Emerie's smile is described as a thing of dangerous beauty 😍 and we agree. This Gorgeous artwork by xena.fay captures that perfectly.

Only 25 Days left !!!!!

It's interesting that when something happens to Feyre, the narrative paints it as "abuse," but when the same exact thing happens to Nesta, the narrative paints it as "tough love."

It's interesting that Feyre whines and complains about things happening to her, but then turns around and does the same exact things to Nesta.

It's interesting that Feyre wants Nesta to take responsibility for her choices at the age of fourteen, yet Feyre refuses to take responsibility for her choices as a fourteen-year-old because she would rather blame Nesta.

Feyre's nothing if not hypocritical.

We love pathetic men

(Let me Dazzle you) (Get Up)

The resignation letter was perched between the gaps of his keyboard, like the long black rectangle was only ever designed to be a letter holder. It was so like her, to hide his death blow in something innocuous and covered in his own fingerprints.

She was smart and heartless and clearly ready to destroy him.

Nesta Archeron knew how to get away with murder.

Day 4 of @tamlinweek - Powers

Being able to shapeshift himself AND other people is op actually. If only SJM let him unleash his full potential!

Here's a big honkin' snippet of the next ACOVAV chapter! We're getting menstrual and mystical.

Feyre stood at the edge of the forest, the morning mist curling around her boots like the fingers of something ancient and half-forgotten. The trees stretched tall above her, their branches heavy with dew, and the silence of the human lands settled over her like a second cloak. Lucien waited a few paces behind, his arms crossed, eyes sharp and alert as always, but giving her space. He hadn’t said anything since they crossed the last border marker—hadn’t needed to. They both knew this was something she had to face herself.

And deep inside her mind—scratching, scraping, clawing—was Rhysand.

His talons battered at her mental shields, crashing like waves against stone, again and again and again. The desperation in the bond was unmistakable. Panic. Anger. Fear. He probably thought she had been taken. That someone had dragged her from Velaris, from his side, from the safety of his arms. That another war was beginning and this time she had vanished without a trace.

But she didn’t lower the shield. Not yet.

She would explain everything when she returned—with her sisters.

She would walk through the front door of the townhouse, Elain and Nesta flanking her, and only then would she let him see. Let him feel through the bond what had been done, what had been undone. Let him know that yes, she had left. Yes, she had disobeyed. But not out of recklessness, not out of defiance.

Out of love.

She hadn’t been willing to lose them. Not again. Not after everything they had survived.

And gods help him if he couldn’t understand that.

They were in Spring.

The air was warmer here, thicker with the scent of blooming wildflowers and distant green hills. The ground beneath Feyre’s boots was soft with dew, the tall grasses swaying with a gentler breeze than she’d felt in weeks. Birds chirped overhead in lazy patterns, and the sunlight dripped golden through the canopy of willows and birches—too beautiful, too peaceful for how tense she felt inside.

Lucien had insisted she wear the cloak. Ordered her to, in that sharp, commanding tone she rarely heard from him, not unless he meant it.

“If you’re dead set on doing this without Rhysand knowing,” he’d said that morning, pulling the dark fabric over her shoulders himself, “then you’ll stay hidden. Shielded. Secure. You do not leave my side.”

Feyre hadn’t argued. Not because she agreed with the controlling edge in his voice—but because she knew he wasn’t doing it to control her. He was afraid. For her, for what Rhysand might do if he thought she’d vanished completely, for the chaos her disappearance might spark if the wrong person learned she was gone from Velaris.

So now, cloaked and quiet, she moved through the forest at his side, her hood drawn low over her face. Every step away from the border was a step closer to the past—to him.

Tamlin.

It had been Lucien’s first thought. And hers. Not because she believed Tamlin had taken Elain and Nesta—gods, she doubted he even cared what happened to them anymore—but because if anyone might know of strange movements across the human borders, of fae slipping into lands they weren’t supposed to, of old trails and hidden dangers… it would be him. The Spring Court was still riddled with spies, half-healed wounds, and memories that lingered longer than they should.

So they searched. Not for forgiveness. Not for comfort.

But for answers.

Feyre’s shields held firm against Rhysand’s clawing presence, his silent screams battering her mind, wild and thunderous like a storm desperate to break through the sky. He hadn’t stopped since he realized she was gone.

She would deal with it.

Later.

Once she had her sisters. Once they were safe. Once she stood before him not alone—but whole.

The trees here were different. Feyre could feel it in her bones, in the way the magic of the land clung to her skin like pollen—quiet, watchful, wary. The Spring Court had always been beautiful, impossibly so, and even now it clung to that beauty with desperation. The wildflowers bloomed too bright. The birds sang too sweet. The leaves above swayed with such serene grace that it made something in her chest tighten. This was a land trying to look untouched, unchanged—but she knew better. She had walked these roads once in a different life, when she was a different woman. She had painted these forests in her mind with wonder.

She had fled them, too, bleeding and broken and burning with rage. Now, years later, the earth beneath her boots remembered her, even if it said nothing.

Lucien walked ahead of her, his eyes scanning the woods, his steps light but tense. He had been quiet for most of the journey, more guarded than usual. And then—his voice broke through the hush, rough and low.

“Familiar,” he said.

There was something sharp in the way he said it. Not wistful. Bitter. It clung to the air like smoke, something long-smothered reigniting without warning. Feyre looked at him sharply, saw the muscle ticking in his jaw, the tightness in his eyes. She didn’t need to ask what he meant. This had been his home—once. He had walked these woods as a child, as a male learning to survive the cruelty of his father and the rules of courts that broke more than they built. And she had helped break this court further.

She exhaled, drawing her cloak tighter around herself. “You think I ruined this place,” she said quietly, not as an accusation—but a truth laid bare between them.

Lucien stopped walking. His back was to her, his shoulders rigid beneath his worn jacket. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then he turned, his russet eye gleaming beneath the shadow of his hood, the gold one flickering with something she couldn’t read.

“I think you did what you had to do,” he said carefully. “But I also think you didn’t care who paid for it.”

Feyre flinched. The words struck deeper than she expected. But she didn’t let the guilt win. Not now. Not here.

“I did care,” she said, stepping forward, her voice tight. “Do you think I enjoyed what I did to the Spring Court? That I took pleasure in tearing it apart?” Her throat thickened. “Tamlin tried to drag me back. He would’ve kept me, caged me. I had to make him stop.”

Lucien stared at her, his expression unreadable.

“I didn’t have the luxury of waiting for a better way,” she said, softer now. “And maybe I didn’t do everything right. But if you’re asking me if I regret it?” Her voice hardened. “No. I don’t. I don’t regret choosing my freedom. I don’t regret surviving.”

Lucien’s jaw worked, as if he were biting down on words that had waited years to be spoken. His eyes narrowed, the wind catching the ends of his red-gold hair as he turned fully to face her, the quiet of the woods stretching taut around them. The sunlight breaking through the trees cast half his face in gold and the other in shadow, like the two parts of him were warring beneath his skin.

“You think it was just Tamlin you punished?” he said, low and sharp, the bitterness no longer veiled. “You think the cost of what you did stopped at the High Lord?”

Feyre stiffened, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

Lucien stepped closer, his voice rising—not loud, but cutting, honed by grief and silence and things long swallowed. “You turned this court into a war zone, Feyre. You played your games, you planted seeds of dissent, and you left it broken when you walked away. Do you know how many stayed behind to clean up the wreckage you left? How many lost their homes when the borders collapsed? How many servants—people I grew up with—were thrown into poverty or fled because the Spring Court fell into chaos after you gutted it from the inside out?”

His eyes flashed, raw with something she hadn’t seen in a long time. Not anger. Hurt.

“I know Tamlin hurt you,” Lucien said. “I’m not defending what he did. I saw what he did. But you didn’t just take him down. You took everything down with him. You didn’t just burn the house—you salted the ground so nothing could grow again.”

Feyre’s lips parted, her breath catching in her throat. The words slammed into her harder than she expected. Not because they weren’t true—she knew, somewhere deep down, that there had been collateral. She’d told herself it was necessary. That the court had already been dying. That Tamlin had already done the damage and she had only exposed it.

But Lucien’s face…

He wasn’t talking about politics.

He was talking about home.

“I was drowning,” Feyre said, her voice rough. “I did what I had to do to survive.”

“I know,” he said again, quieter now. “But so did we. And we didn’t all make it out.”

A long silence followed, heavy with grief.

Feyre looked away, her eyes stinging, not with regret—but with understanding. The kind that came too late.

“I didn’t know,” she said, and it was the most honest thing she could offer. “I didn’t know how many people would suffer because of what I did.”

Lucien gave a faint, humorless huff. “That’s the thing about power, Feyre. It’s never just about the one you aim it at. It echoes.”

And for once, Feyre had nothing to say.

Lucien didn’t wait for her to respond.

He just exhaled—sharp and quiet—and walked past her, boots crunching over the soft earth as he moved back onto the narrow trail between the trees. His shoulders were tight, his stride clipped, his body radiating a tension that had nothing to do with the threat they were searching for and everything to do with her.

Feyre didn’t follow right away.

She stood there, rooted in the middle of the sun-dappled clearing, the breeze tugging gently at her cloak, as if trying to pull her forward—but she couldn’t move. Not yet. Not with the weight in her chest pressing down so hard it made it difficult to breathe.

Guilt curled cold and sharp beneath her ribs.

Lucien’s words hadn’t been cruel. They hadn’t been meant to wound—not really. But they had cut her open.

Because he was right.

She had burned everything. Not just Tamlin. Not just his throne. She had shattered a court, shattered the people inside it. The servants who’d bowed their heads as she passed, the groundskeepers who had quietly trimmed the hedges outside her window, the cooks who had set extra bread on her tray when she couldn’t eat anything else. The guards who had once nodded to her with hesitant respect. The children in the villages, the healers, the farmers who had once lived in peace under Spring’s gentle rule—however flawed it was—before she’d turned it into a battlefield.

Feyre had told herself she was making a statement. Reclaiming power. Teaching Tamlin a lesson he would never forget.

And maybe she had.

But she had taught others a lesson, too.

That war didn’t always come with trumpets and blood. Sometimes it came dressed in silk and smiles and quiet sabotage. And it left behind more than ashes.

It left behind people like Lucien—

Walking ahead of her in a forest that no longer felt like his own.

She swallowed hard, forced her feet to move, and followed.

They walked in silence, the only sound the soft rustling of the forest around them and the faint, steady crunch of their boots against the moss-covered path. Spring stretched out in every direction—green and gold and impossibly alive. The smell of wildflowers hung heavy in the air, mingled with the faintest trace of water from a distant stream. Birds sang overhead, and the trees swayed lazily in the warm breeze, unaware—or uncaring—of the tension that lingered between the two figures moving beneath their boughs.

Feyre said nothing, and neither did Lucien. His face remained forward, expression unreadable, the tightness in his jaw now tempered to something more controlled. She didn’t know if he was still angry. Didn’t know if his silence was meant to punish her, or simply to contain everything that had nearly spilled out in that clearing. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

But Feyre’s thoughts had drifted inward.

Her hand brushed against her abdomen, light and instinctual. She hadn’t even realized she was doing it at first—just a simple movement, protective, thoughtful. The cloak shifted slightly with the gesture, the swell beneath barely noticeable unless someone was looking. The baby was still small, still early in its becoming, but she could feel it. Not just physically—though she did. The tenderness. The pull. The low, aching tiredness that never fully left.

But emotionally.

There was a life inside her. A quiet, patient presence she had not yet met, but already loved.

Lucien knew, of course. That was it. No congratulations. No questions. Just that—steady, solid, loyal. Now, walking beside him in the shadows of his old home, she felt the weight of it again. Not just her guilt over the Spring Court. But the life growing inside her. And the life she wanted to bring her sisters back into. She looked down at her stomach again, her palm resting against it, eyes softening.

I’ll bring them home, she promised the child. You’ll know them. You’ll know all of us.

Lucien’s gaze flicked toward her for the first time in miles, just briefly, before returning to the path ahead.

But in that glance, she knew—he hadn’t forgotten either.

The trail bent sharply, curving around a grove of ancient oaks with trunks thick as pillars and moss clinging to their bark like forgotten silk. The air had shifted—subtly at first. The scent of blooming things gave way to the drier, older smell of ash and earth, and the birdsong grew quieter, more distant, as if even the wildlife hesitated to cross this threshold.

Then the trees opened.

And Feyre saw the village.

What remained of it.

The forest gave way to an open clearing, and nestled within it was a cluster of crumbling cottages and half-collapsed structures, their roofs bowed inward from age and weather, their windows gaping like empty eye sockets. Weeds had overtaken the gardens, growing in wild, tangled clumps around broken fences and rusted tools. A once-worn cobblestone path cut through the heart of it, though the stones were scattered now, pulled up by tree roots and time.

Feyre stopped in her tracks, her hand automatically reaching for her cloak, drawing it tighter as she took it all in.

Lucien halted beside her, his expression grim. “This used to be thriving,” he murmured. “Thirty, forty families. I knew some of their names.”

Feyre swallowed. The wind brushed against her face, and even that felt heavy here.

“What happened?” she asked softly, though she already knew the answer.

Lucien didn’t look at her. His gaze swept the village, the quiet devastation. “They left after the court fell apart. After the borders were overrun. Trade stopped. Protection vanished. No one came to rebuild. And the ones who stayed…” His jaw tightened. “They couldn’t hold out forever.”

Feyre felt the guilt stir again—sharp, bitter. She had thought the damage had been contained to the manor, to Tamlin’s pride, to the political cracks in the court’s structure.

But this… this was the rot that had bled outward. Quiet. Forgotten. Devastating.

“Lucien,” she said, her voice rough, “I didn’t know.”

He nodded, still staring at the village. “No. You didn’t.”

They stood at the edge of the clearing, the sun casting long shadows over empty houses and broken lives. And Feyre couldn’t shake the feeling that the forest hadn’t opened to them—it had revealed them. Uncovering wounds that had never healed. Not truly.

And now, they were walking straight into them.

Feyre lingered at the edge of the broken village, the wind tugging at the hem of her cloak, stirring loose strands of her hair. The silence in the place was too complete—like the land had forgotten how to breathe. It was a graveyard in all but name. And Lucien, still staring across the collapsed rooftops and overgrown gardens, looked like he was mourning ghosts she could no longer see.

The guilt twisted inside her again, coiling low in her belly, where her hand instinctively drifted—resting over the quiet pulse of life growing there. She couldn’t stay in that feeling. Not now. Not while they still had work to do.

So she tried—too quickly, too obviously—to shift the weight of the conversation.

“Where do you think he is?” she asked, her voice carefully casual, though it came out too soft in the hush of the abandoned clearing. “Tamlin.”

Lucien didn’t turn. He just huffed a breath through his nose, but there was no humor in it.

“Where does a wolf go when it’s wounded?” he said. “Somewhere no one will follow.”

Feyre tilted her head. “Do you think he’s still here, in Spring?”

“He never left Spring,” Lucien said bitterly, finally glancing at her. “Even if he fled the manor, even if he turned feral and vanished into the woods—this land is still his. It’s all he’s ever had. He won’t abandon it, not truly.”

Feyre frowned. “Then why didn’t he fix any of this?” She gestured to the village—at the sunken roofs and shattered windows, at the homes too far gone to repair. “Why let it rot?”

Lucien’s eyes were hard, distant. “Because he doesn’t know how to fix things he’s broken. He only knows how to punish himself for them.”

Feyre said nothing. The breeze stirred the weeds, and the rustle of dead leaves scraping across stone sounded like whispering.

“He might be near the riverlands,” Lucien added after a beat. “The old hunting grounds. He always went there when he wanted to disappear.” He paused, and his voice turned sharp. “But don’t expect him to be glad to see either of us. Especially you.”

Feyre met his gaze evenly. “I’m not here for gladness.”

And Lucien nodded, the hardness in his expression softening just slightly. “Good,” he said. “Because I don’t think he has any of that left.”

Then he turned, stepping off the path and heading toward the treeline at the far end of the village.

Feyre followed.

And behind them, the ruins of the Spring Court watched in silence.

They moved through the village slowly, skirting collapsed fences and moss-choked wells, weaving between skeletons of homes that still clung stubbornly to their foundations. The deeper they walked into the remnants of what had once been a place of life—of laughter and hearths and market mornings—the heavier the silence grew.

Feyre could feel Lucien watching her. Not constantly, not with the open scrutiny of suspicion, but occasionally. A flick of his eyes when she stepped too carefully over broken stones. A longer glance when she paused to rest a hand on her lower back. And once, when she bent to examine a burnt-out doorframe, she caught him looking directly at her stomach.

She straightened slowly, her jaw tightening.

He didn’t say anything. But it was there in his face—that familiar tightness, that quiet tension in his gaze. Something cautious. Something worried. Something else.

And she snapped.

“What?” Her voice rang too loudly in the stillness, sharp enough to startle a few birds from the distant trees. She turned on him fully, the cloak swirling around her legs. “Is this going to be how it is now? You watch every step I take because I’m pregnant?”

Lucien blinked, clearly caught off guard, but his face didn’t change. “I’m watching you because we’re in a ruined court filled with old scars and gods-know-what still lurking in these woods,” he said evenly. “Not because I think you’re fragile.”

“Then stop looking at me like I might break,” Feyre snapped, her hand curling instinctively over her abdomen. “I made it through Amarantha, Hybern. I’ve bled and clawed and survived more than most people in Prythian. Don’t treat me like I’m suddenly—” her voice cracked, “—less because of this.”

Lucien’s expression shifted just slightly, a flicker of something deeper, more wounded. He ran a hand through his hair and stepped back, his voice lower now. “I don’t think you’re less, Feyre. I think you’re more. And that’s why I’m watching. Because you’re carrying something precious. And because Rhysand will kill me if anything happens to you.”

She stared at him, breathing hard, the adrenaline still simmering beneath her skin.

Lucien exhaled. “I’m not your enemy. I’m here because you asked me to be.” And Feyre—gods, she wanted to argue, to hold onto the fire that had been her armor for so long. But his voice wasn’t condescending. It wasn’t patronizing. It was tired. Honest. She looked away. The wind brushed against her cheeks, carrying with it the scent of dust and ash and something faintly sweet beneath it all—honeysuckle maybe, from a flower stubbornly clinging to a broken windowbox nearby.

And Feyre, after a long silence, gave the smallest nod.

They didn’t speak after that.

Not once.

The argument lingered in the air between them, sharp and unfinished, too full of things neither of them could unpack without ripping open something deeper. So instead, they let silence settle. Heavy. Purposeful. Not quite hostile—but thick with the ache of unspoken truths and everything they’d both endured.

The path wound on, stretching out of the abandoned village and into the woods beyond, where the trees grew denser and the light thinner. It was cooler here, the shadows longer, and the Spring Court’s famed beauty began to return in glimpses—a patch of wild roses sprawling over a fallen fence, clusters of golden primroses swaying in the breeze. But neither Feyre nor Lucien pointed them out. Neither slowed. They walked as though pursued by ghosts.

Feyre kept her eyes on the trail, her hood low, her thoughts a storm behind her ribs. Her hand strayed to her stomach more often now—not protectively, not to shield—but because it anchored her. Something real amidst the grief and guilt. Something that reminded her why she was here. Why she had to do this.

Lucien remained a few paces ahead or just beside her, his expression carved from stone, his russet eye constantly flicking through the woods, alert. He didn’t glance at her again. Didn’t ask if she was tired. Didn’t offer his hand when the slope grew steep or the path narrowed. She wasn’t sure if it was distance or respect—or perhaps some delicate combination of both.

It took hours. The sun dipped lower, staining the sky in soft shades of peach and rose, and still they said nothing. Only the sound of their boots through leaves and the low murmur of the forest accompanied them.

Then—finally—the trees parted.

The riverlands.

A great stretch of open terrain rolled before them, dotted with tall, sweeping grasses and distant groves of willow. And cutting through the heart of it was the river, slow and winding, its surface catching the fading light like a mirror.

Feyre stopped at the edge of the hill overlooking it, her chest rising with a slow breath. The air was cleaner here. Colder. The hush of water filled the world.

Lucien came to stand beside her, his golden eye catching the glint of the river below.

Still, they didn’t speak.

But they both knew what came next.

If Tamlin was anywhere in this court, this would be where he’d be.

The light had thinned to gold and ash by the time they reached the edge of the riverlands, and for a long while, they simply stood there, shoulder to shoulder in the hush of a court that remembered them both too well.

The river moved slow and dark below them, winding through the tall reeds like a serpent half asleep. On the far bank, a copse of willow trees leaned low over the water, their branches swaying gently in the evening breeze, brushing the surface with long, delicate fingers. The world felt suspended—caught between day and night, past and present.

Feyre stared out across the land, her eyes tracing every bend of the water, every flicker of movement among the reeds. There was something sacred about this place. Not the kind of beauty she’d known in Velaris, all starlight and sweeping views—but something older. Wilder. Like the forest itself had pressed pause to let her breathe.

But she didn’t breathe.

Because he had walked these lands. Had hunted here. Had kissed her by the riverbank, once. Had promised her safety beneath these very willows. And she had believed it. Had clung to it, to him, until belief turned to a cage and love to a weapon.

“His scent’s old,” Lucien said quietly, crouching to touch a patch of flattened grass. His fingers brushed it carefully, like he was afraid to disturb the stillness. “Maybe a few days. He was here, though.”

Feyre didn’t answer at first. She kept her gaze on the trees across the river, her throat tight.

“Do you think he knows?” she asked finally, her voice quiet, almost lost to the breeze.

Lucien rose. “About you being here?”

She shook her head. “About them. Nesta. Elain.”

Lucien considered. “I doubt it. Tamlin’s many things, but a spy he is not. If he knew the sisters were missing, if he had anything to do with it… we’d have heard. He’s not subtle. And he doesn’t have allies left to help him hide something like that.”

Feyre nodded slowly. It was the answer she expected.

But it didn’t ease the knot in her chest.

Lucien shifted beside her, casting a glance across the river, where the willows bowed low over the dark water. “There’s a hunting lodge just beyond that ridge. It was Tamlin’s fallback when the manor got too loud. He used to disappear there for days after his father died.”

Feyre didn’t move. “Do you think he’ll be there now?”

“I think,” Lucien said carefully, “if there’s anything left of him worth speaking to… it’ll be there.”

The river whispered softly below. The sky began to darken.

And Feyre, cloaked in old memories and the quiet fire of a promise still unfulfilled, said, “Then let’s go.”

Lucien exhaled, long and slow, as the wind off the river rustled the tall grasses around them. The light had grown dimmer still, bleeding into dusk, and the land was beginning to blur at the edges—shadows thickening between the reeds and tree trunks, the horizon fading to bruised lavender and steel. He stared at the willows on the far bank, then upward toward the forest ridge beyond, as if weighing something heavy in his mind. His jaw tensed before he spoke.

“I’ve got one more winnow in me today, maybe two.” He said finally, his voice low but steady. “After getting us out of Velaris, through the border and into Spring… I’ve been pacing it, saving it. If you want to go to the lodge, we can do it now. But after that, I’m spent.”

Feyre turned toward him, surprised. He hadn’t mentioned how much the travel had taken out of him. She’d known they’d covered a great distance when they’d left under the cloak of darkness, slipping out of the city like thieves, her shields clamped down so tightly Rhysand couldn’t get a single thought through the bond. She’d assumed Lucien had rested, recovered—but she should’ve known better. There was always a cost. Even for him.

She looked at his face now—drawn and pale beneath the golden hue of his hair, faint lines of exhaustion threading the corners of his eyes. And still, he stood firm, ready to burn the last of his power to bring her closer to the male they once called friend. To the answers they needed, no matter how fractured the path might be.

Feyre hesitated, her hand resting lightly against her stomach, grounding herself. The weight of the baby growing within her was not just physical—it was a reminder of why she was here. Of the family that still lingered out there, scattered and hurting. Of the sisters she refused to lose. And if there was even the smallest chance that Tamlin had seen something, heard something, remembered something—she had to try.

She met Lucien’s eyes and gave a single, silent nod.

Lucien stepped closer, drawing on that last flicker of magic coiled beneath his skin. The air shimmered faintly around them, a ripple through space, and then—crack—they vanished from the river’s edge, the wind swallowing the empty space they left behind.

The world snapped back into place with a sharp rush of wind and a burst of cold air.

Feyre staggered slightly as they emerged from the winnow, the tall grass beneath their feet flattened by storms long passed. The sky here was darker, a slate-colored dome pressing low over the hills, heavy with the promise of nightfall. The air carried a dampness that clung to the skin, thick with the scent of moss and old trees. They were deeper into the woods now, farther from the river and the open light—this place felt hidden, forgotten, tucked between hills like a secret someone had meant to bury.

Lucien didn’t move immediately. He stood with one hand braced on his thigh, his chest rising and falling a little too fast, sweat already beading at his brow. His jaw was tight, but his face betrayed the effort it had taken—the cost of pushing his magic that last time. Feyre didn’t need to ask to know that was it. He wouldn’t be winnowing again tonight.

They stood before a narrow ridge, half-covered in brambles, with a thin game trail leading up its side. Nestled into the trees at the summit, barely visible through the hanging limbs, was the hunting lodge.

It looked smaller than she remembered. Weathered.

Its sloped roof was darkened with moss, a few wooden shingles missing, and the tall stone chimney was cracked halfway down, leaning precariously to one side. The windows were shuttered, the steps warped with time. But the door—old and thick and still painted that faded forest green—was intact.

And there was light.

Faint. A flicker, like candlelight or a small fire, leaking through a crack in the shutters.

Feyre’s heart tightened.

He was here.

Lucien straightened slowly, following her gaze. His expression shifted—not surprised, not entirely. Just tired. Quiet.

“You should let me go first,” he said. “He won’t talk to you—not at first. Not if he sees you before he hears me.”

Feyre hesitated, her hand still hovering near her stomach, the weight of old wounds pressing on her like a second skin. But then she nodded. “Fine,” she murmured. “But I won’t wait long.”

Lucien gave her a small look—half warning, half understanding—before turning toward the path.

The leaves whispered overhead.

And ahead of them, a ghost waited behind a green door.

The moments that followed were strangely still.

Feyre remained tucked beneath the trees just off the path, half-shadowed by an overhanging oak bough, her fingers curled loosely over her cloak and her other hand resting lightly against her abdomen. The silence that surrounded the lodge was almost too peaceful. A soft breeze stirred the tall grass at her feet, carrying with it the scent of woodsmoke and pine. Somewhere nearby, an owl called once—low and distant. The candlelight still flickered from behind the cracked shutters, casting shadows that shifted slowly across the warped wooden siding.

She couldn’t hear them speaking. Lucien had slipped through the lodge’s front door nearly five minutes ago, his footsteps silent, shoulders tense with the kind of wariness that came from years of knowing when someone was just one heartbeat away from snapping. Feyre had trusted him to handle it—to be the first voice Tamlin heard, to give the situation space to settle before she showed her face. She knew what she represented to Tamlin. What her presence might ignite.

So she waited.

And waited.

And then—everything exploded.

The door slammed open.

Lucien came flying out of it—not winnowed, not leaping—thrown.

He hit the packed earth in front of the lodge with a thud that shook the ground, rolling once in a blur of limbs before landing hard on his side, the wind knocked clean out of him.

Feyre surged to her feet, already halfway up the trail before she could even think.

And then Tamlin followed.

He emerged from the door in a fury, shirt half-unbuttoned, barefoot, his hair wild and his golden skin flushed with rage. His eyes—green and gleaming and too bright in the fading light—were wide, feral, glowing faintly in the darkness.

“You dare bring her here?” he roared at Lucien, his voice so loud it rattled through the trees like thunder. “You?”

Lucien coughed, already pushing himself up on shaking arms. “You stubborn son of a bitch,” he snapped back. “I came to talk—you used to know how to do that before you let your spine rot.”

Tamlin lunged again.

Feyre’s magic surged before her mind could catch up—light blooming beneath her skin, her shields slamming into place more firmly. She winnowed halfway up the hill, appearing in a rush of breath and crackling power just as Tamlin reached Lucien again. Her voice rang out like a blade drawn across stone.

“Stop.”

Both males froze.

Tamlin’s head snapped toward her—and when he saw her, really saw her, the rage in his eyes twisted into something else entirely.

Shock.

Pain.

And beneath it all, that simmering, crackling madness she remembered too well.

Feyre stepped fully into view, her shoulders squared, her hand protectively over her stomach.

“We’re not here to fight,” she said coldly. “We’re here because we need answers. And because we thought, for once, you might actually give them.”

Tamlin stared at her as though he were seeing a ghost.

And the forest fell silent again, watching, waiting.

For a moment, Tamlin said nothing. The golden light of the dying day clung to the edges of his hair, turning him into something that looked almost human again. Almost familiar. But his chest was still heaving, his fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight with disbelief.

Feyre could see it—feel it—the war inside him. Anger and longing, grief and fury, tangled so tightly that even now, even years later, it radiated off him like heat from a forge. He hadn’t changed much. Still tall and lean, still the embodiment of everything Spring had once stood for. But there was something frayed in him now. The wildness behind his eyes had deepened. He looked like a male barely keeping himself together—and maybe not even trying anymore.

Lucien groaned on the ground, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth as he sat up. “So much for the warm welcome,” he muttered.

Tamlin’s eyes didn’t leave Feyre. “You shouldn’t be here.” His voice was low now, not shouting, but colder than before. Brittle. Tired. “You’ve done enough to this court. You don’t get to come back.”

“I’m not here for the court,” Feyre said, her voice sharp, unwavering. “I’m here for my sisters.”

Something flickered across his face—confusion, maybe—but he didn’t respond.

“They’re missing,” she went on. “Nesta and Elain. Gone for days. We believe they crossed into the human lands, and we believe someone helped them do it.”

Tamlin’s expression didn’t change, but Feyre caught the shift in his body—the slightest straightening of his spine, the faint tightening in his jaw. He knew something. She felt it.

“Don’t lie to me,” she said quietly. “Not now. Not about this.”

“I haven’t left the court,” Tamlin said at last, his voice like dry leaves. “I’ve been here. Alone. I haven’t spoken to anyone outside the borders in weeks.”

“That doesn’t mean someone didn’t come to you,” Lucien snapped, finally rising to his feet, his lip split and bruised. “Someone with questions. With offers. With reasons to take two Archeron sisters and make them disappear.”

Tamlin looked between them, something unreadable moving behind his eyes. “You think I would help someone take them?”

“I think,” Feyre said, her tone hardening, “that you’re one of the few people who still knows how to move between the mortal and fae lands without being noticed. And I think you hate me enough to look the other way if it hurt me.”

A pause.

Then—

“I don’t hate you,” Tamlin said. It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t soft. It was just a fact, worn down by years of silence.

Feyre didn’t blink. “Then prove it. Help us.”

The wind whispered through the trees again. Tamlin looked at her hand, the one resting over her stomach, and something shattered in his eyes.

But he said nothing.

Not yet.

Tamlin’s gaze dropped to her hand—still resting protectively over her stomach—and his entire body seemed to go still. Not rigid with anger, but with something quieter. Something older.

Recognition.

Pain.

He looked at her, really looked, as though he could see the shape of the future that had no place for him. The life she’d built away from him. The family growing inside her.

And for a moment, Feyre thought he might say something—anything—that would crack the wall between them. But his mouth only pressed into a thin, hard line.

Then he spoke, voice hollow as wind over a ruined field.

“The ports still work.”

Lucien’s head snapped toward him, surprise flaring. Feyre straightened.

“What do you mean?” she asked carefully.

Tamlin’s eyes were dark now, his features unreadable. “The smuggling channels to the human lands. The old river routes. They were abandoned after the war, but not all of them collapsed. There are captains who still take coin. Quietly. Desperate enough or defiant enough to make those runs.” His jaw flexed. “If your sisters left Prythian… they likely went that way.”

Feyre exchanged a quick look with Lucien. That was something. A trail. A place to begin.

But before she could speak—thank him, press him further, ask—Tamlin turned away.

“Now get out of my court.”

The words were flat. Not cruel, not shouted. But they landed like a closing door.

Feyre stepped forward. “Tamlin—”

“No.” He faced the lodge again, one hand braced on the doorway, his shoulders hunched with exhaustion. “You came for answers. I gave them. That’s all I have left to give.”

Lucien shifted beside her, clearly biting back whatever sharp remark danced on his tongue.

“Go home,” Tamlin added, without turning around. “Go back to your city of stars. Go back to your mate. Your… child.” His voice caught, just barely, on that word. “This court isn’t yours to walk anymore.”

Feyre’s throat tightened. She didn’t reply.

Because in that moment, she knew there was nothing left to say.

So she turned, cloak billowing in the wind, and began the long walk down the ridge.

Feyre had barely taken three steps down the ridge when Lucien lingered. Just enough to make her pause, her back still turned toward the broken lodge, her ears straining in the silence that followed. The wind stirred her cloak and the moss beneath her boots, but Tamlin didn’t move—still standing with one hand braced against the warped doorframe, head bowed slightly, his silhouette caught between shadow and fading firelight.

Lucien stood straighter, wiping the last of the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. His voice, when it came, was low. Graveled.

“Thank you,” he said. Simple. Measured. Not for the past. Not for forgiveness. Just for now—for this.

For the one piece of truth Tamlin had managed to offer through the wreckage of what had once been a court, a friendship, a home.

Tamlin didn’t turn. Didn’t even lift his head. But his voice carried clearly through the quiet clearing, steel beneath its weariness.

“Tell your mate,” he said, and it came like a blade pulled from its sheath, “to stay out of my court.”

Lucien tensed, but didn’t interrupt.

Tamlin’s shoulders squared slightly, his fingers curling against the wood of the door. “He’s done enough. You all have.”

Then, softer—hoarser: “Just leave it be.”

And with that, Tamlin disappeared inside the lodge once more, the door creaking shut behind him like a final breath.

Lucien stared at it for a moment longer, the shadows swallowing his features as the last light drained from the sky. Then he turned, silent and grim, and made his way down the ridge to Feyre, who stood waiting—eyes on the trees, the weight of what they’d just witnessed pressing heavily into the earth around her.

They walked through the deepening dark, the trees around them thinning as the ridge faded into a gentle slope, the forest swallowing the last glimpse of the lodge behind them. The air was heavier now, touched by the scent of the river once more and the encroaching chill of nightfall. Feyre didn’t speak for a long while, the ache in her legs dulled by the heavier ache in her chest.

Tamlin’s words still echoed in her head.

But it was the silence after them that lingered more.

The stillness of a male who had once held the world in his hands and had chosen, in the end, to let it all rot rather than try to build again.

She adjusted her cloak, pulling it tighter as she stepped over a tangle of roots, Lucien moving beside her like a silent shadow.

Finally, her voice broke the quiet. Low. Steady. But uncertain.

“So,” she said, eyes on the path ahead. “Where are we going now?”

Lucien didn’t hesitate. “The ports. If Tamlin was right—and I think he was—they wouldn’t have taken any of the major crossings. Too many eyes. Too much risk. But the old river routes… they’re closer than you’d think. Still used. Still quiet.” He paused, brushing a low-hanging branch out of the way for her. “We’re not far. A day, maybe less, if we move fast.”

Feyre nodded, jaw tight. “And if we’re lucky?”

Lucien gave her a grim smile. “If we’re lucky, we’ll find someone who remembers them. A captain. A dockhand. Someone who knows where they were headed—and who helped them go.”

The quiet stretched between them again as they crested a small rise, the glow of moonlight casting silver shadows on the path ahead.

“And if we’re not?” Feyre asked quietly, her hand drifting again to her stomach. “If we’re too late?”

Lucien didn’t answer right away. His steps slowed slightly, his eyes scanning the woods, as if the answer might be written in the branches overhead.

Then, finally, he said, “Then we keep going. Court to court. Shore to shore. Until we stop being unlucky.”

Feyre said nothing. But she walked faster.

The light bled slowly from the sky as they walked, twilight melting into the thick blue haze of oncoming night. The forest around them grew darker, the once-vivid greens of Spring fading into shadows, the trees now nothing more than tall, dark silhouettes against the dying light. Birds had long gone quiet, replaced by the occasional rustle of unseen creatures moving through the underbrush. The river’s distant murmur guided them east, a soft, ceaseless whisper in the dark, but otherwise, the world felt still—too still.

Feyre tightened her cloak around her shoulders, though the chill hadn’t quite reached her skin. She kept her eyes fixed on the path ahead, one bootstep after another crunching softly over leaves and roots, but her thoughts drifted back, drawn against her will to the image of the lodge. Of Tamlin’s silhouette framed in that doorway. Of the way he hadn’t screamed at her in the end. Hadn’t begged, hadn’t fought, hadn’t even tried.

“He looked so… empty,” she said quietly, almost to herself, though she knew Lucien was listening. “Not just angry. Not like before. Just… gone.”

Lucien said nothing for a few paces, his jaw tight as he stepped over a gnarled tree root and adjusted the strap of the satchel slung across his back.

“I don’t think he’s tried to put anything back together,” Feyre went on, her voice a little stronger now, even as the night thickened around them. “I think he just… stopped. Let everything fall apart after we left. After I tore it down.” She exhaled sharply. “He hated me for it, and I thought I’d made peace with that. But now—seeing him like that—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.

Lucien let out a long breath. “It’s not just you he blames, Feyre. He blames himself more. Has for a long time.”

Feyre shook her head slowly, eyes narrowing at the path as if trying to read the future in the lines of the trail. “He said he didn’t hate me.”

Lucien glanced over. “He doesn’t.”

“That’s worse,” Feyre muttered. “It would be easier if he did. If he could just let me go.”

Lucien was quiet for a while before he said, “He lost everything. But he didn’t know how to grieve it. So he just… let the rot spread. You tried to escape it. He sank into it.”

The river’s sound grew louder as they neared, but it still felt far off. Feyre kept walking, eyes fixed forward, her hand occasionally brushing against her stomach, grounding herself with the small, steady life growing inside her. Her child would never know Tamlin. Would never know Spring the way she had. And some part of her—a small, guilty part—mourned that. Not because Tamlin deserved a place in her life now, but because once, long ago, he had saved her when no one else had. That version of him was long gone.

But still, his absence now felt like another death.

Feyre said nothing else after that. And neither did Lucien. They just kept walking into the night.

By the time the sky turned fully dark, the stars were smeared like paint across the heavens, scattered and brilliant, untouched by city light or court glamour. The moon hung low on the horizon, a pale crescent watching quietly as they descended the last of the hills. The trees had thinned, the terrain flattening out, and the damp, briny scent of water grew stronger with every step. Feyre’s muscles ached with the journey, with the weight of everything that had come before this night, but still she pressed forward—driven by purpose, by fear, by hope she didn’t yet dare name.

Lucien raised a hand, his palm flexing. Flame bloomed from his fingers with the ease of an old trick, the fire bright and steady in the darkness. It wreathed his hand in gold, casting shadows across the surrounding brush and catching the edge of his sharp cheekbones, painting his scar in deep crimson and copper. He didn’t say anything as he lit the way, just narrowed his eyes and scanned ahead, the tension in his frame coiled and ready.

Then, through the trees, they saw it.

The port.

It appeared like a phantom rising out of the dark—row after row of crooked buildings leaning into the edge of a wide, sluggish river. Boats rocked gently at the docks, tethered by fraying ropes, their hulls patched and weather-worn, some barely more than driftwood bound together by rusted nails and defiance. Lanterns flickered from windows and posts, their light casting a faint, oily glow across the water.

And beyond the boats—life.

Bars with doors flung wide, music spilling into the night in drunken waves, thick with laughter and shouting. Men and women lounged against doorways, peddling things both legal and not, smoke curling from pipes and fire pits. There were brothels with low-lit signs carved in multiple languages, and bodies pressed together in corners, faces blurred by shadow and desire. The scent of cheap wine and frying meat mixed with the stench of fish and wet stone, and overhead, the stars looked down like they were trying to pretend none of it existed.

Feyre slowed to a stop, her eyes wide. “I thought this place was abandoned.”

Lucien gave a bitter, knowing huff. “The war made the high courts forget places like this even existed. But these people—” He gestured toward the port, the thrum of life echoing from every cracked window and alleyway. “—they survived. They always do. Trade, vice, smuggling, ferrying souls who don’t want to be seen. You could live a hundred years and never know this place was here unless someone showed you the path.”

Feyre stared at it all, the forgotten heartbeat of a border world, the rough, lawless pulse of the river that had carried people like her sisters away from everything they knew.

And now—finally—maybe toward answers.

They moved through the port like ghosts—careful, watchful, unseen unless they wanted to be. The people here were used to keeping their eyes down, their mouths shut. Feyre and Lucien asked no names, offered no coin at first, only quiet questions spoken beneath the low hum of music and the flickering gaslight that bathed the alleyways in gold and shadow.

Two women. Hooded. Traveling light. Had anyone seen them?

At first, the responses were shrugs, narrowed eyes, drinks raised in disinterest. But then an old man near the end of the docks—a sailor nursing a chipped mug and a badly healed leg—gave them a long, assessing look. He leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning beneath him, and tapped the side of his temple with one thick, weathered finger.

“You don’t look like you belong here,” he said, his voice slow and slurred by drink, but his gaze sharp as a knife’s edge. “And you sure as hell don’t sound like you’re here for the food or the company.”

Lucien didn’t bother denying it. “We’re not.”

The old man glanced at Feyre, at the sharp angle of her jaw beneath her cloak, then at Lucien again. “You’re looking for the ones the Vassilis took.”

Feyre’s breath caught. “The Vassilis?”

He grinned with half his teeth missing. “Old river barge, slow as sin but it sails clean. Captain’s a bastard, but he’s fair. Doesn’t ask where you’re from if you’ve got the coin. He left port a few days ago. Already had on two women. Paid well. Too well.”

Lucien leaned forward slightly. “Where was he headed?”

The old man shrugged. “Said something about the southern forks—beyond the boundary. The human lands.”

Feyre’s heart began to pound.

“Where do we find him?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

The sailor lifted a finger, pointing toward a larger ship docked farther down the river—low and broad, its hull blackened from years of soot and salt. “He’s back. Came in last night. That’s his ship. The Vassilis.”

Feyre didn’t wait. She was already walking. Lucien followed close, his hand drifting toward the hilt of his knife.

Standing at the far end of the dock near a ship with chipped blue paint and a mast that leaned ever so slightly to starboard, a man watched the water. He was older than they were, his body broad and strong but not youthful, not soft. The lines of his face were carved deep from years at sea, his skin darkened and weathered by salt and sun. A thick beard, streaked with gray, covered his jaw, and his coat hung open over a heavy sweater, despite the humidity in the air. His eyes—dark, unreadable—flicked toward them as they approached.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched. Like he already knew why they had come.

Lucien stepped forward first, calm but assertive. “Captain of the Vassilis?”

The man gave a small nod, then returned his gaze to the water.

Feyre’s voice was steady. “You took two women aboard last week. Fae. They paid in gold.”

The captain didn’t flinch. Didn’t feign ignorance. After a long pause, he simply said, “Aye. I did.”

And just like that—confirmation.

Feyre’s heart slammed in her chest. Lucien’s hand hovered near his coat, ready. But the captain didn’t seem startled. He didn’t seem threatened.

“They alive?” Feyre asked quietly.

The captain looked at her again, those sea-worn eyes finally meeting hers. “They were when I left them.”

Feyre’s breath caught. “Where?”

The captain stepped back, toward the gangplank of his ship.

The captain turned toward them fully now, the lantern light swinging gently beside the dock casting sharp lines across his weathered face. Up close, the lines in his skin were deeper, the dark beard more streaked with silver than black, and the glint in his eye was not the weariness of an old sailor, but the smug calculation of a man who knew his worth—and how far he could push it.

“The human lands,” he said, shrugging one broad shoulder like it was no great thing. “Dropped them two off just north of the marsh border. There’s a town there. Half-sunk and miserable, but no one asks questions. Just how they wanted it.”

Feyre’s mouth went dry. The human lands. They really had gone back. Nesta, who had loathed her mortal life more than anything. Elain, who had died—died—after being Taken. They’d chosen that.

The captain watched her carefully, as if reading the storm building in her face. But then he smiled—crooked, self-satisfied.

“They paid well enough,” he said. “But I don’t run my ship on kindness and stories, so I made ’em pay again.”

Feyre blinked. “You what?”

“For discretion,” the captain added, casually pulling a flask from the inside of his coat and taking a long, slow swig. “For silence. That kind of privacy costs extra. Always has. They didn’t argue.”

Lucien’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

Feyre stepped forward, voice cutting through the fog like a blade. “You robbed them.”

The captain snorted, unbothered. “No, girl. I run a business. They came to me, wanted passage without questions, no names, no records. That’s a premium service. I didn’t pull the coin from their pockets. They handed it over, same as anyone.”

Feyre’s blood simmered beneath her skin. “They were running. You exploited that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And I got them where they needed to go. Alive. Safe. I kept my end.”

Feyre’s hands curled into fists at her sides, power flickering faintly beneath her skin. Lucien placed a quiet, grounding hand on her shoulder, a silent reminder: not here, not now.

The captain watched the flicker of power with faint amusement, but there was no fear in his expression. “You want a refund?” he asked with mock generosity. “Talk to them. I’m just the boat.”

Feyre’s jaw clenched so tightly it hurt, but she didn’t speak again.

Because now she had a location. A direction.

And the bastard could keep his coin.

She would take her sisters.

Feyre stared at the captain, her breath sharp and shallow as she tried to contain the power curling under her skin. Her magic wanted to rise—to crack his boat in half, to throw him into the filthy, churning water for daring to grin while her sisters were missing. But she held it back, barely, because Lucien’s hand remained firm on her shoulder, his presence grounding her like the anchor she didn’t realize she needed.

She turned to the captain, her voice cold. “You’re taking us there.”

The man didn’t flinch, only tipped his flask toward her slightly, amused. “Now why would I do that?”

“Because,” Lucien cut in, stepping beside her, his own tone measured but edged with warning, “you’ve already taken them once. You know the route. You know the waters. And we’re not here to haggle or plead.” He paused. “Unless you’d like to find out what happens when a High Lord finds out you extorted and stranded two Archeron sisters.”

That made the captain pause.

He raised an eyebrow, lips quirking. “Is that what they were? Archerons?” He laughed, long and low. “Well. That explains the edge to them. Thought they looked too clean to be from around here.”

Feyre’s eyes narrowed. “You knew they were running.”

“I didn’t ask. Didn’t need to. But I don’t ask because I don’t care. It’s what they paid for.” He tucked the flask away and leaned one shoulder against a weather-beaten piling, sizing them up. “I can take you. Same cost. Maybe more, since you’re in such a rush.”

Lucien didn’t blink. “You’ll be paid.”

The captain’s grin widened, flashing too-white teeth in his sun-darkened face. “Then I’ll be ready by dawn. Storm’s moving in tonight. We sail early. Be on the dock when the bell rings once, or I’m gone.”

Feyre didn’t thank him.

She turned away, cloak swirling behind her as she stalked back toward the shadows of the wharf, Lucien close behind. The captain’s chuckle followed them like smoke.

But Feyre didn’t care.

Because they had a name. A direction. A path.

By this time tomorrow, she would be in the human lands.

They moved through the quieter end of the port as the noise of the bars and brothels faded behind them, swallowed by the river fog and the creaking lull of the tide against the docks. The lanterns here were dimmer, the buildings fewer, and the ground turned from wooden planks to packed dirt and gravel. Feyre’s heart was still pounding, her fingers twitching faintly with the remnants of the power she hadn’t unleashed. She could still feel the captain’s voice in her bones—that smug, soulless drawl, talking about her sisters like they were no more than cargo.

Like they hadn’t been two women desperate enough to hand over gold twice just for the promise of silence.

Lucien walked beside her, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, his golden eye flicking toward her every so often. He hadn’t spoken since they left the dock, but Feyre knew the look on his face. Not anger. Not fear. But wariness. Thoughtfulness. He was running through possibilities, through maps, through calculations. Through memories.

Finally, as they passed an old mooring post wrapped in seaweed and moss, Lucien asked, quietly, “Do you know where they were going?”

Feyre slowed, her boots crunching over broken shells scattered in the mud. She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she looked out toward the river again, where the boats rocked gently in the tide and the water stretched into the misty unknown.

“No,” she said finally. “Not exactly.”

Lucien stopped beside her, waiting.

Feyre exhaled slowly, the breath curling in the cool night air. “But if I had to guess… the cabin.”

He tilted his head. “The one from your mortal days?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice steady now, more certain as the thought solidified. “It’s isolated. Familiar. Half-rotted, but still standing. It’s the last place we all shared before everything changed. Nesta… Elain…” Her throat tightened. “They’d go there because no one would look for them there. And because it’s the one place in the human lands that’s ever truly been ours.”

Lucien’s brows drew together. He looked out across the dark river, silent for a long moment.

“It’s far,” he said finally. “Remote. Dangerous. But… it makes sense.”

Feyre nodded once. “That’s where they’ll go. Or where they started. Either way—we’ll find them.”

The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of salt and smoke and the ghosts of the past.

And beneath her hand, the life growing inside her turned gently, quietly, like it too was listening to the rhythm of the river and the pulse of her resolve.

The wind blew stronger now, sweeping down from the river in brisk, briny gusts that lifted Feyre’s cloak and sent stray strands of her hair lashing across her face. She didn’t move to tuck them away. Her eyes remained fixed on the horizon where the water met the night, where the fog swallowed everything into gray oblivion. The port behind them kept its low thrum of music and voices and life, but it felt distant now, muffled. The world had narrowed to the steady sound of the waves and the weight of the question she knew was coming.

Lucien was silent beside her, his sharp eyes watching her face. Then, at last, he spoke, his voice softer than usual, edged not with challenge but curiosity.

“What’s your plan,” he asked, “when you find them?”

Feyre didn’t answer right away. She felt the question sink into her bones like a stone thrown into still water, ripple after ripple echoing through her chest. What was her plan? She had followed shadows and whispers, had gone behind Rhysand’s back, had crossed a continent on instinct and fear and hope, all because of the two women she had spent her whole life loving—and failing. She had lied to the ones she trusted, risked her own safety, all of it for Nesta and Elain. And still, the answer came to her as easily as breath.

“I’m going to drag them back,” she said.

Lucien blinked, his brows rising. “That’s it?”

Feyre turned to face him, her jaw set, her voice iron-hard. “Yes. That’s it.”

She stepped forward, closer to the edge of the dock, her eyes blazing with a quiet, furious certainty. “They left thinking we wouldn’t come. That we’d just let them disappear. That we’d debate it, argue about it in a sitting room while they vanished into whatever shadows they could find. I’m not giving them that. Not after everything we’ve lost. I don’t care if Nesta burns the cabin down in my face or if Elain begs me to go back. I’m not leaving without them.”

Lucien studied her for a long moment, eyes narrowed, searching her expression. “Even if they don’t want to come?”

Feyre’s throat worked around something raw. “Especially then.”

She looked away again, toward the dark stretch of water that would carry them to the place where her sisters might be hiding—where they might be waiting, angry and broken and scared. Or maybe not waiting at all.

“I didn’t protect them before,” she said quietly. “Not when I should have. But I will now. Even if they hate me for it.”

Lucien’s jaw flexed, his golden eye catching the faint light of the moon as he turned fully toward her. The silence between them stretched for a beat longer, thick as fog, filled with the weight of everything they weren’t saying. His hands clenched at his sides, not in anger, but in restraint. And when he spoke again, his voice was no longer quiet—it was sharp, edged with something that had been building since Velaris.

“I’m not helping you drag them home,” he said, each word clipped and certain. “Not like that. Not against their will.”

Feyre blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. But Lucien pressed on before she could speak, the fire in him finally rising. “You think I’m going to help you force your sisters back into a life they ran from? That I’ll stand beside you while you drag my mate—Elain—back into a world she clearly wanted to leave?”

His voice cracked slightly on her name, but he didn’t stop.

“I’ve been waiting,” he said, voice low and hard, “years, Feyre. Years for her to look at me like I’m not a stranger. I never pushed. I never asked for more than she wanted to give. I gave her space, time, choice—dignity. And now you want me to follow you into the human lands and haul her back like some runaway child?” He took a step forward, eyes burning now. “I won’t do that. Not to her. Not after everything.”

Feyre’s mouth opened, a protest on her tongue, but she paused. She saw it in his face—the ache. Not just of rejection, but of deep, patient love. The kind that had been forced to grow in silence, in the shadow of a bond that was never wanted, never welcomed. He wasn’t defending Elain just as his mate—he was defending her right to decide, even if that decision broke him.

“I’m not saying they’ll never come back,” Lucien said, softer now, but no less firm. “But they have to choose it. You don’t get to make that choice for them.”

The wind stirred the river again, lifting the edges of their cloaks as silence fell between them. Feyre looked at him—truly looked—and saw not the emissary of the Spring Court, not the clever, tired male who followed her into battle. But a brother, a friend, and a male finally drawing a line.

Feyre’s breath hitched—once, sharply—then steadied into something colder, tighter. The kind of stillness that came before a storm. She took a slow step forward, the moonlight carving a silver line along the edge of her jaw, her fingers flexing at her sides. Her heart thundered in her chest, her blood roaring in her ears, and when she spoke, her voice was low and lethal.

“They’re my sisters,” she snarled, the possessiveness in her tone crackling like lightning behind her teeth. “Mine. Not yours. Not the court’s. Not the Mother-damned world’s. You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t do when it comes to protecting them.”

Lucien stood his ground, but Feyre saw it—the faint flicker of surprise in his eyes. She hadn’t raised her voice in days. But the fury now was like a dam breaking.

“I bled for them,” she hissed. “I’ve almost died for them. I broke myself into pieces over and over again to keep this family alive while they turned their backs. And now they run—without warning, without telling me—and I’m just supposed to let them go?”

Lucien opened his mouth, but Feyre cut him off, stepping even closer. “You speak of dignity? Of choice? What about mine? What about what it cost me to survive all of this while trying to hold the two of them together?” Her voice wavered, then hardened. “They don’t get to walk away. Not from me. Not again.”

She was breathing hard now, chest rising and falling with the weight of her fury. Her magic stirred at her fingertips, not summoned but restless, itching beneath her skin like it knew what she was willing to unleash.

“You think you love Elain?” Feyre spat. “Fine. Then love her. But don’t pretend for one gods-damned second that you know what’s best for her better than I do. You didn’t raise her. You didn’t starve beside her. You didn’t see the way she wasted away after the Cauldron—how Nesta pulled her out of it while I was trying to keep all of us alive.”

Her voice broke there, just barely, like a hairline crack running through stone.

“I won’t lose them,” she said, quieter now, but still shaking. “Not after everything. I won’t.”

Lucien didn’t move at first. Not even when Feyre turned away, the silence pulsing between them like a live wire. Her words had struck—cut deep, dug into places he’d kept carefully buried. But he wasn’t going to let them go unanswered. Not this time.

So he stepped forward, slow and deliberate, and when he spoke, his voice was no longer soft or measured. It came sharp and hot, every word burning.

“You think I don’t know what it means to fight for someone?” he growled. “You think I haven’t bled for people I love? Don’t stand there and act like you’re the only one who’s suffered, Feyre. Like your pain gives you the right to decide what everyone else needs.”

Feyre’s spine stiffened, but she didn’t turn. Lucien wasn’t finished.

“You say they’re yours. That you won’t let them go. But they’re not children, Feyre. They’re not girls playing pretend in the attic of that cabin anymore. Nesta and Elain are women—grown, grieving, furious women—and if you think you can just drag them back to Velaris like broken dolls you forgot how to love, you’re wrong.”

Now she turned, eyes blazing, but Lucien met her stare with equal heat, his voice rising.

“You claim you know them better than I ever could? Then listen to them. Because they’re telling you something with every step they take away from you. They don’t trust you to protect them—not the way you used to. And that’s not just on them, Feyre. That’s on you, too.”

His voice dropped, lower now, but more dangerous for it.

“You say I didn’t starve beside them. You’re right. I didn’t. But I would have, if I’d been there. Just like I would have carried Elain out of that Cauldron myself if it meant she didn’t come out looking like a ghost. I wasn’t there then. But I am now. And I’ll be damned if I stand by and watch you strip them of the only thing they still have—their choice.”

Feyre’s breath was coming fast now, her chest tight, her power rippling just under her skin. But Lucien didn’t flinch. He stared her down like he had nothing left to lose—and maybe he didn’t.

“I won’t help you break them,” he said, quieter now. “Not for your peace of mind. Not for your guilt. And not because you’re scared to let them grow without you.”

He turned then, finally, pacing a few steps away, his shoulders tense. “You’re not the only one who loves them, Feyre. You’re just the only one who hasn’t figured out that love means letting go, too.”

Feyre took a step after him, her jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms. The wind off the river whipped through her cloak, tugging at her like it wanted her to let him walk away—but she couldn’t. Not now. Not when the fury inside her was shaking loose every careful restraint she had left.

“You think I don’t know that?” she snapped, her voice sharp and cracking like a whip. “You think I don’t know what it means to let go? I’ve done it. Again and again. I let them pull away. I gave them space. I stayed out of their rooms, their choices, their pain, even when I wanted to scream. I let Nesta destroy herself. I let Elain disappear into her own silence. I gave them room to breathe while I suffocated watching them fall apart.”

Lucien turned back toward her, eyes unreadable.

Feyre stepped closer, her voice rising, shaking with more than rage. “Don’t stand there and pretend like you’re the only one who knows what love costs. I let go when it nearly killed me. I kept pretending everything was fine so they wouldn’t see how much it hurt. I gave them time because I thought they needed it—and maybe they did. But I needed them too, and they didn’t care.” Her breath hitched. “So yes. I will drag them back. Because someone has to. Because they’re still my family even when they don’t act like it.”

Lucien’s face darkened, but Feyre pressed on, the words coming too fast now, the flood finally breaking through the dam.

“I’ve said my piece,” he muttered, voice rougher now, the fire cooling into exhaustion. “We leave at dawn. You do whatever you want with your sisters. But don’t ask me to help just so you can sleep at night.”

He turned sharply on his heel, the gravel crunching beneath his boots as he strode away—toward the row of buildings nestled near the far end of the docks, where a crooked wooden sign hung above a low-lit doorway, swaying slightly in the breeze. An inn.

He didn’t look back. Didn’t wait.

And Feyre, standing alone in the dark, watched him disappear into the glow of flickering lanternlight.

That night, they didn’t speak.

They checked into the inn without a word. Lucien paid for both rooms, handed her the key without meeting her eyes, and climbed the stairs first. His door shut with a firm, final click. No questions. No goodnight.

Feyre’s room was plain and narrow, the floor creaking beneath her boots, the mattress smelling faintly of salt and old wood. She didn’t light the fire. Didn’t bother undressing. She simply collapsed onto the bed and curled on her side, one hand resting over her stomach.

And eventually, sleep came.

But it wasn’t kind.

The dream started quiet—too quiet. Feyre stood in a field she didn’t recognize, the grass waist-high and swaying in a wind that carried no scent. The sky was a flat, featureless gray. Endless. Still. She turned in place, searching, her body somehow aware even in sleep that this wasn’t real. That something was wrong.

“Elain?” she called.

Her voice was swallowed by the air, but a figure emerged in the distance, walking slowly through the grass. Pale dress. Bare feet. Long brown hair that tangled in the breeze like silk.

“Elain!” Feyre cried, relief surging in her chest as she ran toward her—but something in her sister’s gait was off. Too smooth. Too slow.

She stopped just a few feet away. Elain’s face was serene, unreadable, her eyes the same soft hazel Feyre remembered—but colder. Detached. As though they were looking through her, not at her.

“Elain, I’ve been looking for you,” Feyre whispered, reaching for her.

Elain didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“Stop looking for us,” she said.

Feyre froze. “What?”

“Stop looking,” Elain repeated. Her voice was flat. Not angry. Not scared. Just… empty. “You were never supposed to follow.”

The wind shifted.

The grass turned black.

Feyre stepped back—but the sky cracked open above them, not with lightning, but with shadow. Thick, roiling shadow that poured down from the heavens like smoke, like blood. The field warped beneath her feet, twisting and fracturing. The air turned hot. Sulfurous.

“Elain?” she whispered, but her sister was gone. In her place stood a figure with her face, but the eyes were hollow. Bleeding. Feyre’s name echoed on the wind—distorted, wrong, drawn out like a scream trapped in a cavern.

She stumbled back, her foot catching on something soft. She looked down—

—Nesta, eyes wide in terror, her throat torn open, reaching toward her with fingers blackened by fire.

“You weren’t supposed to follow.”

Feyre screamed.

And in the real world, she jolted upright in bed, soaked in sweat, breath heaving, her hands clawing at the sheets like she could rip herself out of what she’d just seen.

But even awake, even safe—Elain’s voice still echoed in her head.

Stop looking.

Pain exploded behind her eyes the moment she sat up—blinding, white-hot, like claws raking across the inside of her skull.

Feyre cried out, her hands flying to her temples as the sheets twisted around her legs. The dream hadn’t faded yet, hadn’t even released her fully, and now—now—came the tearing pressure, the weight of him.

Rhysand.

His mind slammed into hers like a battering ram. Not gentle. Not probing. Demanding. Furious. Terrified.

She doubled over on the bed, her forehead pressing against her knees as the world spun. She could feel his panic—like waves crashing over her, merciless and endless. He had found her. Knew she was gone. And he was clawing into her mind without grace, without permission, scraping at her shields with the desperation of someone unraveling.

Where are you?

What have you done?

Come back—come back now—

“Stop,” she gasped, her voice hoarse, tears spilling unbidden from her eyes as the pressure worsened. Her magic tried to rise, to slam the door shut again, but she was too tired, too shaken, and the remnants of the dream still clung to her like frostbite.

Her body bowed inward from the weight of it, chest tight, stomach twisting. It felt like he was inside her head with fists instead of fingers, like her very soul was being shaken.

“Stop,” she whispered again, trembling. “Please—just stop.”

But Rhysand didn’t stop. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

The pain sharpened—deepened. Not just pressure now, but raking, tearing. His talons—mental and magical—sank into her mind with violent desperation, not slicing delicately as he once had when he coaxed her thoughts with tenderness, but ripping, like he meant to dig her out of herself.

Feyre screamed through clenched teeth, hands tangled in her hair as if she could physically claw him out. But Rhysand was already inside. His voice thundered through her skull, not spoken but felt, shuddering through her bones like a command from a god.

Where are you—who brought you there—

And then, sharper—colder—

Lucien.

His name hissed like venom through the bond.

He took you. I swear, Feyre, if he laid a hand on you—if he brought you into danger—

“No!” she gasped aloud, her voice ragged. “It wasn’t like that!”

But Rhys wasn’t listening.

His fury surged through her like a wildfire, the full weight of the High Lord behind it now, his power wrapping tight around her thoughts, around her memories, searching—grasping for where she was, for who had touched her mind, who had shielded her from him.

I’ll rip his head off.

Feyre’s stomach lurched.

You don’t understand— she tried to send back, her thoughts jagged, her fear tasting like iron on her tongue.

But Rhysand wasn’t listening to words. He was listening to wrath.

He took you from me.

And Feyre, body wracked with pain, with grief, with the crushing heat of her mate’s fury, knew she couldn’t let this continue. Couldn’t let him hurt Lucien. Not for a choice she had made.

Her magic surged again—painfully, violently—ripping her end of the bond shut like a slammed door.

The moment she slammed the bond shut, he tore it open again, not through finesse or connection, but through sheer, brute force. The Cauldron-blessed power of the High Lord of the Night Court ripped through her shields, breaking through the cracks with the fury of a storm let loose.

It wasn’t his voice now—it was his rage. His terror. His need.

And it hurt.

Feyre collapsed onto the floor, knees cracking against the warped wood, her palms flat against the boards as her scream tore from her throat, raw and ragged and helpless.

Where are you—where are you—come home—come back—

His power clamped around her like chains, his talons raking through her mind as though he could pull her to him with thought alone. Like he would burn down the world to get her back—and didn’t care who else burned with it.

“Stop!” she sobbed, forehead pressed to the floor, her entire body trembling. “Rhys, stop—”

Lucien is dead.

The thought snarled through her like a blade. Whether it was a threat, or a promise, or simply the place his mind had gone, she couldn’t tell—but it made her vision blacken with panic.

Her magic flared, wild and cracking, unhinged, and she screamed—not with power but with voice, high and broken and desperate.

“I’M FINDING MY SISTERS!”

The words echoed through the room, through the walls, through the still, sleeping port beyond. Her voice tore from her throat like a creature trying to escape her body. “Do you hear me? I’m finding them!” she screamed again, sobbing now, shaking uncontrollably. “I’m not coming back without them!”

The pain in her mind surged one last time—one final claw of grief and fury and unbearable love—before her power surged forward and blasted the bond shut again.

This time she didn’t just close the door. She sealed it.

The room fell violently still.

And Feyre collapsed against the floor, gasping, sobbing, shaking so hard her teeth chattered—alone in the dark, with only her ragged breath and the echo of her own voice screaming back at her from the corners of the room.

The door slammed open so hard it ricocheted off the wall with a thunderous crack, and Lucien was there.

He didn’t knock. Didn’t pause. Just stormed into the room with fire flickering at his fingertips, panic and rage written across every line of his face. His golden eye darted wildly across the cramped space until it landed on her—crumpled on the floor like a broken thing, her face pale and soaked in sweat, her chest heaving in gasping, erratic breaths.

“Feyre,” he breathed, crossing the room in two long strides. He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands hovering but not touching—like he didn’t know where to start, like he was afraid any touch would make her shatter more.

“What happened?” His voice was sharp, urgent, too loud in the silence she had forced into the room with that final, brutal slam of power. “What happened?”

She couldn’t speak. Not yet. Her throat burned from screaming, her tongue thick, her mind still echoing with the scars Rhysand’s presence had left behind. The bond had gone dark now, dead quiet, but the pain of his intrusion still sang through her bones, through every shaking breath she took.

Lucien’s hands finally settled—one on her shoulder, the other gently curling around her wrist, grounding her. “He found you,” he said softly, and there was no question in it. Just grim certainty.

Feyre managed a nod—barely.

Lucien cursed, something vicious and guttural in the old tongue, his fingers tightening around her wrist for a heartbeat before he loosened them again. “He was in your head?”

She gave another nod, but this time her voice came—cracked and raw. “He was tearing through it. He wouldn’t stop.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles trembled. He looked her over, saw how small she looked on the floor, curled in on herself, how she gripped her stomach like she was afraid she’d lose the child within her just from feeling that much pain.

“I sealed him out,” she whispered. “He threatened you. He—he said you were dead. Or would be.”

Lucien didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look surprised. “He thinks I took you. That I’m keeping you from him.”

She laughed bitterly—short and broken. “I told him I was finding my sisters. That I wasn’t coming back without them.”

Lucien looked at her for a long moment, firelight flickering across the sharp cut of his features, and then without another word, he slid his arms beneath her and lifted her from the floor.

Feyre didn’t fight it.

Didn’t pretend to be strong.

She just let herself be held as Lucien carried her to the bed and laid her gently atop the blankets. He sat beside her, silent, his palm resting over the back of her hand as her breathing slowly began to ease. No questions. No lectures.

Just presence.

And in the hollow dark of that room, where pain still echoed in her skull and Rhysand’s fury haunted the space behind her ribs, Feyre gripped Lucien’s fingers with all the strength she had left.

Lucien sat beside her for a long while, his eyes fixed not on her, but on the shadows dancing across the floor from the low-burning lantern in the corner. The silence between them had turned heavier, more settled—less explosive, more exhausted. Feyre lay still on the bed, her fingers still loosely curled around his, her breath evening out, though her chest still hitched now and then as remnants of the pain echoed through her body like aftershocks.

It was Lucien who finally broke the quiet.

Softly. Carefully. Like he wasn’t entirely sure she could take another word—but knew it needed to be said.

“It’s the baby,” he said.

Feyre blinked, turning her head slightly toward him, her brow furrowing in confusion. He didn’t look at her. His gaze was distant, golden eye darkened, the scar around it twitching faintly.

“That’s why he’s acting like this,” he went on, voice low, each word slow and deliberate. “Why he’s ripping through your mind like that. Why he can’t stop.” He finally looked at her, and there was no malice in his expression—just understanding. Weariness. “It’s the bond. The mating bond. You’re carrying his child. And that kind of instinct—especially in a male as powerful as Rhys—it goes beyond reason. Beyond thought.”

Feyre’s throat bobbed, the soreness in it still raw. But she didn’t interrupt.

Lucien continued, quieter now. “He’s panicking. Every second you’re gone, it’s a threat to him. Not just to you, but to what you’re carrying. He’s thinking in instinct, not logic. You’re mate, mother of his child, High Lady of his court—and you disappeared without warning.” His jaw tightened. “I’m not defending him. I’m just saying… I’ve felt what it does to a male. The fear. The hunger. The need to possess, to protect, to know you’re safe every second of the day.” He looked away again. “And he’s stronger than any of us. It’s probably taking everything he has not to tear the world apart looking for you.”

Feyre stared up at the ceiling, eyes burning, throat aching all over again. But Lucien’s words slid through her—not comfort, but clarity. They didn’t erase what Rhys had done. Didn’t soften the brutality of his intrusion. But they explained it. They made it make sense. And somehow, that made the pain easier to bear.

Still, her voice was hoarse when she finally whispered, “That doesn’t make it okay.”

Lucien nodded once, solemn. “No. It doesn’t.”

And they sat like that, in the dim light, two people bound by others’ choices, their own burdens heavy as iron. One with a child growing in her womb and the weight of an entire court on her back—and the other, still holding onto a bond that may never be returned.

Tag list: @viajandopelomar @nocasdatsgay @litnerdwrites @annaskareninas @littlemisssatanist @dashedwithromance @booklover41802

bryaxis 🤝🏻 nesta

love stories, have a soft spot for the priestesses living in the library, are powerful beings, who are referred to as a “creature” and scare people by simply existing, are a prisoner locked in a cell that they end up calling a home, but are allowed to leave their prison in exchange for “work” that becomes an opportunity to flee, and despite being hunted down to be dragged back to their prison, they never look back, never return and find their true home elsewhere.

people don’t get them like i do. please, get them like i do!

My entry for @tamlinweek Day 2: Spring Mythology & Celebrations

A Spring Court hunt with Tamlin, Lucien, Bron and Hart.

Stay tuned for more 🤫

to lift your head is not a wrong

guilt has its place for what you have done

but do not drown in its waters

do not not shun the sight of the sun

forgiveness may never be yours

others resentment might always fester

so decay with its spores and renew 

grow into another you

divider : @olenvasynyt

Day 1 of @tamlinweek - Forgiveness / Change

The event is finally here! Starting off with Nesta and Tamlin working on themselves together. I really wish they could have been friends.

The last resort

Her [Nesta] already proud, angular face had turned more so, her cheekbones sharp enough to slice.

by cally.draws [instagram]

Tamlin Week 2025 starts tomorrow!!!

Let's fucking gooooooooooooo!!! Tamlin Week starts tomorrow, so be sure to get your submissions ready! We can't wait to see what you all come up with!

While waiting, @copypastus made us a little treat on PIC CREW!

Snap a picture with our beloved High Lord and share it with the community! Make your OCs or yourself -- anything your heart desires!

Have fun and feel free to reblog your creations!!

neslin, the loves of my life also thank you for this amazing picrew!!