Chapter Text
Feyre’s stomach swelled to the point where her pregnancy could no longer be disguised; not that she wished it to be. She was ready to stand on top of the House of Wind itself and shout the news from joyous lungs.
Her present state was less lofty, seated on a soft velveteen chaise lounge in the River House, a hand resting on her belly while she whispered stories to her baby.
How did Nesta’s old tales begin? Once upon a time...
Feyre spoke them with her voice low and soft as she gazed at the sky beyond the window, her head empty of daydreams because what did she want for now? What could she imagine she needed when she had all she wanted?
Her son, as confirmed by Madja, fluttered and spun inside her and Feyre wondered what he dreamt, if he somehow sensed the stars.
She paused in the telling of a story, stumbling over a word. She had told herself a lie. She needed to understand what was worrying Rhys. Something shifted in him since they last saw the healer, his face slipping into a frown when he thought Feyre wasn’t looking, his hands twisted into fists.
When asked he would say, ‘nothing my darling’ and kiss her forehead, coaxing her back to her contented state with sugared creams and cashmere blankets draped over her shoulders.
Those frowns were infectious. First Rhys, then Amren. Mor, Cassian, and Azriel soon followed.
Only the Archeron sisters were unbothered by the burden of the Inner Circle. Elain drifted through the halls of the River House as she always had done since she lived with them, muttering to the rose stems she crushed between her fingers or wailing into the night sky.
Feyre found that she missed her eldest sister but wasn't too sure why. Perhaps she had been too spoilt by Rhys to cope with Elain's distress, or possibly there was part of herself which wanted Nesta to use her sharp words and quiet ferocity to amend what Feyre couldn't.
When Nesta made the rare appearance, she was always at the side of Cassian. Nesta was re-shaping herself into something new whilst retaining the steel beneath. Unbending, unbroken, and to Rhys’ irritation, un-bowing.
Nesta’s scent was no longer her own. Winter rose and jasmine still adorned her but underneath was the patchouli aroma of Cassian. When Feyre inhaled next to him, she was unsurprised to smell florals, almost like he had bathed in Nesta, rubbing her skin against his like it was perfume.
Maybe he had, flesh to flesh. That was what Feyre had hoped for after all. Even if they stood apart in public, Feyre wasn’t fooled. Not when they were both so deliciously fragranced, she could eat them up, just like she was doing now with the sweets from her gold-plated bowl.
***
“You fool,” Amren hissed at him, “you stupid, senseless fool.”
Rhys clenched his jaw, the back of his teeth grinding together as a muscle in his cheek twitched. His eyes glanced towards the study door, as though Feyre or Elain, somewhere in the depths of the house would hear Amren and throw it open, demanding to understand what they’d just heard.
Rhys quelled his fear. Feyre would never intrude and Elain was too feeble, too addled by the noise in her mind. He’d expect insolence and intrusion from the other one but she was caged up in the House of Wind learning to be a citizen of the Night Court.
Rhys stared at Amren, her hands clenched on the arms of the chair as she sat opposite, her grey eyes boring into his. Her words meant nothing. Not when Madja’s from days before had sunk into his skin and through muscle, carving themselves onto his bones.
Feyre will die, she had said. The infant has Illyrian wings. She will birth the baby but it will come at a great cost – her life for her son’s but I cannot even guarantee that he will live. I am sorry.
The joy in Rhys’ heart, so elevated it was as though it soared above the mountains, was ripped from the sky. His mate would die, his son may follow. So would Rhys himself, the vow they made to each other would hold. If Rhys couldn’t promise Feyre her immortal life, then he would join her in eternal death.
Amren thought different.
“If we leave the Night Court without a leader or heir, do you have any understanding what abyss would open? Of who would try and fill it? All your people would be at the mercy of the likes of Keir. Velaris would become the Hewn Court. Do you acknowledge this? Do you?”
Of course, he did. However much Amren hissed at him, he wasn’t a fool and he would agree it again. He and Feyre were bound by the thread of fate, stronger than any tie he had to his people.
“I’ll consult all sources,” Amren said, “even the old magic, the forbidden tomes.” Her voice had quavered, the old magic would be wanting to extract its unknown price and now she was no longer immortal the payment would be costly. “There must be a way to break this promise so if Feyre dies you won’t go with her.
“I want to go with her,” Rhys said. “I would follow Feyre into oblivion if I had to.”
Amren’s eyes flashed. “Your people,” she hissed again, “think about your people.”
“I’m thinking about my mate,” he snapped back. “If you sever this vow and she dies and I live, then the Night Court can rot under Keir’s rulership for all I care.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What will you do then, while Feyre sits in ignorance and the rest of us live in fear?”
Rhys sat back in his chair, his fingers lacing over his knee. “I’ll find a way to save Feyre and then, oh ancient one, your efforts will have been for nothing and both you and I will be glad for it.
“And you think you’ll find a way?”
“I’m sure of it.”
Amren leant forward over his desk, trying to close the space he had increased. “By the Mother I want you to be right.” Her fingers clenched and unclenched onto the wooden arm of the chair, her nails leaving crescent marks. “How can you be confident you’ll save Feyre?”
Rhys smiled. Joy was no longer in his heart but certainty was. “Because Amren, you are not me.”
***
Rhys refused to name an heir other than the son in his wife’s belly.
Two months after he’d received the unfortunate news, he publicly announced Feyre’s pregnancy and decreed his unborn son, Nyx as sole heir to the Night Court.
Time had passed fast.
While his mate slept, Rhys woke in the night and flew to the library in the House of Wind to pour over books or to consult with whichever mage had been dragged from the depths of their slumber.
No solution had been forthcoming but Rhys wanted to weave it into the stars that Nyx would take up the throne centuries from now, either upon Rhys’ death or departure at a time of his choosing.
The news echoed from the House of Wind into Velaris and travelled from the Night Court into the vast landscape of Prythian.
Lesser fae went about their business while High Lords raised their goblets in salutations or beat their fists against the hardened bark of Spring trees.
Rhys had been challenged. Amren alone and then Cassian and Azriel together.
“You shouldn’t announce the news,” Cassian had said, pacing the floor of the study as Azriel stood by the wall. “Mor has gone to the continent; Az and I are flying into the furthest reaches of Illyria and Cauldron knows where Amren is.” He stopped before Rhys. “We haven’t found anything.”
“Yet.”
Cassian nodded. “Yes, yet but announcing Feyre’s pregnancy while we haven’t a solution or plan-”
“A plan for what?”
Cassian’s face twisted in pain. “In case the worst should occur and we lose you all. Personal grief aside, what would become to the Court with no High Lord or Lady?”
“That won’t be an issue,” Rhys said, waving his hand. “I’ll find a way to save Feyre.”
“If you don’t?” Az asked from the corner. “What then?”
Rhys paused, his blood bubbling in his veins as though suddenly on fire. Audacity. There would never would be a ‘what then’ and the question from the lips of a male he called his brother was a poison being dripped into the room.
He curled back his lips, baring his teeth as the black mist swirled from him skin, brushing against the Illyrians, kissing their wings which twitched away. “I will. Bring this topic up again and I will make life uncomfortable for the females in your lives. Do you understand?”
They froze at his words. Azriel’s eyes darting to the ceiling, likely envisioning Elain in her room several floors above. Cassian’s jaw tensed, his clenched fists straining the tendons while the syphons on his armour shone as bright as fresh blood.
The scent of earth and flowers drifted from him to where Rhys sat.
A scarred hand landed on Cassian’s shoulder as Azriel stepped forward, his eyes meeting Rhys’. “Yes, my High Lord,” he said before turning to Cassian. “Come,” he said with a softer voice. “We’re not wanted.”
So, they had left and Rhys made his announcement, no one else visiting him until Amren returned from overseas.
“Name another,” she’d pleaded. “You don’t have to renounce what you have declared, just an additional fae to a Court of trusted High Lords. If Nyx lives than appoint a regent for him until he’s of age.”
Rhys' laugh was brittle. “Do you want that someone to be you? Exactly how hard are you trying to break the vow?”
His words were as though he’d slapped her, Amren’s head lurching backwards as her hands dropped to her sides. It was a mere trick of the light but for a moment Rhys saw unshed tears in her eyes.
“I want you on the throne,” she said, “and when the time is right – your son. But if we can’t have you and Nyx is too young, what will we get?”
“I will save Feyre,” Rhys said, his skin heating. His patience with their impatience was quickening his blood once more. “There will be no more discussion on this matter.”
“It’s been months...”
“We are done.”
Amren’s mouth closed into a tight line and she nodded but when she reached the door of his study she paused, turning to him. “I understand you’re refusing to see Azriel since his last visit but despite your fury, he’s still your spymaster and you need to listen to what he has to say. You should turn toward the Hewn City.”
After she left, Rhys stood from behind his desk and walked to the map of Prythian constructed to the side. The mountains peaked and the valleys dipped, the castles of all the Courts carved before him.
His eyes drifted to the seat of the Hewn City, perfect in its miniature copy. He’d been unfair with his words towards Amren. Silver streaks now appeared in her jet-black hair and stress lines burrowed their way onto her face. She’d travelled to wherever she could travel, consulted with whomever held ancient knowledge and the price was already being paid.
It hadn’t escaped his attention that she’d lost a finger. Who or what wanted that he didn’t ask.
Rhys had long decided that the doubt which tried to grow in him about his actions wouldn’t take root. He pulled it out like a weed each time it made an appearance. There was no time for second guessing, not when he’d scoured every avenue and was coming up short.
Rhys had visited Madja once more.
“My Lord,” she had greeted him with a bow.
“Tell me again what you told me those months ago.”
Madja twisted her gnarled fingers into the cloth of her dress. “If the High Lady shifts into Illyrian form and gives birth in that shape, then all might be well.”
“Might.” Rhys paced the length of Madja’s quarters. “Will the shift harm the baby? Will it harm my son.”
“Possibly.” She’d adverted her eyes. “I can't guarantee her body won't expel him under the trauma.”
Rhys now closed his eyes to the map of Prythian, instead imagining his son, small and perfect with tiny fingers and toes, lying on the ground, grey and lifeless. Rhys envisioned those perfectly formed wings, the source of all the trouble wrapped around his fragile form, trying to protect himself from the elements of a world thrust upon him too soon.
There would be no breath and no heartbeat. Only the agonised screams of Feyre as she sobbed over the body of her baby. This would not be a grief Rhys could soothe. Feyre would spend centuries of her eternal life in anguish as a piece of her floated away with Nyx’s soul. Son and mate both dead in their own differing ways.
No. Feyre was in the nursery of the River House, painting murals and singing lullabies. He wouldn’t burden her with this, he would find a way and Feyre would be none the wiser of any of it.
Rhys wouldn’t name any other as heir, temporarily or as Regent. He refused to bait the Cauldron and by naming another he was placing an option into the world, one that may be seen and accepted in lieu. This was not his wager to lose.
***
How strange it was to Keir that the High Lord of Night’s joyous public declaration of an impending son didn’t meet his eyes. How Mor, his traitor of a daughter, stood behind her cousin with a smile on her face which screamed of fakery.
He knew them well, as both would not want to admit - but refusing to believe something was true didn’t make it false. The other members of Rhys’ precious Inner Circle were distracted or absent and Keir felt it was time to unearth a few secrets.
Whispers found a way through cracks. Especially if you set to create those cracks
What crawled out from under the rock was that the life of the sweet, naïve Feyre Cursebreaker was in danger as was that of the baby inside her. The infant had a glimmer of hope, the mother did not.
The shimmering jewel in the crown was that Feyre’s life was tied to Rhys’ and Rhys had arrogantly named no other successor than said son and no Regent in his stead.
The branch of that tree was withering away. Keir on his dais in the Hewn City could have wept tears of glory. A chasm was opening, one which could be filled by someone strong enough to claim it. It was natural for Keir to reach out his hand and take what should now be his.
If the boy survived, well then, he would need guidance towards the right path. Who would fight Keir in this respect? The bastard Illyrian? The quiet one? His own traitorous daughter?
Blood and lineage would out. A misfortune of birth order was the only reason Keir wasn’t already ensconced in the House of Wind and he had plenty of loyalists to the Hewn City who would don armour for his name.
Still, whispers which drifted their way through cracks and into the ears of those who listened also drifted away. Of course, Rhys would have spies in the Hewn City, perhaps some of the lengthening shadows were not simple shadows at all
News of Keir’s plans reached Velaris and now he and Rhys placed a game. Both pretending that they didn’t have knowledge on the other but both moving their pieces. Keir sent his advisors outward as Rhys did the same with his band of idiot friends. But for every ally Keir gained, it seemed Rhys added onto his own.
Rumours were that Rhys was sending the bastard to Illyria to rally troops and so that was the first location Keir turned. Unlike Rhys who deemed Illyria a place beneath his High Lord boots, Keir made his visits personal.
To Keir, the Illyrians could die like the dogs they were for all he cared but they were an invaluable asset he couldn’t afford to lose.
Hounds they may be, his advisors told him, but make them your hounds. There are those who want Rhysand gone as you do. Allow them their freedoms to do what they want in their own country and they will back you.
Keir selected his camps carefully. Even if some didn’t declare for Rhys, it didn’t mean they would declare for him. The name of Rhys’ dog Cassian, was uttered across the land with a degree of reverence more than Keir would have liked.
At least Kallon, one of the camp Lords was ripe with rage. They sat opposite each other in Kallon’s tent, the heat trapped within the canvas causing sweat to drip down Keir’s back as he made his promises.
“Others are declaring for that bastard,” Kallon said, his knife carving a deeper groove into the wood of his desk. “Enalius re-born they say, like any Illyrian birthed from a laundry whore would be destined for a path of greatness.”
Kallon’s laugh was brittle, his lips curled into a sneer over bared teeth. Feral, Keir thought. They are all feral pups. Still, an opportunity was an opportunity.
“When I rule the Night Court, you will be destined for your own path of greatness. I won’t demand anything for it other than your fealty. Clip whoever you want, raid whatever you want. By the Cauldron, you can have Velaris if you want.”
Kallon looked at him, his dark eyes glinting. “I can have the city?”
Yes, thought Keir. Greed is good. Greed meant a price existed and a price meant someone could be bought.
“Have it,” Keir had said. “Do to it and its inhabitants what you will.”
They shook hands and signed parchments before Keir moved south to the Autumn Court.
Autumn was bronze and copper and gold and Keir had barely seen any of it before he was swept into the labyrinthian halls and deeper under the soil than he wanted. The inhabitants could leave you in their palace and not even servants born there centuries before would find you.
Unease prickled his skin but he pushed it down as he walked corridors with thick tree roots lining the walls.
Beron had Keir bought to a secret office, one which he entered through two unwinding branches, and he forced himself to not look back upon them as they wound back together. The High Lord of Autumn sat behind a mahogany desk, brown hair falling forward as he scribbled away.
“My Lord,” Keir began, eyes adjusting to the gloom. “How is your dear lady wife?”
The scratch of the quill on parchment paused but Beron didn’t look up. “Past breeding age but she lives, which is more than she deserves most days.”
Keir nodded though Beron couldn’t see. He’d made a calculated decision when choosing the High Lords to visit. Beron was a comfortable selection. “And your eldest son, Eris?”
Beron stopped scribbling and looked up, his mouth in a sneer. “Why?” he spat, “were you wanting him instead? Are you here to stick the knife in my back while he twists? He gets to be High Lord when I’m dead and I plan to disappoint him by living forever.”
The underground cavernous study, tucked away and guarded by trees loyal to the appointed High Lord of Autumn made sense.
“And your other sons?”
Beron’s laugh was as rough as tree bark. “Lucien is no seed of mine. The rest? Rotting in their tombs. At least they had the decency to die before me.”
Keir moved forward with renewed certainty, settling himself uninvited into a chair. “My Lord,” he began, “speaking of dead sons....”