, but Rhys’ power restrained him faster than he could think. It held him firmly on the ground, all while he could practically feel her heartbeat thundering from where she watched him back.
She felt it, too. Their souls were tethered by the bond between them, and there she was, beating and warm and alive on the other side of it. Her face, however, gave nothing away. Stony calmness and hatred, and nothing more. Her red lips did not move, instead staying pressed together.
What do you think you’re doing? Rhys demanded.
Cassian pushed against his brother’s hold, to no avail. He needed to get closer, needed to…
I swear to the gods, Cassian, if you try to jump on a nobleman’s wife I will drag you out of here–
She’s my mate. He couldn’t form another thought in his head. It echoed again and again, making him think he might lose his damn mind. Who is she?
Rhys went silent, likely seeking the answer from somebody else. Nesta Archeron.
That name would haunt his dreams.
She was beautiful. Devastatingly so. She was from this awful city. She looked like she could rip him to shreds–
Cassian. She’s married.
A hand landed on Nesta’s arm — the female beside her, who Cassian hadn’t even noticed earlier. The touch pulled Nesta’s attention away, towards the low murmur of the other female. Her sister, maybe — they looked enough alike that it was possible.
A softness broke over her face, one he suspected she fought to remain hidden.
He told Rhys, Then break it. Her marriage. Do whatever you have to do.
Rhys hesitated, clearly taken aback by the request. I can’t just break it.
I know you have the power to, so don’t tell me that bullshit–
Say I break it. Then what? You’ll marry her instead? Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?
Yes.
I’d certainly be better than whatever bastard she’s tied herself to.
Rhys went searching again, presumably to find the answer to that very statement. Mandray. She’s married to Tomas Mandray.
At that, Cassian almost snarled, almost descended into a more feral version of himself. Tomas Mandray. He’d heard the stories, even living outside of the city. Of how he treated females, and his servants.
Cassian would feel no guilt over breaking her marriage with that pathetic, bottom-feeding—
Cassian. Rhys refused to be ignored.
What would you do if your mate was married to a monster, Rhys?
Rhys was silent for a long moment, in which Cassian thought he was going to shut him down entirely. Instead, though, in a voice that seemed tired, If I’m going to do this, I have conditions.
***
The only thing that kept Nesta tethered to this party was Elain’s hand on her arm. Warmth.
Her sister looked at her, confusion knit between her eyebrows. “What was that about?” Elain asked.
Nesta gripped her glass tighter. “Nothing good.”
She didn’t want to think about it. About the deep set hazel of his eyes that had already, incomprehensibly, impossibly, torn through her defenses. She didn’t want to think about Cassian feeling her through the bond that connected them. It went against her instincts to shut it off entirely, so Nesta dampened it instead, pretending like it had no bearings on her.
Eventually, she felt Cassian tear his eyes from hers, and approached the dais on the other end of the room, his High Lord following behind. Rhysand took a seat on his throne, for the first time in fifty years. Smirking over all of them, he took his time before he finally addressed his subjects.
“You may rise,” Rhysand said. A servant brought him a chalice of wine, of which he took a long, long sip, before his gaze lazily flicked over the crowd again. “Dance.”
Nesta breathed a sigh of relief, and again focused on Elain’s concerned eyes. The musicians picked up a song, but Nesta didn’t dare to find Tomas and dance. Not now. Not when the last thing she wanted was the attention of everyone in this ballroom.
Once she thought no one had noticed anything, that nothing else would come of the night, Rhysand spoke again.
“Archeron.” The way Rhysand said it sent shivers down her spine.
Nesta looked anywhere other than at the male who the Mother had seemingly deemed her match. Never mind that she was already wed, that her father had given her to another already.
Her father approached the dais, bowing his head respectfully. “High Lord.”
“We have something to discuss.” Rhys flashed his eyes to hers, and the crushing weight of his power washed over her. More so than she’d ever felt before, and if she was any other person, she would cower beneath it.
But she did the opposite: refusing to yield to his power. To him.
Involuntarily, her eyes caught on Cassian from where he stood at the foot of the dais. Loath as she was to admit it, she didn’t hate the way he looked, with his large, strong physique and locks of curls that were pulled back behind his head. The battle scars that were drawn across his body, including the small one that went through his eyebrow. With a jolt, she realized that he was watching her, with his head slightly tilted. The corner of his mouth turned up, though he didn’t allow anything else to show. Maybe that was all he dared here, with the eyes of the city on him.
“Cassian!” Rhysand all but barked. “Are you coming, or not?”
Without her noticing, Rhysand and her father had descended from the dais, heading towards the large double doors to the room.
Rather reluctantly, Cassian tensed and ripped his gaze from her, following his High Lord out the way they came, leaving the crowd speaking in hushed murmurs.
The Mandrays disappeared next. She supposed they’d been summoned while she was distracted by watching her mate.
It was nearly half an hour later when they returned, all of the males shuffling back into the room. Rhysand resumed his place on the throne, while Tomas would not meet her eye, nor his father.
She felt him before she saw him, tiny hairs standing up on her arm.
“Would you dance with me?” Cassian asked.
To scorn him, to deny him outright, would bring the High Lord’s wrath. She’d heard the stories ever since she was just a youngling. Bones broken, shattered, from the smallest slight. Power that could rattle the mountains.
Nesta placed her glass of wine, sipped down to the very last drops, atop the table at her side. “I suppose.”
This earned her a smile. A small one, hidden behind stone-cold predator, but a smile nonetheless. His hand extended, flecked with battle scars and sun-tanned skin, and she slid her smooth, unworked one into it. Let him lead her to the dance floor, as she was supposed to.
Over sixty years, she’d learned the Hewn City dances until she could do them in her sleep. She had more grace than most, and almost always drew the eyes of the entire room on the times she decided to take to the floor.
If the room wasn’t watching already because someone other than Tomas asked her to dance, they certainly were now. The first beat of the music played, and Cassian led them in the dance, the melody slow and languid.
The first thing she noticed was that he was awkward, fumbling over the steps. He wasn’t used to this life. Her traditions. The fifty years of Amarantha’s reign certainly hadn’t helped matters, either.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she said, bored.
“I know the dance,” he said, already defensive.
“Maybe you were taught it,” she agreed. “But I would not say you know it.”
A dangerous line, she was pushing. Critiquing this male in such a manner.
But he didn’t seem to mind. Not yet.
“And if I said that I asked you to dance because I wished to speak with you?”
“Then I would say, be done with it,” she said. “Say what it is you wish.”
He sighed, long and slow through his nose. “You’re my mate.”
She allowed herself a moment. To think. To say, “I’m already married.”
“Not anymore.”
Her eyebrows pulled together, until she put together what he’d said. What he’d done. “You had no right–”
“No children between you two,” he said, though it was almost guilt in his eyes that fought through. “No major objections from his family, either. They weren’t keen on having a female that was…bonded to another. It was an easy enough split.”
Face slacken, she asked, “What did you do?”
He stared at her for a long moment, before letting out a breath. “You’re coming to Illyria with me.”
“I’m not–”
“I’ve already arranged it with your husband. Well, ex-husband. We’ll wed in the morning, then…then we’ll go home.”
“It was not your place to decide,” she hissed. “You can’t barge in here, and decide you want me.”
His hands tightened on the small of her back. “I’m sorry that I don’t want my mate married to some sadist. I know what he’s capable of–”
So did she. But Tomas was the devil she knew.
“Like you’re any better?” She saw the words land, saw him flinch. Good. “I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted to be tied to an Illyrian brute–”
“I didn’t ask to be tied to you, either,” he snapped back. “But here we are. And I’m not going to leave you down here to fend for yourself.”
“I’ve done it my whole life.”
An emotion flickered across his face, fighting against the mask that she suspected he wasn’t able to uphold. Not a courtier, for certain. There was warmth there, if only for a second — something she wasn’t used to in a place as cold as this. “And you don’t have to anymore.”
The song came to a close, the final chords hitting a cadence that would normally have her dance partner leaning her into a dip. Nesta, however, was too tense to do anything but let him hold her in place. He looked at her intently, and it seemed different, somehow, than how the other males of this city looked at her.
“You’ll be safe there,” he said, and she wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. “Happier, hopefully, than you are here. And…”
Her blood screamed at her to trust him, to listen to the words he said. The bond demanded it, an instinct she never thought she would be subjected to.
Her brain told her otherwise.
Her brain knew what males like him wanted. She’d spend the rest of her life as breeding chattel to this winged beast in the frigid mountains. That he’d spend decades trying for what Tomas had already discovered: that her body couldn’t do what it was meant for.
And, if he willed it, she would never see her sisters again.
“My sisters.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, temporarily caught off guard. “What about your sisters?”
“Will I be allowed to see them? Or will I be required to get your permission anytime I want to talk to my own family?”
She wondered if he cared that she would hate him forever, though most husbands didn’t. His hand pressed further into her side, a result of nerves, or male possession, she couldn’t say. But some intrinsic fae instinct inside her had Nesta pressing herself closer to him at his direction, had her chin lifting up to expose her neck. Her nose caught his scent with notes of cedar and sharp wind, though that only scratched the surface — there were no words that could properly describe what it was like.
He said quietly, “You won’t be my prisoner.”
“No. I’ll be your wife.”
That scenario wasn’t any better.
Noticing the residents who were already observing her outburst, she decidedly kept her vitriol shut inside her mouth. She wasn’t supposed to challenge him, after all. At least, not more than she already had.
“As you say, Lord of Bloodshed,” she said, turning her mouth into a sickly-sweet smile. “I am yours to command, after all.”
“That’s not–”
But she’d already broken away, retreating to the other side of the throne room. To Elain.
She didn’t spare him another glance as she fled.