Thirty Years Trapped

By all rights, Azriel should have hated the winter.

In his father’s dungeon, the cold was savage and inescapable. It made his teeth chatter and his poor, stunted wings ache. 

In the Illyrian camps, it had nearly killed him. He’d found himself longing for the hard stone walls of his father’s cells. At least there he was sheltered from the wind. 

From a purely strategic standpoint, thick blankets of snow reflected the sun to the point where it was painful to even open your eyes- and it reduced his shadows to nothing. He was more blind in the winter than at any other time.

But even so, winter was his favorite time of the year.

It was winter when he was finally dragged out of his father’s cells and thrown into a distant Illyrian camp. It was during a blizzard, when Azriel was found nearly frozen to death at the edge of camp, that Rhysand’s mother had demanded he move into the cottage. That blizzard gave him a slight scar at the ends of his rounded ears where frostbite had nibbled away skin, but it also gave him brothers, and an adopted mother.

It was also winter when Azriel and Cassian had been invited to accompany that little brat Rhysand to the winter solstice feasts. Azriel could still remember the gleam in Rhysand’s eyes as they crested the mountains and the two Illyrian boys saw Velaris for the first time.

Azriel looked across the city from the warmth of his house and remembered that day as clearly as ever. Just as it had back then, the brightly painted shops of Velaris seemed to glitter beneath their layers of snow and ice. Fae bundled in furs would be rushing around the higher levels of the city, hurrying to the shops to buy some last minute item or ingredient for their solstice feasts. Even in the slums the snow had a way of making everything look clean and beautiful.

Also, if he was being perfectly honest, Azriel didn’t mind his shadows taking a break.

The silence was more than welcome.

“Cauldron knows what Abra is thinking!” Cassian was ranting as he tore open endless crates of ribbon and fabric, “This is amethyst! I asked for violet! You’d think the Governess of the Palace of Thread and Jewels would know the difference between amethyst and violet!”

Azriel rolled his eyes and said a silent prayer for patience, “Have you considered that they are the same color?”

“They aren’t! Look at this- this is the sample she gave me, just look!” Azriel begrudgingly turned, tearing his eyes from the quiet beauty outside. Cassian was holding a scrap of purple fabric in his hand. In his other hand he held the end of a long streamer- also purple.

Completely and utterly indistinguishable.

“Oh, you’re right. They’re totally different,” Azriel said, “you should go complain.”

Actually, it might be fun to watch Cassian try to pick a fight with Abra. She’d eat him alive.

Cassian huffed and threw the end of silk back into the crate, “What, and look like a total prick? The dyes are too limited, the fabric takes too long to make without our usual suppliers. It took her seven years to fill this order. If I complain, it makes me look like a whiny bastard.”

Azriel swallowed his retort that Cassian was a whiny bastard.

“I’m just saying that if she says she can get the order right, she has seven years to get the order right, then why is it all the wrong color? It’s meant to match Rhys’ eyes, like this it will clash!”

“Right, he’ll take one look at the streamers and throw the shields right back up until we all have paid for the crime of clashing with his eyes.” Azriel rolled his own, “Cassian, you’ve been hanging around the artists of the Rainbow for too long, and it shows. You need to take a break. You’ve been planning this for eleven years now, there is no deadline"

“No deadline?” Cassian snapped, “No deadline?! Rhys could literally appear any second! No deadline?! You want him to come back to a city that isn’t even ready to celebrate his return?!”

Azriel almost missed the quietly miserable male from the first nineteen years. Cassian had drowned out the roar of the Illyrian summons they both still felt by training the people of Velaris to fight and readying the city’s defenses. Ever since Amren showed them that lantern- given them even the possibility that they might be able to make some sort of contact with Rhys- Cassian’s focus had snapped. He no longer planned to fight or endure, though his building crews were still busy with new defenses. No, now Cassian had a new obsession-

Planning a city-wide celebration for the second Rhys returned.

At first it seemed like a good way for Cassian to burn his extra energy- one that didn’t leave him swinging a pickaxe alone for hours on end. He’d run from the townhouse that night all the way to the Rainbow, where he began recruiting a team of artists to help him. Now, he led a small counsel of those same individuals, whose task was to clean up and beautify Velaris.

Every storefront and house was to be cleaned and freshly painted, cracked or loose cobblestones had to be replaced, statues in the parks were buffed and polished, and every last scrap of trash was quickly removed from the streets. Velaris was a tidy city, lovely in the organized chaos of the four Palaces and the thousands- tens of thousands- of stores, taverns, clubs, and houses of ill repute. After Cassian began his mission though, the city was gleaming as though it were brand new.

He’d gone door to door personally, convincing faeries to let his team help fix everything from broken shutters to old roof tiles at no cost to the owner (or, when the owner couldn’t be convinced, just doing it anyways in the dead of night). He drew on that stipend that was eternally being added to his account and much of Velaris donated coin or time on top of it all.

Then he’d gotten it into his head that they should have a parade ready.

Somewhere between there and his order of twenty miles worth of streamers, Cassian had well and truly lost his mind.

And if he has his way, the rest of us will too. Azriel turned back to look out over the city.

“What if Rhysand doesn’t want a parade or some party?” After so long in Amarantha’s court with the other High Lords, it didn’t seem unreasonable to expect Rhys would want some peace and quiet.

A snarl noise behind him made Azriel turn. Cassian was looking at him with that inhuman, feral wrath that made even Kier think twice before speaking. A growl lined every breath, and even the talons of his wings seemed to angle towards Azriel, “Thirty. Years. He put us through this for thirty years. The only choice Rhys has is to either endure the gods-damned parade, or be disemboweled and have his intestines hung up as streamers.”

“I’m sure he’ll like the parade,” Azriel said quickly. He made a mental note to watch Cassian more. He hadn’t meant the threat on Rhysand’s life, but if anyone- even Rhys- got between him and that celebration, Cassian would be out for blood.

As quickly as it seemed to come on, the wrath vanished from Cassian’s face and he went back to inspecting the fabric, “I’m accepting the order, but as soon as those shields are up I am writing a strong letter to Abra explaining the difference between amethyst and violet.”

“Hey, Cassian? If I go into the city-“

“I’ll meet you at the townhouse.” Cassian waved him off, “The feast starts at sundown. Don’t forget.”

Azriel edged around Cassian as he made for the door, wearily studying the other male for any hint of that temper. He didn’t know what was more troubling- the vicious rage that had twisted him only moments before, or the complete and utter absence of it now.

I’ll meet Mor after the ceremonies and see what she thinks. Mor and even Amren were busy representing the Inner Circle- and Rhysand- at one of the many Solstice celebrations around Velaris. Cassian was one of two problems they would need to address soon.

Over the last several months, something was happening to Rhysand’s lantern.

Amren feared the spell was finally failing. The hair she’d used to tie it to Rhysand’s fate and life force was years old when she cast the ancient magic, Amren had always been up front with her doubts on its potency. 

Since sometime in the middle of spring, the darkness that was supposed to represent Rhysand had been slowly boiling down. What once filled the lantern now took up only half of it- and in the middle of the previous night odd pulses had flashed from it- ripples of that same power they’d felt when Amren woke the spell eleven years ago. 

The eye of the Cauldron, drawn once more to Velaris… or perhaps leaving them at last.

Azriel stepped out of his house and breathed deep the crisp winter air, willing it to clear his mind.

Hope. They needed hope.

 If they lost that vague connection to Rhysand, would it be enough to snap whatever was holding Cassian together? Or Mor? Or Amren?

He knew that ever day since Amren revealed the lantern, a member of the Inner Circle had gone to speak to it. Mor simply reminded Rhysand who he was and what he had to protect, Amren murmured dark threats about what was going to happen to Amarantha when she was finally free, and Cassian- well, half the time he ranted, the other half he just sat there, trying desperately to make contact through that strange spell.

As the years rolled on, the magic strengthened. Now, instead of being solidly black it rippled on occasion with red lightning. It was all the encouragement the others needed to keep visiting it.

Azriel refused to so much as touch the thing, mostly because he didn’t know what he’d do if he got the chance to actually speak to Rhysand.

Something tugged at the back of Azriel’s mind, like the whisper of a familiar dream.

Come, it seemed to say, come see.

He found himself moving without entirely knowing where he was going, his steps guided by that shadow in his mind.

It was the same whisper, he realized with a shock, that had once drawn him from his bedchamber in the dark of night so, so many years ago.

The whisper of a spy, then a lover, now a friend.

Come Azriel, come find me.

Azriel’s heart hammered in his chest. It wasn’t possible that it was her, yet his footsteps still picked up speed. He was pulled towards the eastern end of Velaris, to a new section of wall that spanned the gap between two mountain cliffs.

Are you here? Are you watching?

It was a whisper in the darkest corner of his mind, from the same exact place his shadows took root. That voice- little more than a breath of wind through a graveyard- was neither living nor dead, neither real nor imaginary. 

It was the darkness he’d wrapped around them as they made love in the House of Wind, the memory of three months of hastily shed clothing, secret liaisons, and a warm bed. It was the kinship that they’d replaced their passions with when they realized the love they felt for one another was platonic, not romantic.

It was trust, truth, and purpose.

It was a half-wraith long trapped beneath a once-sacred mountain.

Azriel felt himself slipping on the cobblestones as he broke into a run. He opened his wings and shot into the air, flying towards that cliff face. Towards her. He skimmed the rooftops as the shield gently pushed him down, warning him to not try and escape. 

Azriel ignored it and listened with all his might.

Could it be nothing more than the death throws of a hope he’d long since lost? Or was she really there?

Where are you?

He landed heavily on the new wall that filled the gap. An outcropping from the cliff face ten yards away revealed a shallow cave that, to Cassian’s chagrin, was just outside the shield. Azriel had endured months of “Why couldn’t Rhys just put the shield UP TO THE MOUNTAIN,” before Cassian had found new things to distract him.

When constructing the new wall, Cassian had it built several feet inside the shield, on the edge of precious grazing space for cattle. He put it there so his crews could still reach the far side of the wall to make changes or repairs as necessary. Azriel dropped down into that gap between wall and shield, roughly seven yards from the cave. He felt the shield’s tether warning him to stay where he was.

We don’t have long, are you here?

Azriel had no way of replying, so he simply sat against the wall and waited, hardly trusting his eyes.

Darkness filled the cave, more shadows than should have been possible with the blinding winter snow.

I feel you there. I feel your eyes.

She’d said the same thing to him that first night he’d slipped into her room. He’d whispered it each time she came to his. That old familiarity was a gift- as was the memory of how little clothing she’d always worn when those words were whispered. A memory of better times, even if that lust was long gone. Did she want him to be reminded of that easier life, or was she the one who needed reminding?

The shadows of the cave flickered as someone struck flint, then pulled back expertly when a low fire flickered to life. To the casual observer, that flame brightened the cave and nothing more. He knew better. He knew the control that went into reigning the darkness in- shadows to amplify their power into the shield, through it, to summon him.

Inside that cave were the two greatest spies he’d ever trained.

“Why must we camp so close to the water’s edge?” Cerridwen was fussing with the ties on a large bag.

Nuala, the one who pulled Azriel to that place, rolled her eyes at her sister, “Because I enjoy the sound of waves and I am older by three minutes, so I get to choose where we camp.”

Her voice was more beautiful than he remembered- like mist given form. The familiarity of it after so long made Azriel’s eyes burn. It wasn’t just that she was one of the few he’d ever taken to bed. It was that she was a friend. A friend he’d worried about almost as often as Rhysand over the last thirty years.

“Mother’s grave is still far to the north, are you sure she won’t mind us having her memorial feast here?” Cerridwen pulled a low table and jars of food from her bag.

“She froze to death. She’ll sympathize.”

It was all bullshit, meant to appease anyone or anything that may have followed them. Nuala and Cerridwen hated the ocean, they refused to even venture more than halfway down the slopes of Velaris. They wouldn’t willingly get close enough to hear the waves. If the shield around Velaris made it look like nothing more than the ocean, they had to be swallowing their very real terror. 

Their mother drowned centuries before they were born, she’d instilled a healthy fear of water into her daughters.

Of course, their mother also died a few hundred miles south.

Cerridwen began passing food to her sister to lay out on the table, “It’s been so long since we were last given leave to do this for her. Our High Lord is in a generous mood.”

Rhysand sent us.

The message beneath her words was clear. Azriel ignored the cold bite of the snow and focused on everything they were saying.

“His mood certainly has brightened somewhat in the last few years. He is remembering the joys of past slaughters, and looking forward to more. The memories whisper to his heart at night and give him happy dreams.” Cerridwen said.

Rhysand remembers you all. He hasn’t lost hope. He hears you.

The lantern worked.

“I think he is also pleased to hear that the Lord of Spring is giving up his insubordination to Queen Amarantha. In nineteen years their wager ends and Spring will finally fall.” Nuala reminded her. It was information Azriel didn’t care about, but a natural response to what her sister had said.

Spring hasn’t fallen. There is still a chance. Sadly, they’d also informed him that Tamlin wasn’t dead and Amranatha had given herself an utterly meaningless title. Azriel wasn’t sure which was more annoying.

Cerridwen nodded, “It was merciful of our queen to give him a chance to see the error of his ways. Many did not have that opportunity. The lords of Dawn, Winter, and Summer wish they were so lucky.”

Three new High Lords.

“Some of our own Illyrians were foolish enough to challenge Queen Amarantha’s sovereignty, to our Lord’s disappointment. Lord Cesper’s clan had to be largely sanitized because of it. Thankfully, his son knows our Lord’s will better than his father did- and many other Lords made better decisions immediately.” Nuala picked up a bite of meat and chewed slowly.

Devlon is now Lord of the camp you trained in. Some clans willingly sided with Amarantha.

Nuala swallowed after a moment and continued, “The High Lord will remember who to punish when the time comes. Those from camps like Devlon’s will be dealt with.”

If he finds a way to defeat Amarantha, Rhys will kill the Camp Lords who betrayed Night. Loyalists like Devlon’s people will be rewarded.

Azriel hoped he was included in that slaughter. It’d be a nice way to vent some frustrations.

Cerridwen sighed, “Do you remember Azazel, Ian, Morris, and… Ren?” she floundered on finding a code for the last name.

Azriel, Cassian, Morrigan, Amren.

“The bastard grunts in Lord Pick’s camp?”

Nuala’s little wince at the false name told Azriel this part of their little ‘conversation’ was directly from Rhysand.

Lord Pick… Lord Prick.

“If you could call that an Illyrian camp. It was so pathetically tiny, no one ever acknowledged their existence.” Cerridwen’s reply was for the benefit of unwelcome ears- it was an Illyrian Camp and Lord whose existence no one could verify.

“I’m disappointed he rose against the Queen in those first days, and pleased he was struck down… But I’ve never known a Camp Lord to love his people so greatly, even those four dregs. They were like kin to him.”

Rhys loves you all. You’re his family.

“Lord Pick betrayed that love when he rebelled, even if he falsely thought it was what the High Lord wished. He should have known his duty to them, to keep them safe.” Nuala huffed.

Rhys knows he betrayed you, he feels awful, but he did it to keep you safe.

“He can tell that to their ghosts,” Cerridwen picked at some cold potatoes, “maybe their spirits will forgive him for being such an idiot.”

Please forgive him.

“If they knew how he-“ Nuala screeched as Cerridwen’s hand bumped a tin, sending fruit and syrup into her sister’s lap.

Cerridwen’s voice was a shade harder, “Maybe we should just let Lord Pick fade into oblivion where he belongs. Our High Lord hates traitors and wouldn’t like to hear you speaking of one.”

This time the message wasn’t for Azriel, Rhysand doesn’t want them to know what happened.

His stomach churned.

Nuala glared at her sister as she flung the fruit aside and wiped at her dress, “All of Prythian deserves to know how he faired after the uprising. All of Prythian does know.”

They deserve to know. They’ll find out eventually.

“Good, then if all of Prythian knows, you don’t have to spoil my appetite with the specifics.”

Shut up.

Nuala was fuming, but she didn’t fight Cerridwen. Whatever she’d wanted Azriel to know, if Cerridwen didn’t it was because she feared how he would handle the information, trapped as he was.

For spies, they had a tendency to mother him and it pissed Azriel off to no end.

“I will drop the subject then.” Nuala forced a smile, “Our High Lord and his happiness mean the world to me.”

“And you wouldn’t want to piss him off.” Cerridwen matched that strained smile.

Shut up, or Rhys will be angry.

Cerridwen forced herself to relax, “Speaking of Azazel, Ian, Morris, and Ren- assuming they were only following the traitor’s orders by force, I miss them.” It was an awkward redirect, but she was trying to get back to Rhysand’s message.

“Azazel was a good male, he would never have betrayed our High Lord willingly. I hope in the afterlife, he and the others are at peace, not fretting over Lord Pick’s sins. I hope their spirits are resting well for all eternity.” Nuala said with a bit of an angry bite still.

You’re a good male, and Rhys trusts you won’t break the shields. He hopes you all are well, and wants you to stay put as long as those shields hold.

“Our High Lord knows dregs have no say in what their lord does. If he deigned to think on such lowly fae, he would not fault them for their master’s crimes. He is not going to pardon them, but their executions are always the swiftest. They never make much of a show for the Queen’s enjoyment.”

Amrantha has made Rhysand her executioner. All he can do is make it quick. Azriel’s stomach dropped.

Nuala threw her hands in the air, “If you can talk about executions, why can’t I talk about what happened to Lord Pick?!”

If you can tell Azriel that, why can’t I say what I want?!

“It’s completely different and you know it.”

Cerridwen’s information was easier for him to handle than Nuala’s would have been. 

That scared Azriel more than anything.

Nuala just growled, “Fine.”

“You’ve been Under the Mountain too long, we all have.”

“We lived underground before.” Nuala snapped. If any reported back to Amarantha what the twins were saying, she would only know the Hewn City as their home.

“Not like this though. Besides, we were all in the palace on top. That counts as outside.”

She’s keeping us locked underground. All of us.

“Do you remember those bright golden sunrises we used to see? I think our High Lord really loved them.” Nuala acquiesced to the look in Cerridwen’s eyes. She was usually the more cautious twin. For her to be the one fighting against Cerridwen’s rigidity, there had to be something big Rhysand had ordered kept secret.

“He does love a nice gold and ruby sunrise. He once said they could make him smile after the hardest of nights. Always bright and undiminished by even the clouds.” Cerridwen said.

He misses Mor. He misses her ability to cheer everyone up. He hopes she still remembers to smile, he hopes she’s the same as she was back then.

Nuala shook her head, “No, he loves the darkness and shadows most, more room for mischief. Only in the blackest of souls does the true greatness lie in the Court of Nightmares, the darkest heart with the most terrifying smile.”

He misses you too, hopes you are staying strong, and have found happiness.

“Or does he love bloodshed more?” Nuala wondered, “He would always laugh so brightly at the pain of his enemies.”

He hopes Cassian is alright, and not too angry.

Cerridwen sighed, “The silver of moonlight, both terrifying and beautiful. He’d probably love to show Queen Amarantha the moon rise over the Night Court.”

He wants to sic Amren on Amarantha.

“I think it’s his favorite fantasy,” Nuala agreed. “Absolutely, without a doubt.”

He really  wants to sic Amren on Amarantha. Badly.

Hadn’t Amren been outlining those same fantasies to the lantern lately?

“He must have dreamed of it again, he was in such a good mood when he gave us leave to honor our mother this solstice. He even rewarded our hard work with this.” Nuala pulled a massive bottle of wine from her bag.

It was enough for six people to get comfortably drunk on at least.

“You know… kind as the High Lord’s gift was, I think we should give it to mother and the honorable dead.” Cerridwen said, “Azazel, Ian, Morris, and Ren- I think mother would agree to share.”

“You’re right,” Nuala smiled, “they would love it. Especially today. A gift from us to them.”

There was no code in those words.

The twins stood and carried the bottle to what they saw as the edge of the ocean. It was six feet in front of Azriel- and a couple to his left. Their shaking had little to do with the cold. If they stepped in the water, would they end up in the bay on the far side of the city?

“We miss you, we love you, and we can only do our best to make you proud.” Nuala said.

“Bless this Court, and may it be the crown jewel of Prythian for years to come. Our hearts are with you always, as we know your hearts are with us.”

Nuala rolled the bottle into the ‘ocean’. Azriel reached over and picked it up when it passed through the shield- no doubt guided by whatever magic Rhys still possessed.

There was a rumble to the far left and-

Azriel’s shout as he scrambled to his feet was evidently contained by the shield.

As was Azriel, when he tried to dive for the male.

“I told you that you could have a quick solstice meal with your mother.” Rhysand purred. He was wearing the cruel, dark mask of the Lord of Nightmares. His skin was far too pale, and his wings were nowhere to be seen. If he hadn’t spent nearly all of the last five hundred years by Rhysand’s side, Azriel wouldn’t have noticed the strain in every fiber of his being. 

Rage and grief were eating him alive.

Azriel didn’t bother looking at Amarantha’s Attor at his side- or the creature that crawled from the woods. Nuala and Cerridwen had been right to fear watchful eyes.

“They were gossiping like-“

Rhys flicked his wrist and the creature’s neck snapped. “Did I ask?” Rhysand didn’t even spare a glance to the corpse, “If you two are so keen to waste time, perhaps you’ll enjoy a night or two in the dungeons with the rest of the vermin.” He jerked his chin to the Attor.

Nuala and Cerridwen were masterfully fearful as they went to it’s clutches, abandoning their little camp and the fire.

“Rhys,” Azriel heard himself whimper. He felt himself fighting the shield to go to his brother, but truth be told Azriel knew very little beyond the pain in his heart, “Rhysand!”

“Take them to separate cells, on second thought. I don’t want each to know what’s making the other scream so horribly.” It was an utterly empty promise of violence. Even if Amarantha ordered it he would never hurt the twins, but Nuala and Cerridwen did their part to look terrified.

As if a dark cell could contain a wraith.

“A bottle of wine wasted on the dead.” Rhysand spat and cast a cursory glance across the ‘ocean’.

When Rhys’s eyes met Azriel’s, for a second the bored sweep of his gaze cracked, his eyes softened, and the High Lord loosed a breath. Pure longing and grief lit his face, a pain so overwhelmingly profound that Azriel knew Rhys wouldn’t be able to maintain his composure in front of Amarantha’s minion. Not if he spoke.

Rhysand pulled out a black square of silk and wiped snow from the lapel of his jacket before dropping it on the ground. A whisper of wind moving in a strange direction caught it and set it beside Azriel.

The Attor turned and vanished with the wraiths in tow.

He knew he had only a moment. Azriel couldn’t let Rhys go without saying something.

Protect Velaris. Protect each other. I love you all. I’m sorry, I’m so sor-

“Velaris is protected. Everyone is alright,” Azriel echoed Rhys’ last words to them. His voice broke, but he pushed on, “We love you. We forgive you.”

Rhys vanished mere seconds after the Attor, but before he did Azriel heard a barely contained whimper.

When he could breathe again, Azriel looked down at the silk at his feet and the silver note written on the fabric.

‘HAPPY SOLSTICE- THE PRICK’

---

—

“How is Cassian of all males the one who is on time today?!” Mor rolled her eyes when Azriel finally entered the dining room of the townhouse hours later and well after sunset.

It took a while for him to compose himself.

“Yeah, how am I the one who-“ Cassian came in from the kitchen with an apron on. Att he sight of Azriel’s red-rimmed eyes, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Amren was closest to him. Azriel went to her and pulled her up into a vicously tight hug. When he moved on to embrace Mor, he handed the furious little female the silk square. The bottle he didn’t let go of, even when he released Mor and went to Cassian.

“You drunk, buddy?” Cassian eyed the bottle, “Wow, you’re really reallydrunk. You’re me twenty-six years ago drunk.”

“It’s not open, idiot.” Mor rolled her eyes and put a hand on Azriel’s shoulder as he released his friend, “Az, what’s wr-“

The scent finally hit her, hit them, from the silk in Amren’s hand. The little female was staring at it unblinking, her mouth slack. It was a scent that had long since faded from the townhouse.

“Rhys?” Mor whispered, just as Azriel had. She took the square from Amren and read it, smelled it, before letting out a sob. She held the silk out to Cassian.

He just stared at it, dumbfounded.

“Tell me everything,” Amren whispered.

So he did.

The only thing Azriel kept to himself was the hint of whatever Nuala had wanted him to know. Whatever Rhys and Cerridwen were so desperate to keep secret. They picked every word to death, vowed to canonize the twins- maybe even declare them minor gods- and made no secret of their jealousy that it was Azriel who’d seen Rhys after so incredibly long.

The black lantern flickered with red lightning as Azriel filled the Inner Circle in, as though a piece of Rhysand had healed at seeing even the walls of Velaris- let alone one of his long lost friends. Thirty years of whatever hell Amarantha made him endure and he’d had a few seconds to reassure himself that it was all still there.

A few seconds to remember what he was protecting.

Amren picked at the silk, then the wine bottle (which was, sadly or otherwise, just a very large wine bottle). There were no new, fresh hairs from Rhysand to try and salvage their spell with. The lantern was dying- and soon. The pulses of the Cauldron’s might were far more frequent as it broke down, but the Inner Circle refused to speak of anything dark or depressing. 

Not if it was the last time Rhysand would be able to sense them.

They ate when dinner was ready, but the conversation never stopped. Even Amren told some bawdy jokes that both horrified and entertained. Each of them shared their favorite stories about Rhys, or most embarrassing. He probably couldn’t hear them per-se, but if it gave him a glimmer of light for one more second, they’d do whatever it took to make sure every minute that lantern was active was filled with love and warmth for both him and those two half-wraith geniuses.

Even if finally speaking of him so much, so fondly, made their hearts raw, it eased a burden in Azriel he didn’t even realize he’d been carrying. His chest was tight, but his heart beat a little easier.

“Alright, I’ve got a good one,” it was exactly the middle of the longest night of the year when Cassian poured himself a fresh glass of the wine Rhys sent, “he swore he’d kill me if I ever told any of you-“

The only warning was a sense of something rippling through the very fabric of the Night Court. By the time they were on their feet, the roar of hundreds of mountain avalanches filled the air.

Half a heartbeat later, a shudder wracked through the city. It was as if the whole of the Night Court was shivering.

Of all things, Cassian used his magic to protect the wine while the entirety of Velaris gave a violent heave (thankfully, they’d learn later, none of the underground caverns were damaged). The shield around the city seemed to go suddenly taut, brittle as grass, and they feltsomething cracking through it.

The lantern flashed a blinding white that made all cover their eyes.

Within seconds the shudder moved on. As the shaking in the ground faded, the lantern’s glow dimmed.

“What the hell was that?” Mor looked to Amren. They all did, “Rhys isn’t-“

“No, he’s not dead.” Amren was staring at the tablecloth intently, trying to feel the path of the raw magic that crackled in the air. It was an itch on the back of her senses- one even Rhysand likely wouldn’t have been able to trace, if he knew of it at all, “It came for the lantern.”

“That wasn’t a spell breaking. What does it feel like- don’t think, just answer.” Cassian was immediately in commander-mode, assessing.

“The birth of a future High Lord.”

Mor gaped at her, “Rhys has- he has a son?!” she looked to Azriel as if he should know.

“No,” Amren frowned, “that’s what makes no sense.” She looked up at the others, “I’ve been here for the birth of six High Lords, including Rhysand’s. This feels like… Like an echo… Or a ripple of something that’s coming.”

“Amren?” Azriel alone had glanced to the lantern, “Look.”

Everyone followed his gaze.

The rumbling darkness that was Rhysand still only filled half the glass, but now a vivid, radiant red sat above it like oil over water. Mor touched the red to try and get a sense of it. She hissed at the sheer raw life that crackled there. The spell linking it to the lantern was brand new, it would take over a decade to strengthen, but she already felt the wildly happy soul- a distinctly human one- on the other end of that connection.

Rhysand’s darkness beneath it seemed to be wholly unaware anything had changed.

“That’s tied to Rhys’ life, his fate-“ Azriel swallowed hard, “-couldn’t that mean-“

“The spell wasn’t breaking down, it was splitting. For nine months, it’s been changing… Not the birth of a High Lord at all- not the kind this world has ever seen.” Amren actually ran a hand through her hair and loosed a nervous laugh, “Trust Rhysand to tell tradition to go fuck itself… Not a High Lord at all- but a mate with the power of one.”

“Rhys has a mate?” Mor whispered, “A mortal one?”

Azriel’s mind immediately whirled with the possibility. If the Cauldron made Rhys’ mate mortal, then fate would absolutely shove her towards him however it could. A mortal mate- did it mean there was a chance Rhysand would see Amarantha dead? Did it mean it would happen sooner rather than later? A war brought Drakon and Miryam together and ended with her immortality- could a repeat of that be on the horizon? They’d known war was coming the second Amarantha returned to Prythian- did this mean it was finally going to arrive?

Cassian’s mind was on other ‘pressing’ matters, “Is she hot?” he looked at the vibrant red swirling in the lantern, “If so, does she have a sister?”

“CASSIAN!” Mor snapped, “She’s a baby!”

He leaned back with a pensive nod, “You’re right… we’ll revisit those questions again in eighteen years.” The sarcasm and snark was his way of processing the shock of what was happening, but Mor still punched him in the arm.

Azriel just shook his head, “What- what does it mean?”

Amren was at a loss as well- it was the first time he’d ever seen her like this, “It means Prythian is about to get very interesting.” She swallowed hard and reached for her glass of wine, “It also means this is the calm before one hell of a storm.”

When she finished her glass, the others still looked like they were trapped between pissing themselves, crying, and leaping up and down with joy. They didn’t know how to process it- any of it. Rhys’ surprise visit, then the Cauldron’s surprise-

Amren put it in more basic terms for them:

“Hope. It means hope.”