#Merrill-Ic

[phantomrune]

@woodcries liked for a starter!

Gentle fingers, unbound from their everyday wrappings brushed and weaved throughout her hair, as not much else except the fire crackling in the furnace and the weighted breaths of the loyal mabari hound could be heard in the manor's common room. It had started with Merrill realizing a bit too late how much her hair had grown out in the past few years, and while she hadn't minded it in the least, it did happen to get in the way from time to time. Surely she could've kept to simply tying it back, but it felt...dull. She did have a few special bands given to her by the Keeper of course, but even those didn't seem like enough. So she'd taken to asking around for ideas. Aveline had apologized for her lack of expertise, Isabela seemed to want to do too much, and Anders had claimed that it would be too dangerous for them to be around each other for too long a time, whether in public or private, he couldn't seem to decide what looked worse!

When she'd voiced her confusion to Varric over why their friends seemed so against something as small as doing hair, he'd simply laughed, and inquired as to why she hadn't considered Hawke, out of everyone!

Well...he made a good point, but Hawke usually came to her first when it came to these matters...

It never hurt to try though. So when she'd shown up at the manor with her small request, she was pleasantly surprised at the acceptance.

And here they were now, Merrill planted in front of the fire, and Hawke leaning over her and working at her hair with silent determination. She didn't think she'd take this so seriously!

"You seem like you've done this before, but I never see you braid your hair! What's your secret? Tying knots? Shoelaces? Oh! Have you ever braided Carver's hair before? That would be rather dashing!"

[phantomrune]

She honestly couldn't help but be the slightest bit intrigued by the fancier bits and baubles of Hawke's new garments. How fascinating and practical the designs in Kirkwall were! Especially on the higher end of a price point. Though she was rather curious as to what function the wrappings on the sleeves provided. Was it easier on the forearms? Did it keep one from getting sore?

Or...perhaps it was just pretty! It would make sense for Hawke to like pretty things! At least, to her.

Despite her internal musings however, she hadn't missed the other's question, even if her ever magnetized gaze said otherwise.

"I think he did...maybe. It was right between his pleasant ramblings and something about getting around his Merchant's Guild again." She paused, just long enough to glance up at the other, and offer her that signature, doe-eyed smile. "dy'think he got caught up with them this time? Oh that meeting would go for hours...spinning their heads with his stories of you! Do you suppose he has a favorite? I know I do!"

@phantomrune sent: TOY! Merrill >> Marian! [ TOY ] sender fidgets with something receiver is wearing while receiver talks to them

　　𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘, 𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐖𝐊𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄. perhaps it was the drink in her other hand that had done it-- and she certainly hoped no pickpockets would take advantage of that-- or maybe the feeling of merrill toying with the metal on the straps of her coat simply reminded her of simpler times when she had to wrangle the twins when they were younger.

　　' did varric say he was coming? ' the mage tipped her head towards the door of the hanged man, holding her arm out to give better access to the little bits hanging off her robes. ' i'm not really in the mood to go fish him out of trouble. '

[topgun1986wasthebest]

I love you Thomas Cruise Mapother IV

[offsidenewsco]

As Pride Month comes to a close, let’s take the time to acknowledge the support of players and staff across this league for the queer community.

Read our #NHL spotlight piece here.

[proelio-procusi-a]

@shadovan asked: (Merrill) He hadn't known the Eluvian was in Kirkwall. Frankly, he was barely confident enough to say it was even a functioning Eluvian, based on the warped and shattered essence around it. It wasn't functioning properly. What did he have to lose, though? Pushing the edges of the mirror's magic, it took some twisting and weaving, but the lich finally shoved through the Eluvian's portal -- and tumbled onto the floor of Merrill's small home. Tareque coughed as he inhaled some dirt from the floor, scrambling to his feet. "Don't - Don't mind me-" Another cough. "I am just passing through!"

Merrill hadn't expected the noise as she was writing in the current journal she was working on. New herbal recipes using the actual herbs that could grow in Kirkwall's soil so that they could be used by others as needed.

Her eyes widened as she spun to look at the other, and then the Eluvian and back again. "How did - Where did- What is going on?" Her mouth tumbled out the words brain not quite computing just what had happened.

[heartsdefine]

↪ memes / accepting!

@aesidh said: “what would you do without me, huh?”

        “win at cards more often, obviously.” they're both on their way out of the hanged man. hawke may or may not have been reliably losing to merrill at wicked grace (and yet, somehow, to nobody else) for a few nights running. just because it makes her smile. “are you going to be able to find your way home safely?” hawke eyes the elf doubtfully. “you know what? i'll walk you.” 

[lithub]

June 10, 2025

Today, we’re looking at Sylvia Townsend Warner’s groundbreaking queer fiction, celebrating this week’s new books, and reading titles about some wildly disastrous parties!

On Lit Hub dot com:

Nan Z. Da explores King Lear, Maoist China, and the unpredictable nature of power. | Lit Hub Criticism

Caroline Fraser on environmental contamination, violence, and how Tacoma became a hotbed of crime and kidnapping in the 1920s. | Lit Hub History

B. Pietras considers the works of Sylvia Townsend Warner: “They are, in short, queer historical fictions—albeit ones written before the genre had a name.” | Lit Hub Criticism

This week’s new books include titles by Kyra Davis Lurie, Jeff Weiss, and Betsy Golden Kellem! | Lit Hub Reading Lists

Geoff Dyer, Ivy Pochoda, Megan Giddings and more authors take the Lit Hub questionnaire. | Lit Hub In Conversation

Jess Walters reveals how many breakfasts he eats while writing. | Lit Hub Craft

Jonathan Parks-Ramage explores books with fantastically disastrous party scenes by Edward St. Aubyn, Raven Leilani, and more. | Lit Hub Reading Lists

“I had discovered a way forward for my work—and life—where, in the meeting of fiction and fact, art and biography, a new form of freedom emerged.” Megan Hunter finds creative freedom in fusing fiction and biography. | Lit Hub Biography

“The snow—a heavy blanket smothering roofs, roads, onion fields, pasture. But Vic’s main concern is the roofs.” Read from Harris Lahti’s new novel, Foreclosure Gothic. | Lit Hub Fiction

From around the internet:

“M said, ‘I don’t care what they do to me. Only God decides.’ He was both lying and telling the truth.” Liv Veazy writes a dispatch from immigration court. | n+1

Poet Tom Sleigh pays tribute to Christopher Merrill, “a latter-day Herodotus, interested in everything, dismissive of nothing.” | Words Without Borders

Why it matters that the Mark Twain Papers and Project at UC Berkeley lost its National Endowment for the Humanities funding. | San Francisco Chronicle

Former Librarian of Congress Carla Hayden discusses her firing. | Publishers Weekly

Jennifer Wilson on what happens when a writer learns to become an intimacy coordinator. | The New Yorker

Julia F. Christensen explores the science and psychology behind creative flow states. | Aeon

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[nfinitefreetime]

Terrible pictures of beautiful pictures

The Leeper Park Art Fair was this weekend, and I’ve been waiting a literal year to go buy something printed on metal from Josh Merrill, and we went and did that this morning. And, damn it, this looks gorgeous in person, and I was excited enough about it that I got it hung the same day we bought it, which qualifies as a minor miracle. So naturally now, because I’m a schmuck, looking at my picture…

[silverflameataraxia]

Feyre says that very few people like Nesta. Mor says that she's a wicked monster who would thrive in the CoN, and doesn't deserve the benefit of the doubt. Cassian says that everyone hates her.

Meanwhile, Nesta is out here making friends like nobody's business: Gwyn, Emerie, the Valkyries, Clotho (really it feels like Nesta's befriended all the priestesses except Merrill), Bryce, Ember, Randall.

And then, of course, there's Eris, who wants to marry her after only three dances.

The IC are really the only ones who can't see how amazing Nesta is.

[phantomrune]

[ REDWOOD ] for merrill hehe

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐀 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐒/accepting!

>sender lashes out at receiver when it isn't their fault.

For once, for once...she had wanted a moment to grieve. It was selfish, she knew, to want to have a small moment to herself. To weep over the loss of the Keeper, the final severance from her clan. Everything she'd striven for all these years, gone within an instant. Because she could never consider the possibility that someone might take her place in all this. No one should have, if everyone would have just listened...

And there she'd been, her frame wracked with sobs as the other promptly crossed her threshold, and staunched her bleeding heart. She knew it would only be to put it in a vice grip...what he had to say was honest, but it was not kind, and it only twisted the knife in her side.

I told you. I told you. I told you. Every one, another dagger.

...but her shaking ceased, and her grip loosened on her arms, and she did her best to stop the sniffling, even if she couldn't help it much. And she stood from her table, wiping her eyes as they fell once more to the Eluvian...the very thing that started this all...

"...I thought...I really believed I was doing the right thing. I hope you understand that much..." Her voice was broken from weeping, scratchy and pathetic and a mess. "...But I was stupid, and ignorant and blind...the last thing I wanted was for anyone else to get hurt, but all this brings is pain."

She leaned over then, to take up her staff, running her fingers along its wooden curves. So many knicks it had taken over the years; each one another memory she could never get back...what was one more, etched into its frame?

"...and I don't want pain anymore...not like this." She lifted her staff, and a cry escaped her as she swung it down against her beloved Eluvian. She felt another sob wrack her body as she leaned against her weapon, her legs shaking as her eyes trailed across her floor, scattered bits and pieces decorating the floorboards. It would never be restored again...

But maybe it was never meant to, if it meant fragmenting what was to come.

[saywhat-politics]

Jan. 27, 2025, 1:00 PM MST

By Laura Strickler

A group of Quaker congregations is suing the Department of Homeland Security for changing a policy that prevented Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents from carrying out operations in so-called “sensitive locations” such as houses of worship, playgrounds, schools and hospitals without approval from supervisors.

The policy, which had been in place under multiple administrations — including during President Donald Trump’s first term — was rescinded last week.

The lawsuit, which was filed in federal district court in Maryland on Monday, alleges, “The very threat of that [immigration] enforcement deters congregants from attending services, especially members of immigrant communities,” and argues that attending religious services is at the heart of the “guarantee of religious liberty.”

Faith leaders, local officials and educators have objected to the policy reversal and have been vocal about their opposition, but the suit appears to be the first from a faith-based organization challenging the change in court.

“A week ago today, President Trump swore an oath to defend the Constitution and yet today religious institutions that have existed since the 1600s in our country are having to go to court to challenge what is a violation of every individual’s constitutional right to worship and associate freely,” said Skye Perryman, president and CEO of Democracy Forward, which is providing the lawyers representing the Quaker groups.

Perryman said the lawsuit addresses more than churches that act as sanctuaries. “The troubling nature of the policy goes beyond just houses of worship with sanctuary programs — it is that ICE could enter religious and sacred spaces whenever it wants,” she said.

Noah Merrill, secretary of the New England Yearly Meeting of Friends, one of the plaintiffs in the suit, told NBC News in an email: "Quaker meetings for worship seek to be a sanctuary and a refuge for all, and this new and invasive practice tangibly erodes that possibility by creating unnecessary anxiety, confusion, and chilling of our members’ and neighbors’ willingness to share with us in the worship which sustains our lives. This undermines our communities and, we believe, violates our religious freedom."

According to the lawsuit, the policy that protected “sensitive locations” from immigration enforcement without prior approval dates back to the early 1990s. It was meant to allow undocumented people to operate freely in certain public areas with the idea that doing so would ultimately benefit not just them, but also the larger community — for example, by allowing children to be in school during the day, and letting sick people visit hospitals without fear of deportation.

[gwyns]

Gwyn did find them, the priestess panting and flushed as she handed out two rectangular parcels, each roughly the size of a large, thin book. "One for each of you."

Nesta opened the brown paper and beheld a stack of pages filled with writing. At the top of the first page, it merely said, Chapter Twenty-One. She read the first few lines beneath it, then nearly dropped the pages. "This- this is about us."

Gwyn beamed. "I convinced Merrill to add us into the penultimate chapter. She even let me write it- with her own annotations, of course. But it's about the rebirth of the Valkyries. About what we're doing."

Nesta had no words. Emerie's hands were once more shaking as she leafed through the pages. "You had this much to say about us?" Emerie said, choking on a laugh.

Gwyn rubbed her hands together. "With more to come."

Nesta read a line at random on the fifth page. Whether the sun beat hot on their brows or freezing rain turned their bones to ice, Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyneth arrived at practice each morning, ready to...

The back of her throat ached; her eyes stung. "We're in a book."

Gwyn's fingers slid into hers, squeezing tight. Nesta looked up to find her holding Emerie's free hand as well. Gwyn smiled again, her eyes bright. "Our stories are worth telling."

for @emerieweekofficial day 2: family and friends 🤍

[oristianvalkyrie]

“The Valkyrie only like Nesta because they don’t know her. The IC doesn’t like Nesta because they know the real Nesta”

Or maybe the “real Nesta” isn’t the Nesta who was In poverty with a neglectful father. The Nesta who is stressed from fae coming into to her home (potentially ruining her family if anyone found out) to tell her about a oncoming war. The Nesta just got forced into the cauldron and had her entire life upended and was thrown into a war she never asked to be apart of. The Nesta who is dealing with the trauma of seeing her fathers neck be snapped right in front of her. The Nesta who is around people who have said the will never forgive her for her past mistakes.

Maybe…the real Nesta is the Nesta who works in the library. The Nesta who stands up against Merrill for Gwyn. The Nesta who gifted Emerie with spices because she mentioned wanting some. The Nesta who wanted to help the other woman in the library heal with training. The Nesta who has sleepovers and makes friendship bracelets. The Nesta who is surrounded by people who make her feel safe and comfortable, people who don’t judge her, people she chose to be her friends.

[cressidagrey]

Hello I was wondering what you were going to write after (It's a Love Story)?

I was going to write an Azriel x RhysAndFeyre'sDaughter thing, BUT then somebody asked me if I would write a story where "rhys actually owns up to his mistakes without being a complete dick about it first"...

And now I have ideas.

Long story short, no decision yet.

I think I have 4 main ideas that I wanna write: 1 is the Azriel x RhysAndFeyre'sDaughter thing, 2 is Rhys is not a dick and Azriel kills a bunch of people, because he meets his mate as some dumbass Illyrians try to clip her wings (kinda like Rhys' parents...) 3 is a ACOSF rewrite where the whole "Everybody hates you" scene happens and then the shadows are like...NOPE, kidnap Nesta and dump her at Rosehall, which not only has Azriel's mother but also his mate 😂 and then 4 is Azriel and Priestess!OC who have this...secret relationship thing that they hide from everybody...until the shadows kinda on purpose try to kill Merrill for being terrible to OC.

(I also have an one shot idea for Azriel x Fourth Archeron Sister, where it comes out during a IC Dinner that they have been married for like a year and expecting a baby, and nobody knew lol)

tbh, I probably try to write some for each and then the one that comes out easiest is the one I'll go for.

[proelio-procusi-a]

@championsofthegate asked: one muse tends to the other’s injury (Anders @ Merrill maybe?)

Merrill had always dealt with wounds the traditional way. Even before blood magic she never seemed to be able to to use magic to heal the same way Anders had been able to, with him so spent though he wouldn't be able to fix his own wounds so she took it upon herself to at least get him all cleaned up.

She had been using a cloth and water to clean the wound before inspecting it slightly. "I have a salve that will keep out infection but you'll be able to finish up the healing tomorrow."

[separatist-apologist]

What Died Didn't Stay Dead

Summary: Gwyneth Berdara has been promised to a brutal prince who imagines himself a god. Setting sail across pirate infested waters, she and Nesta Archeron hatch a plan to escape her arranged marriage before they arrive.

A gift for @alohaangels, whose kind words softened some of my grief.

Read on AO3

TW for depictions of sexual assault- reminiscing on the event, but it is graphic so please take care of yourself.

--

It was a mistake.

Surely some sort of joke. 

Gwyn’s eyes scanned the piece of paper before her, looking for some tell-tale clue that would mark the missive as some kind of cruel joke. Some nobleman’s idea of amusing himself with a ruined man’s daughter. 

Lady Berdara,

I have made my intentions plain to your guardian, and with her blessing, I intend to make them plain to you as well. I have been unable to stop thinking of you since the ball, hosted now several months previously. Your beauty follows me, an ever present guest I would not be rid of, distracting as your visage is. 

Allow me to speak freely—I would like to be wed with haste if possible. I have enclosed two tickets to Alsfeld for you and a lady of your choosing. Send word, make the passage, and I will meet you at the Port of Alsfeld.

Say yes. I will accept no other answer.

Yours, faithfully,

Prince Edward II

Gwyn looked up at Merrill with disbelief, immediately frustrated to find her guardian looking back with a look of supreme smugness. 

“I told you,” she said, rising from her chair to walk toward the window. Gwyn had been living under care since her family had been slaughtered, casualties of the ongoing and bloody war being fought by Edward the Senior. She’d been minor nobility, then, though part of the landed gentry all the same.

“This is a joke,” Gwyn replied, pushing away the rising tide of memories. She wished she had perished, then, and often cursed the unknown, faceless man who had spared her a bloody death right at the last second. 

“It’s not,” Merrill replied, smoothing out the folds of her heavy cobalt gown. “He was taken with you at the ball, and he’s taken with you now.”

“I have no dowry,” Gwyn reminded Merrill, who must have already thought of that. “I work for my keep.”

“Money was set aside for you. I have been safe guarding it,” Merrill told her. Gwyn didn’t know what to say to that—she’d been told for years that her father had squandered everything, that the only way to continue living under Merrill’s grace was to work. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You have an education, don’t you? Room? Board? Fine clothes and regular meals?”

“I…am grateful,” Gwyn forced herself to say, hardly grateful at all. She was angry—always so, so angry. The feeling was nothing new, just as swallowing it wasn’t, either. She knew all the right words, steps to a dance she’d long memorized. “I am so grateful for you.”

Gwyn wasn’t, though. Merrill had never been kind—a poor substitute for her already flighty mother. At least then she’d had Catrin.

Now she had no one and nothing but memories tainted in blood, smoke, and so much fear. And, apparently, a marriage she could not wiggle free from. Gwyn wracked her mind for anything that might save her—Edward was a prince twice her age who’d ordered her into several dances. His breath had smelled rank, his fingers tight and clammy, and he’d leaned in too close for her liking as he droned on and on about his many war victories.

Did he even know his family’s war was the reason she had to rely on the charity of others?

Gwyn doubted he cared. 

“What about his last wife?”

“The Catholic?” Merrill scoffed. It was a rumor, of course—meant to discredit a woman so he could have a divorce without upsetting the general populace that loved her so. “Locked in a convent, last I heard. She gave only daughters and  he needs sons.”

“I’m supposed to do that?” Gwyn gaped, blood turning to ice. She had to swallow against the torrent of memories rising through her, threatening to spill over the ornate cream rug in the form of her breakfast. She’d promised she wouldn’t—that a man would never again touch her like that, certainly not if she invited him to, and even that was questionable.

It seemed she had no choice. 

“You’ll be his wife,” Merrill said dismissively, clearly tired of the conversation. It was the longest they’d had in waking memory, which meant at any moment Merrill was going to give Gwyn a verbal order to do as she was told, and a silent order to shut her mouth and be grateful.

Gwyn had no gratitude left in her. Certainly not for a man who intended to use her and then discard her if he tired of her. 

“He has a wife—”

“He doesn’t,” Merrill snapped, tossing a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder. Was she bitter it wasn’t her? Gwyn would trade her. “Nesta Archeron has agreed to accompany you to Alsfeld and I expect you to go upstairs, pack appropriately, and smile at your good fortune. Not many men would consider marrying you given your past.”

“My past.” Gwyn dropped all pretense, her words hollow, voice flat. 

“Yes, Gwyneth, your past. You should be overjoyed that a man wants you at all, let alone one so esteemed as the prince.”

“You told him?” Gwyn felt betrayal clawing at her neck. “That wasn’t yours to share!”

“The dowry he demanded was impossible to meet,” Merrill sniffed, eyes icy and unforgiving. “He was entitled to less knowing you were ruined.”

Ruined.

Gwyn rose from the chair she’d been sitting in, skirts ruffling loudly in her ringing ears. How Gwyn hated when Merrill said that to her—as if she were little more than a lamp that had broken and not a whole person that had been stolen from.

She couldn’t speak—she knew she’d cry, her anger making a mockery of her. Inclining her head, Gwyn merely made her way through the parlor, past the servants she’d once been close with. They wouldn’t meet her gaze, though she swore their mouths twisted with pity. She was the last to know, as usual, and it showed. 

Making her way to her small bedroom, Gwyn flung herself onto the padded window seat to peer out at the sea. How long before she was on one of the ships in the harbor with only the wretched Nesta Archeron for company? She’d only met the woman once and Nesta had been so wildly unpleasant that Gwyn had immediately dismissed her without another word.

Now they’d be trapped aboard a ship together. Gwyn sighed, turning toward her dresser. She had a large carpet bag and a trunk—she’d put personal things in the bag and the rest in the trunk, assuming someone was going to rifle through the items in the trunk. Better to not give anything away.

Truthfully, Gwyn had very little. Merrill had never deigned to give her anything of value, always with the admonishment that she ought to be grateful. Gwyn’s gratitude died with Catrin, leaving behind only her rage. How a prince had found her fascinating enough to marry was beyond Gwyn—the night they’d danced, she’d been wearing one of Merrill’s gowns, promptly returned while it was still warm. 

What would he do when he realized she was practically a servant? Maybe it didn’t matter—perhaps he’d outfit her in finery and remind the populace that, technically, her father had died a decorated war hero. Nevermind he’d been cowering in his final moments, on his knees begging not for the lives of the daughters being dragged away by laughing soldiers, but his own.

Gwyn’s anger grew hotter. She threw her items in the trunk, not caring if they were wrinkled. She let it consume her, balling up gown after gown so she could throw them with force into the trunk until she felt a little calmer. Less fury. She reminded herself to breathe, the same exercises she’d once done with Catrin.

It had been Catrin who’d once been filled with anger and Gwyn who had peace. She’d find her sister, raging about some injustice, and remind her to breathe until they were both smiling again. Catrin’s rage had sent her running from the house to try and save the children next door—and she’d been the first of the two of them to die. Wherever she’d hidden them, however they’d escaped…Catrin refused to say.

Gwyn, trembling and scared, a mere three minutes younger though sometimes it felt like three years, had obeyed when Catrin ordered, don’t say a word!

“We can break you,” the soldier had laughed, reaching for his belt. Catrin had turned her head, arms held over her head by another soldier. She’d screamed and fought, writhing like a wild, desperate animal while Gwyn silently sobbed, watching—knowing she would be next.

Tell us, the soldier had ordered, turning to Gwyn.

Don’t, Catrin had ordered again, fiercer than before. They’d placed a blade to Catrin’s neck and demanded again. Gwyn had looked at her sister, but Catrin only widened her eyes.

“Be brave,” Catrin had whispered.

The last words ever spoken between them. They’d laughed as they cut her throat, and laughed louder as Gwyn screamed, dragged to the same bed her sister bled out on. Gwyn hadn’t been brave at all—she’d begged them to kill her, too.

And they would have, had that man not come kicking in with that lethal looking sword. Walking to her dresser, she found the cloak he’d draped over her folded up at the bottom. Throwing it away would have been the better thing to do, but in the aftermath of what had happened, she’d simply tossed it in the back of her wardrobe. Afterwards, she’d had it washed, unable to stand the smell of whatever cologne that man wore mingled with blood and sweat. She could have thrown it away then, too.

She picked it up, admiring the well-made fabric and the heavy, silver and cobalt clasp that would have kept it pinned around her neck. Gwyn hadn’t dared to wear it, but it felt…wrong…to be rid of it, now. It was a relic of the worst moment of her life. She hated that stranger, his face concealed by a mask, though what little she might have seen had been blurred by blood and tears. He’d carried her out after brutally, and mercilessly, slaughtering every man who’d come into her house. 

He’d tried to take her somewhere, but she’d started screaming again and so he’d left her huddled in a heap beneath a tree with a silver dagger laid at her bare feet. He hadn’t said a word, merely vanished back into the ether. Perhaps he’d been a long forgotten god come to seek vengeance. Or perhaps he’d simply been a mercenary unable to witness his brethern pillaging and raping. 

She’d never know. 

Still, sometimes she caught herself thinking about him, wondering where he was and why he’d intervened in the first place. Gwyn had the dagger, though she didn’t know how to use it, and tucked that into her bag along with a necklace that had belonged to Catrin she didn’t dare wear. She hadn’t been brave.

She didn’t deserve to.

Gwyn skipped dinner that night, which caused Merrill to rant through the halls about how spoiled and ungrateful she was. Gwyn blocked it out with a book, curled back in the window seat as she waited for the inevitable. She couldn’t sleep, chasing the sunrise with drooping eyelids. Merrill wasn’t far behind, bursting in with more energy than Gwyn was certain she’d ever had in her life. 

Gwyn had never liked the small city she’d been isolated in. It was just big enough to give the illusion of privacy but small enough that everyone knew everything. Busybodies to the very last, which meant that as Gwyn was paraded through the busy early morning, all eyes fell on her, even if just for a moment. They’d flit in her direction before fans extended and women began chattering behind them, their peals of laughter echoing over the sounds of horse drawn carriages and booming voices announcing the prices of fish and produce. 

Gwyn wanted to be the kind of person who’d stare back, eyes shooting daggers as she did. She wasn’t, though, even as her anger and humiliation seemed to reach a writhing fever pitch in her chest. She imagined all the things she’d say, should she have the opportunity—the way she’d cut them into ribbons until they felt as small as she did—but she kept her eyes trained on the muddy cobblestone streets before her. Causing a scene would only result in more problems for Gwyn, who always seemed to be blamed, regardless if something was actually her fault. Merrill simply did not like her, and resented being vaguely related to her father and therefore, responsible for her care. 

Gwyn might have liked the docks and the quieter bustle filled with mostly men who didn’t seem to care a single jot about her, were it not for the icy stare of Nesta Archeron. She was alone, standing on the curb with her arms crossed over her chest. 

Great.

Gwyn did look at Nesta, hoping her expression conveyed a do-not-try-it-with-me,but who knew how Nesta took it. Nesta was a Duke's daughter and came from wealth so obscene, Gwyn didn’t dare think about it. What horrible lord was waiting for her in Alsfeld—and who was worse, Gwyn mused privately.

It was fun to watch Merrill dip into a respectful bow while Nesta stared down her nose, unimpressed and maybe even bored by the whole display. “Lady Archeron,” Merrill demurred, looking as if she’d prefer to be anywhere else. “You’re looking well.”

“You don’t,” Nesta replied in that brutal way of hers. Gwyn had to bite back a laugh, reminding herself that once Merrill left, Nesta would turn that mannerless behavior on her. 

“Well,” Merrill said as the salty air tangled a strand of her hair. “Take care of yourself, Gwyneth. If you have need of me, please write.” Gwyn nodded, certain Merrill would never respond to any letter. This wasn’t goodbye—it was a washing of the hands. Merrill had done her duty and now she was free of it. 

“Remember duty,” Merrill added, perhaps guessing the slant of Gwyn’s angry thoughts. Nesta arched a brow but said nothing, lip curling over perfectly straight teeth as she watched Merrill flounce off.

“Her hat was ugly,” Nesta declared the moment Merrill was out of earshot. The own hat, perched neatly atop Nesta coiffed golden brown hair, was very fashionable with its light pink feather and the way it tilted ever so delicately. It paired well with the deep plum of her gown that seemed out of place right before the docks. Gwyn certainly felt underdressed in green, her gown from two seasons earlier and just a tad too big. She felt inadequate in new and frustrating ways.

“So is yours,” Gwyn snapped, stepping around Nesta as two burly armed, barrel chested sailors took her trunk toward a wooden ramp that led to the ship she supposed they would sail on.

Nesta blinked. “I told Elain it was ridiculous,” she grumbled, though she didn’t remove it. Nesta merely marched in step with Gwyn, following the men now charged with their care. Gwyn had expected a sharp tongued insult, not agreement.

“Why did you let her talk you into it?”

Nesta shrugged delicate shoulders, spine impossibly straight as she walked. She looked like the one who ought to be marrying a prince—not Gwyn. Gwyn looked like her maid at best, which annoyed her further. There was something she was missing to this whole arrangement, something that would come back to harm her before she pieced it all together. 

“She can be very bossy when she sets her mind to something,” Nesta said, as if Gwyn knew anything about the Archeron sisters. They were sheltered and spoiled, appearing in the city only when something grand was happening. They otherwise kept to their estate, though there were rumors about how wild the youngest of the three were.

She sounded like more interesting company than the scowling Nesta. One thing, Gwyn supposed, was how unafraid Nesta was to give orders.

“Take us to our cabin,” Nesta demanded the moment their feet were on the softly swaying deck. Two sailors exchanged a glance but otherwise said nothing at all—they merely gestured for the pair to follow them.

“We’re not to be disturbed,” Nesta began, her words seemingly well-practiced. “You may bring our meals to us directly, but otherwise no man is to enter our chamber.”

“Who would stop us?” one of the sailors asked, clearly bitter about being bossed around by a woman.

Gwyn’s own temper got the better of her. “I will.”

Whatever they saw on her face kept them from saying much more. Gwyn waited until they were taken into a large stateroom they were clearly meant to share. Nesta turned, and the sailor, guessing her irritation, threw up his palms in defense. “You can share, or you can sleep in the bunks with everyone else. Your choice, princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed before slamming the door in his face. “Must you be so…” Gwyn trailed off, unsure what she even meant to say. Nesta understood, though.

“Because otherwise they think they can take liberties. That we’re helpless and soft and sweet—that we won’t say anything if they touch us. Now they know we’ll scream, and when we arrive at port, we’ll tell someone. They’ll think twice.”

“And with Merrill?” Gwyn demanded, arms crossed over her chest.

“Her presence offends me,” Nesta said with a shrug, as if it were a given. Gwyn couldn’t help but laugh, one hand on her stomach to keep herself from doubling over.

“Mine, too.”

“She thinks herself a great humanitarian, but she’s not. She made a lot of money taking you in, for all the good it did. Look at your dress,” Nesta said, reaching for Gwyn’s sleeve. Gwyn slapped her hand away, embarrassed and self-conscious.

“What are you talking about?”

Nesta stared for a moment, hand cradled to her chest. Those icy blue eyes seemed to be a little sad for only a moment before the emotion vanished, replaced with her usual steely gaze. “Lord Rhysand paid her a hefty stipend for your education. His father and your father were friends, I suppose.”

“No one…no one told me that,” Gwyn managed as anger and betrayal clawed up her throat. “I was working.”

So a Duke paid for Gwyn’s education, and her father had left an inheritance, all pocketed by Merrill. Gwyn turned for the door, ready to march off the ship and throttle Merrill but Nesta grabbed her wrist.

“There is no point. She’s not capable of shame.”

“So she gets away with it?” Gwyn demanded with outrage. “Does no one face consequences except me?”

“She doesn’t have to get away with it,” Nesta said slyly. “I overheard father talking, and he seems to think your marriage will elevate Merrill in a way few ladies ever achieve.”

“Of course it does,” Gwyn grumbled, sitting despondently on the floral patterned bed. “She probably orchestrated it herself.”

“I’m sure. That doesn’t mean you have to marry him,” Nesta continued, holding Gwyn’s stare. 

“He’s a prince—”

“So?” Nesta demanded. “When we arrive, simply say no and stay with me and my aunt. With the new laws that require a ladies consent, you can simply decline.”

“He’s not just some spoiled lordling,” Gwyn whispered, though the idea was spreading through her like wildfire. 

“He’s only a man,” Nesta replied, sitting beside her. “He’s not a god.”

But Gwyn knew what men could do when they didn’t get what they wanted—when they felt thwarted, especially by a lesser woman. It would become a matter of principle to punish her. To control her. He had a navy at his disposal, an army willing to kill on command, and more gold than anyone in the realm. If he wanted to find her, he would. 

And when he did, he’d punish her for daring to defy him.

Still.

The idea had roots.

—-

Azriel heard the sound of boots echoing off swaying wood before he saw Cassian in the doorway. His friend flashed a grin, arms crossed over his chest.

“Ship sailed this afternoon.”

Azriel shifted in his chair, boots reclined on his desk while he toyed with his favorite dagger absently. Turning his gaze from Cassian, he couldn’t help but smile. 

“Armed?”

“Barely,” Cassian replied, his amusement plain. “It’s a merchant ship.”

“Whose?” Azriel didn’t want to make too many enemies of the merchant class, some of whom paid money for safe passage and protection from other privateers. 

“Archeron,” Cassian said. Azriel frowned, though it changed nothing. Rhys wasn’t one of them—not really. He could make his demands, could provide them with funding, could play pirate lord when it suited him, but he wasn’t out there day to day.

He didn’t know how hard Azriel had worked to organize this ambush. How he’d intercepted that letter. The spying he’d done, the dominoes set into motion. It was now or it was never. The walls of the palace were impenetrable, even to him. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Azriel decided. It didn’t. He’d rather beg forgiveness than ask permission—Rhys would do the same, were he in Azriel’s position. “Sink the ship.”

“Aye, Captain,” Cassian said, his grin returning.

Azriel’s gaze turned toward the window overlooking the sea. With a soft exhale, he smiled, too. 

Soon.