#rip Cassian’s development

[tswaney17]

Just finished my reread of ACOSF (🥴) and I have two highlights I want to point out.

Funny how when Elain stabs a man and the blade pierces through his next, he can miraculously have a chance to heal, but when Nesta does it, he’s dead. The King of Hybern could not have survived a wound like what Elain gave him. Blood sprayed and he had it coming out of his mouth. Nesta’s severing of his head from his body only made death come quicker. But Elain’s initial stabbing would’ve killed him. She is the Kingslayer (fuck, Sarah, I hope you make this right in Elain’s book).

Gwyn had no interest in being called a Carynthian. And yet, she is still depicted as being this great Carynthian warrior (she was unconscious on the back of Emerie and put them all into danger by throwing a tantrum, let’s be real). Because Az is Carynthian and Gwyn is “Carynthian” so they must be equals… 🙄 Your supposed fav character doesn’t want to be called it.

I mean, overall, ACOSF was trash. Literally the worst in the series for me. But just hearing how much Sarah is enjoying writing the next ACOTAR book gives me hope that Elain’s book will be 🤌💋. Also, the Az bonus chapter is some of the hottest shit she’s written and that was during the subpar smut she put into ACOSF. God give me strength for their book. I’ll be on my knees as much as Azriel will be. 😉

Read my full review and highlights here.

[unhealthyfanobsession]

The most wild thing about Cassian’s feral and constant defence of anything Rhysand is that it could be such a beautiful pain rather than a confusing annoyance.

Like I love “MMC who only thinks about FMC” as much as the next person but why wasn’t Cassian allowed a SHRED of character development.

What if every time Nesta says something bad about Rhys it’s like a barely healed over scab ripping open beneath her nails. The agony of 50 years, half a century without his brother. The loss barely healed before war comes, the time never enough. Distant, they’ve still been so impossibly distant. In the same room laughing and drinking whiskey but minds entirely occupied with their own personal destruction and salvation, both bearing the name Archeron. They haven’t even had a single good day, a single complete day, where one of them wasnt heartbroken or war wasn’t beating down their door.

And the entire cauldron-damned time he was quelling rebellion in Illyria it was all he heard. Insults for the brother who gave everything to save them. Again and again, his whole life Cassian has had to fight and punch and bloody in defence of his brother. It’s instinct. He didn’t even think, lashing out with words as if his mate was Devlon. And he regretted it. Of course, the second the words left his mouth he regretted them, but … it was true, wasn’t it. In a sense, in a horrible way.

Everyone did hate Nesta.

Not the female herself, he knew, but what she reminded them of. She wore her trauma on her sleeve while they all choked and gargled on the blood still staining their hands and everyone hated her for it. Mor most of all, he guessed. An open wound, refusing to shut. It was why she was here. Why they were both here.

Fuck the money. Fuck the liquor and sex. It was the pain. The empty spot at the dining table, the aching absence in the pictures on the walls. They … well, he and Feyre, really, couldn’t stand her absence but her presence was nothing but a mirror. Reflecting everything still inside of them. Broken and raging and screaming insults at anyone who dared speak ill of his brother.

Habit, instinct, to lash out when one he loved was insulted.

He hated Nesta for hating Rhys. And he hated Rhys for hating Nesta.

Because what, in the almighty fuck, was he supposed to do with that?

When he loved them both so much.

[readychilledwine]

hi, would it he okay to request one where it’s reader x azriel and they’ve been struggling with fertility/getting pregnant. And after a while reader finds out she’s not only pregnant but with triplets😭😭 and they’re all crying happy tears together sith the ic and celebrate😭😍

I was struggling with fertility and finally got pregnant after so long and I couldn’t be happier, so seeing dad az would be so amazing, but I read ur latest post so if it’s a lot then please feel free to ignore ❤️❤️

No. This is perfect. I can do this. 💙💙

Azriel Week Day 6 Prompt - Past and Future - Threefold

Summary - After years of trying and unsuccessful attempts, you and Azriel finally receive everything you've asked and prayed for threefold.

Warnings - high-risk pregnancy, labor (nothing graphic), babies, illusions to miscarriages, inferred toll of pregnancy on mental health (its hard.)

A/n - this fit too perfectly for @azrielappreciationweek dad Az is my favorite to write as a father simply because his inner child deserves to heal 💜

Madja and Rhys held your upper body as another bout of sickness ripped through your stomach. You hadn't felt right for several days now. You were exhausted and irritable, and lately, nothing has stayed down.

Rhys pulled your hair back, rubbing small circles into your back. "I can call for Azriel, y/n," he offered again. "He's only doing some follow up things in Windhaven. There are no new issues."

Madja looked at the High Lord. Calling for him silently in her mind. It was clear to the healer what was going on, and she wanted you on bed arrest immediately. You and Azriel had been trying and struggling to have a babe for years. She inclined her head to Rhys, motioning for him to follow her.

"She's pregnant," she boldly said. "The scent is faint, meaning it's early, but her morning sickness indicates multiples." Rhysand's face fell, joy, happiness, fear, sadness all washing over him. You and Azriel were the last of the circle without children.

He and Feyre had 4, Cassian and Nesta had 2, Lucien and Elain had 2. Even Mor and Armen had adopted children. But you and Azriel? You had been trying for years now, and unsuccessful attempt after attempt had led to you two in long fights, heartache, and emotional turmoil.

"Were they even trying?"

Madja nodded at the question. "We tried one last alternative method. It was very painful for her. That's why I need you to command her to bedrest, Rhysand. For them."

The High Lord reentered the bathroom, gently picking you up after you finished brushing your teeth and began the pathway to your room. "You're done working for today. I'm calling for Azriel." Madja opened the door for him, watching as he gently set you down on the soft sheets and blankets you had already started subconsciously nesting with. "You will not leave this bed unless one of us is here with you."

The Riverhouse set food and water on the table, indicatine needed you needed to eat. "Madja, what's going on?"

The old healer looked at you. "I'll be able to give you a better answer once Azriel is here and I examine you."

Azriel flew hard. Not wanting to be away a single second longer after Rhysand's urgent message. He landed with a thud, and instantly went into Rhysand's office where he and Cassian sat in silence. "Where is she? What's wrong?"

Rhys motioned for him to sit and Cassian handed him the whiskey he was nursing. Rhys sighed, "She's pregnant. Madja thinks there's multiple. You're both done. You will distribute your missions until further notice and stay with your mate." Rhys paused as Azriel threw back the expensive whiskey. "Madja is with her and waiting for you for the exam."

You were laid back, Azriel holding your soft hand in his scarred ones near his mouth as he kissed each knuckle. Madja was glowing, hands over your abdomen. You watched her mouth twitch and Rhysand stop pacing in the corner before he started to just laugh. "You are indeed pregnant, my dear. With three healthy developing children. Maybe 6 weeks." Azriel's face fell first, looking at Rhysand in panic. "I will leave you two with your High Lord. He is aware of my opinion given your history." Madja left the from gracefully, a firm smile cemented on her face as she walked into the hallway where the Inner Circle waited.

Rhysand moved to the foot of the bed, leaned on the post as he looked between you and Azriel. "You're on bed rest. You will not leave this bed or go anywhere alone. No training. No long walks. No long trips into town. We," he motioned between himself and Azriel, "will set the nursery. You, my dearest y/n, will no longer lift a damn finger." Azriel had not moved, his eyes locked on you. Rhys took the silent message, leaving the room as Azriel moved onto the bed with you, his mouth immediately on yours as that dam broke and tears began to fall.

"3?" He asked in shock, a hand going to your stomach. "And 6 weeks? You're already to where-"

"I know," you interrupted softly. "If we can make it 2 more weeks, it'll be the furthest we've made it." Azriel's hand tilted your head to his, and he kissed you softly.

Azriel paused. "Rhys is asking Madja if she'd be willing to stay here with her own chambers. They're also all setting up a rotation to ensure one of them is always with us."

You nodded, hand going over his to rest on your stomach. "3."

"3," he whispered back.

6 weeks passed without complications. At, 12 weeks and you were halfway to that safe period Madja had promised. The healer had her hand over your stomach, glowing in her magic and happiness.

"Such healthy little heartbeats." You felt Azriel's body language relax and his hand gently squeeze yours. "Everything looks very healthy so far. I will not lift the bedrest, though."

You looked at Azriel, silently pleading for him to advocate for you and were met with a soft apologetic gaze. "No," he commanded softly. "You stay here. I stay here. We stay here." House arrest, bed rest, that was the only issue so far. You were used to your work, to running daily, to anything but this. Madja left with a small smile as Azriel whispered thank you, and you began to cry. "I know, my love-"

"No you don't. You do not know what it's like to be trapped here. I can't even go outside without Rhys or Cassian appearing out of fucking no where. I miss the sun, the grass." You took a deep breath. "I am confined to this house and it's many walls for the well being of our babies. I understand that, but what about my well being, Azriel? What about my mental health?"

Azriel looked down, your normally selfless mate. "I'm sorry, y/n, but until I know something as simple as laying in the sun won't hurt them, I will support you being in the home, maintaining low stress levels. I will see if I can find a compromise. Perhaps an atrium? I know you've always wanted one."

You woke up to that the very next day, Azriel, Rhys, Lucien, and Cassian were all shirtless with other workers. A room facing your favorite garden had been wrecked, the furniture all moved. They had started at sunrise and at nightfall it stopped. Between magic, skills, and your husband refusing a break, you had a skylit atrium. Rhysand moved to you, covered in dirt and sweat, tilting your chin to place a small kiss on your temple, then Cassian, then Lucien, the last leaving his hand ok your already large stomach for a little while with a happy smile.

Azriel was moving the furniture back, shadows assisting every step of the way. He finally entered the room, lifting you gently from the chair you were reading in, and placing you in the lounging couch he had moved into the full glass room.

"Az-"

"I love you," he interrupted. "And I'm sorry you're having to make this sacrifice for us and our family, but please know I love you. Please know I am just worried. We've lost so much, too many already. Please, y/n, meet me here. Let this be our common ground until Madja says otherwise."

You had no choice but to nod, eyes locked on the beautiful night sky you had not seen in what felt like months. "I'm hungry." Azriel smiled at the statement. His eyes lit up as he felt your gentle caving down the bond. "Could you perhaps bathe and feed me? Maybe out here?" Azriel nodded, pulling you into a deep kiss.

Before you blinked, your third trimester was half way over, and suddenly bedrest was all you could think about. You were uncomfortable, large, constantly feeling as if the babes were using you as a personal playground. You and the Twins were in the kitchen when it happened, tight pain shot through your stomach and wetness came, your hand flew to Cerridwen and she supported you immediately, screaming for Madja as she moved you to sit.

The next several hours blurred together. Rhysand appearing and having Cassian help him carry you to a tub per Madja's request. Him holding your mind as he apologized over and over.

It made sense that this was happening now. The one time there was a mission that required Azriel. The one time he was in the Mortal Lands, having to spy on the Queen furthest from your home. Rhysand held your hand through the process, Cassian helping support your body as every inch of you felt like giving up and going out.

Until that first scream came. That first wail of life. That first tiny little body handled to one of the twins, small perfect wings intact. "Push, y/n," Rhys whispered softly. "They need their siblings." It could have been but moments, possibly hours. You didn't know. But a second cry came followed by the door slamming open and Azriel running to your side, allowing Rhysand to move and help with the babes.

"I'm so sorry," you kept saying, guilt hitting you at his bittersweet joy of missing two of the babes being born. "I-"

"It's okay. I'm here for this one." Azriel kissed your temple. "Two have wings, my love. You are doing so well."

The third cry came soon after, your body wanting to be done before finally giving out as Azriel and Cassian waited for Madja to heal you the best she could. She nodded and they removed you from the tub, body absolute done as you rested in Azriel's chest.

Cassian had gone to the babes, his excitement too heavy. Soon the whole Inner Circle and Nyx sat in the room, waiting for Madja to begin the announcements. She walked one of the babies to you, "First Born, winged, healthy weight for a triplet. Boy." Azriel stilled, his grip on your hand tightening.

Rhys walked the second over, a familiar soft look in his eyes, "Second born, winged, also healthy and hungry. Boy."

Cassian was sobbing holding his little bundle, looking at Azriel and then nodding. Your mate's dam broke, handing you the two sons instantly and reaching for the baby Cassian had. "Third born. Wingless for now, we all know that won't be the case forever, though. A little smaller than Madja would like. Girl."

Azriel held her close, his eyes locked on her perfect little face as tears fell. "You promised," he reminded you gently. You were too busy, admiring your boys to even respond. They were holding hands, both searching for their sister. "Y/n."

You broke your stare, brows knit in confusion. "They're your lineage, Azriel. You know you have last say in their names." Madja and the Inner Circle now stood closer as Azriel studied the babes one by one, never letting go of his daughter.

"Ophelia," he handed her gently to you. "After my mother." He took one of the boys, stroking his little cheek softly. He was holding the second born, who was wearing a serious pout. The was the largest of the three, little wings trying to stretch already on his back. "Ramiel. Because I have a gut feeling." Nyx laughed gently, silently asking to take his cousin and get him situated for a bottle. Azriel gave him to his nephew, a look of warning on his face. He took the oldest, who immediately took a scarred finger into his tiny hands. "Opinions, love," he asked you before realizing you were feeding your daughter. "She just decided to latch on there, huh?"

"Pretty much," you looked at your oldest son, the second smallest. Face all smiles. "Arnan," you looked to Armen. "After his aunt who found the method that brought them into the world." She was at Azriel's side immediately, taking the babe from him without him even putting up a fight.

*3 months later*

You and Azriel sat in the nursery. The boys in his arms, feeding softly from bottles, your daughter in yours breastfeeding. Figuring out a schedule to ensure all of them breastfed once or twice a day had been difficult but the routine was easy now. Ophelia slept best through the night after skin to skin and breastfeeding. Arnan was less fussy in the mornings when his breakfast came directly from you. Ramiel napped better after an afternoon breast feeding. "They're holding their heads up so well," Azriel cooed. "My strong boys." He was a male obsessed and in love. He was frequently out your shared bed at night, and you'd find him, sleeping with all three of them on his broad bare chest in the nursery. He was the perfect father despite not having an example of how to be one.

"I think our sweet girl will get there soon," you kept watch on her, holding her little hand as she reached for you. "We're just a Danity little thing, though so Heaven forbid daddy has to carry and coddle us more." You teased them both as Azriel's jaw dropped.

"I can't help it, love. Look at her, look at those eyes, that nose, her little smile. I'll carry her to Spring and back by foot." He stood, burping both of the boys and laid them in their cribs before coming to sit in front of his girl. "I want her when you're done."

"You say that until they poop."

"They're so warm and happy after breastfeedings, y/n." He watched as she unlatched by choice, reaching for her father's familiar voice and he took her. "And her belly is all full. And she's so happy. My little star. The perfect ending to our family's constellation." He walked her to her crib, continuing to coo her. "All of my little stars," he turned their mobiles on, watching as they all slowly shut their eyes and then walked to you.

He left the door open a crack, escorting you to your adjoining bedroom. Once inside he kissed you, thumbs stroking your cheekbones as he did, and rested his forehead against yours. "I love you."

"I love you too. Let's go to bed. Please. They hardly napped at all today. Nyx got them that damn toy and I am still deciding if our nephew gets to live." Azriel laughed quietly, moving to the bed with a hand holding yours. "Perhaps tonight you could stay here."

He paused, staring at you as he pulled the blanket over you two. "I don't know what you're talking about." His cheeks were slightly flushed. "I always stay the night here."

You kissed his hand. "Of course you do, Azzie. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, y/n."

[violetasteracademic]

Azriel x Elain Bonus Chapter vs. Nesta x Cassian Bonus Chapter

Hello friends! What a lovely day for another text based side by side comparison. Today we are focusing on the parallels between Nesta and Cassian in their bonus chapter and Azriel and Elain in Az's bonus chapter.

The Nesta and Cassian bonus chapter has been published by Bloomsbury and easily found with a quick google search! It is called Wings and Embers.

This is in response to a comment I received on my TikTok video where I shared the same slides as my previous post comparing Mor and Az to Elain and Az, which is that Azriel only lusts after Elain. I could write a dissertation on the depth and slow development of their friendship and deep connection (Azriel staying up until three am listening to her plans for the garden, Azriel body checking Feyre out of the way so he could be the first to wish Elain a Happy Solstice, Azriel helping her with those cute potatoes and setting the table for dinner, his shadows preparing to strike when Elain's character is insulted and called boring [lol it's almost as if Sarah hears the negative things readers say about a character she loves] and so on.) but the easiest way to tackle the *lust* issue is to take a peek at the bonus chapters side by side.

Wings and Embers:

That is a h*rny man. Violently h*rny.

Nesta, in response to her own h*rniness, literally thinks Cassian has used faerie magic on her to make her feel things. Teehee. Cassian is also worried over how insane he is acting, how making a move on Nesta could disrupt the delicate balance of the inner circle.

There are reasons to not move forward with this mutual pull they feel to literally rip each other's clothes off in that exact moment, and it ends without them giving in to the desire to kiss.

Now let's compare to Azriel and Elain:

Breath catching, hands shaking, secret gifts exchanged in the dead of night.

They are going farther than they have ever gone after more than a year of brushing fingers and exchanging looks.

He is having some steamy thoughts, and her arousal drifts up to him. It is 100% mutual!

Both bat boys are described in their respective bonus chapters as thinking it was wrong or stupid to be making a move on one of the Archeron sisters, and not caring:

And both are described as being willing to beg on their knees:

I think what we are seeing here is an indication of the theme and tone for the upcoming romance. Cassian and Nesta are fiery fighters, with a million reasons why they should avoid their feelings. Azriel and Elain are full of quiet dreaming and angst and pining, with a million obstacles in their way.

But every character, in their own way, is struggling to control their desire.

Ultimately, bonus chapters are just that: bonuses. You don't have to read Cassian and Nesta's bonus to get an understanding of the relationship between them and the tone of their romance, nor is a bonus needed to understand the dynamic between Azriel and Elain.

I love Gwyn and am not discounting her presence in the bonus, of course I think most of us on the Elriel side simply perceive it is an additional show of her hidden powers. I am NOT team evil Gwyn, but we have already seen Koschei use Eris to lure Cassian and Azriel near to the crown to gain control over them. If Gwyn does have hidden lightsinger powers and she were to be put under the control of the Crown, she is a perfect character for Koschei to get his hands on as well to be used for luring purposes. This is reflected outside of the bonus chapters as well, with Nesta's powers having a reaction to Gwyn. It is not only seen in the BC, it's an *extra* moment. Gwyn is going to play a role in something, I have no doubt!

Gwyn also was in proximity to a piece of the cauldron for many years of her life, and only characters who are made or bearing made objects (Nesta and Azriel) are having these reactions to her. I think that will prove relevant.

I hope you all enjoy, and happy waiting patiently (or impatiently) for the book announcement!

[animezinglife]

Just a little anecdotal thought:

For milder-mannered, suffer-in-silence, or less obviously "passionate" women, the whole “intense feelings” thing can go one way or another--both being extreme.

You might think a guy’s attractive, shut down completely, and avoid him like the plague because it’s too much for you to handle at that point in time (for whatever reason).

You might also find yourself acting completely out of character and realize how difficult it can be to keep that behavioral anomaly reined in.

The first one’s a miserable, self-loathing experience.

The second one’s a massive headache to deal with.

But here’s the thing: both are often indicative of something being extremely intense, which a lot of these women aren’t used to feeling at all or have trained themselves so thoroughly to let their own wants slide that it never actually occurs to them to act.

They also don’t always know how to react and will drive themselves insane either fighting it or fighting everything that feels against what they know as their nature. Neither happens with lukewarm feelings or complete lack of interest.

Speaking as a completely third party objective with no personal interest or experience in the matter, I wouldn’t be so quick to rule Lucien out of Elain’s future.

No, she’s not in love with him at this point in the story—I’m not claiming that. He’s not in love with her, either. He’s taking that step forward to meet her halfway and trying to get to know her. He wants to see if it could work since the universe tied them together anyway.

If they could love each other.

Meanwhile, poor Elain who’s had everything she knows ripped out from under her gets a mating bond slapped onto her the second she emerges from the Cauldron in an entirely new body with entirely new, extreme senses.

The bond is strong. The bond isn't lukewarm at all, and she doesn't know how to handle it. She doesn't want to have this involuntary connection forced on her, especially when it's something potentially so intimate in nature.

She's not ready to confront it, so she avoids it. It's not Lucien personally she has an issue with--while she has been cold towards him, I have no doubt she hasn't enjoyed doing so and that when she's thought about it, she realizes how polite and respectful he's been throughout this jarring realization for them both.

She doesn't know him like we do: doesn't know his past, and doesn't know of his wonderful qualities, about Jesminda, the pain he's endured, and the warmth and kindness he still possesses despite it all.

Remember too the only real examples of mating bonds she has to go off of are Feyre and Rhys. Nesta and Cassian. To some extent (whether they're mates or not), Amren and Varian.

Feyre and Rhys's tension despite having been together for awhile now is always present and always palpable. It's hard not to be hit over the head with something like that as a regular human when a couple's connection is that strong and there's that much going on between them, and Elain--an already intuitive person--now has to be faced with that in all her heightened senses glory? About how public those things automatically are?

Then there's Nesta and Cassian, which she would've observed the rocky, stressful start of versus that development and where they are now. That too would be overwhelming (and likely, to a more reserved female like Elain in such capacities, a little embarrassing).

Top that all off with the man she thought she loved was taken from her by circumstances that weren't her choice and that his rejection of her was brutal. Think about how badly that must have stung and how any sense of security she might have had left was stolen away, too.

Now the universe has decided that she and Lucien of all males are mates.

Lucien, her sister's friend. That alone must imply to her he has some good qualities Feyre values.

Lucien, who her sister spends at least five minutes per internal monologue platonically thirsting over in her commentary.

Lucien, a trained courtier with a mix of elegance and mischief. A mix of refinement and masculine roughness.

Prythian can't seem to go five seconds without commenting on his attractiveness, including the villains.

The first thing he does amidst the chaos and horror is cover her with his jacket to protect her dignity and carry her gently out of the water. Someone who she, despite knowing it's not his fault, will forever to some degree associate with that terrible day (even if he was one of the few who offered her kindness).

He's kept his distance from her per her wishes. When they are around each other, he has always been polite, reserved, cautious, and respectful. He's merely offered his hand and given her every choice in terms of taking it.

Elain is overwhelmed and still healing. It's not in her nature as it was Feyre's or Nesta's to fall into whatever sort of relationship with men or males easily.

The one time she take that leap, she was hurt badly for it by a beta bitch man she thought loved her and whom she'd planned to spend the rest of her life with.

Even if everything else is overwhelming--even if a part of her may want to get to know Lucien at least a little--it wouldn't surprise me at all if she's every bit as afraid of where that might lead if she does end up feeling something beyond the bond for him.

And she very well may sense that as well: that once she takes that step, he's going to be the type she could fall in love with.

He's a chance she's not quite ready to take.

[bookofmirth]

A mating bond for Az, something that is big and important, would not happen off-pay especially in a book that isn’t ACOTAR. SJM develops relationship on paper. Some people have no comprehension.

On a upbeat note, I heard that Ember and Randall were cute!

Nope! My headcanon is that Az has felt the bond, he just doesn't recognize it for what it is because he's got his head up his ass. We saw Rhys recognize his and Feyre's in acotar, we saw Feyre learn about hers in acomaf, Lucien and Elain learned about theirs in acomaf, and Nesta and Cassian talk about when they realized they had one in acosf. Why in hell would we think that Azriel has a mating bond and he learns about it off page, and we are told about it in another series that a lot of acotar fans have zero interest in reading??

If you take away the Nesta/Az/Bryce chapter, take away Hofas, take away the Az chapter from acosf, people still have very good reason to think Az and Gwyn will be together; at the very least, they have interacted in ways that he doesn't interact with other women that he has an unhealthy attachment to. For me, just that tiny bit is a win for gwynriel.

I try to understand other people's perspectives and how they come to the conclusions they do, and the only thing I could think was that, if they are okay with their ship happening off page then they must assume that other people are also okay with their ship happening off page? They are just working with a completely different set of standards than gwynriels I guess.

Some of these theories are trying to go so deep into the page that they just blast straight through the paper and are seeing things that cannot be contained by mere cardboard, glue, and tree pulp, I guess. When actually, it's not that deep? Of course Azriel would say no.

It's far, far more damning to e*riel that he said he has no mating bond and no partner considering some people were so convinced that he and Elain were living together and pregnant at this point in the story. RIP that theory. Meanwhile, gwynriels are just sitting here twiddling their thumbs, waiting for their story to start on the actual page of the book.

Ember and Randall are cute! And I know that we have a lot of character who are 200, 400, 500 years old, but what I actually want are people who are in their 30s, 40s, and 50s being whole ass adults and not magically saving the world through pure will and gumption.

[witchthewriter]

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐍𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!  

a/n: slight mentions of violence hehe

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ  

SFW🌿

⭑ An Illyrian warrior and the Queen of Death decided that having only two people in a relationship wasn’t viable for the length of their lives. 

⭑ With fae immortality, comes an onslaught of time. And after nearly everything there is to do, Nesta became restless.

⭑ It was mostly Nesta’s idea to come up with a third in the marriage. Even though Cassian knew of men who took many wives, he never thought he’d be one of them. 

⭑ But he didn’t detest the idea -

⭑ Neither of them had anyone in mind and their search had been going on for a year before you caught Nesta’s eye

⭑ She had been frequenting the bars in Velaris, looking at how to make them better, as her job had become bigger over time. As well as being the emissary to the human world, she wanted to expand her duties. 

⭑ Rhysand was more than happy to let her do so. He was incredibly open to develop Velaris, to make it better. 

⭑ You were a barmaid, and even though time had gone on in the fae world, men still wanted to get drunk. 

⭑ You were half fae and half- illyrian. Your parents had died during one of the wars and left the deed to a run-down bar to you. 

⭑ You had sold it, and kept the money, but still wanted a job. The now-owner let you run the bar, as you knew it best. 

⭑ And that’s how Nesta met you. With a sweaty red face, and a shut leaving your lips. 

      “If you do not LEAVE, I WILL RIP OUT YOUR TONGUE AND FEED IT TO MY DOG.”

⭑ She liked you instantly 

⭑ Nesta is the living embodiment of the dark feminine, and you couldn’t resist her. Not that you wanted to resist her in the first place -

⭑ The way she spoke, her poise, the grace. It was overwhelming in the most delicious way.

⭑ Having two intimidating people as your partners makes you feel incredibly safe.

⭑ Having a sleep-in with Nesta while Cassian goes out and gets pastries for breakfast 

⭑ Cassian is in the middle while you curl into his side and Nesta holds your hand while falling asleep on his stomach

⭑ Cassian always makes you two laugh and there’s always booming laughter when the three of you are together 

⭑ You felt weird around Nesta for a while, the world is patriarchal and misogyny is embedded in everyone. So you learned that Nesta wasn’t the competition ... she was the end goal. The trophy. 

⭑ Training together and you can barely do a few push-ups. And after 10 minutes you yell, “how the hell do you do this EVERYDAY???” 

⭑ So they tell you that you do not need to. They train to be able to attack and defend - something that they would do for you without hesitation.

⭑ Therefore you do not need to train with them. During that time you can sleep, read or ... do whatever you want to

⭑ You and Cassian are such chaotic messes

⭑ Nesta always keeps you two upright 

⭑ And she IS the top

⭑ Pet names for you by Cassian are, ‘honey,’ ‘sweet-cheeks, ‘pumpkin,’ ‘sugar-pie,’

⭑ Pet names for you by Nesta are, ‘my love,’ ‘darling,’ and ‘sweetness.’ 

⭑ Rhysand quirked his eyebrow when he found out. But liked the idea. You’re a vibrant person that Rhysand likes talking to immensely 

⭑ Feyre likes you A LOT, especially because you have such passion. She loves that you can hold your own, and she sees you as another sister. 

⭑ I actually think Amren is a bit jealous of your relationship with Nesta ... 

⭑ Azriel likes you a lot (And I can kinda see you guys having him in your relationship. And not just Nesta and Cassian, Azriel and you, but a constant shift of coupling.) 

⭑ Elain doesn’t understand the dynamic and finds it somewhat blasphemous (even though she isn’t religious). But after she digests the information and sees the three of you together, she warms to the idea

⭑ Mor ... feels warmly towards you. She probably knows you from before; when you worked the bar. And she thinks you match with both Nesta and Cassian. Because you can speak up, you have your opinions and you know how to handle shitty people. 

⭑ When someone insults anyone that you guys care about Cassian is the one who has to calm both you and Nesta. 

⭑ Nesta buys you a lot of jewelry and clothes

⭑ While Cassian shows his love by spending time with you 

⭑ Doing Nesta’s hair and she doing yours

⭑ Both of you telling Cassian to stop staring while you’re both getting dressed

    “I just love you both so much-” 

⭑ Relationship Tropes: 

  ✧ Dumbass (Cassian) x Dumbass on the Rise (You) x Oh Fck I Guess They’re My Dumbasses (Nesta)

  ✧ The Adventurous (Cassian) x The Hyperactive (You) x The Unheeded Voice of Reason (Nesta)

  ✧ Big Scary (Cassian) x Medium Scary (Nesta) x Small Scary (You, still learning)

  NSFW🔞minors dni!

⭑ Nesta usually always takes the lead during sex. Especially the first few times with them. 

⭑ Cassian definitely likes to watch as the two of you feel the other’s body

⭑ Whining that Cassian’s cock won’t fit inside you, and Nesta moves behind you, letting you rest on your bare chest while she massages your clit. She cooes that it’s fine, you’ll get used to him

⭑ Cassian taking you up for a fly and cockwarming while you’re in the air 

⭑  You definitely have a Mummy and Daddy kink and they are more than happy to play those kinks out for you

⭑ Cassian would definitely be up for pegging 

⭑ Both of them eat ass

⭑ Nesta is well-groomed, as is Cassian. But they wouldn’t care about your ... hair.

⭑ In time, Azriel might be open to having a foursome. 

⭑ You guys have all the time in the world ... anything is possible ... 

⭑ Cassian and yourself are obsessed with Nesta’s tits and will sit on either side of her and play with her nipples 

⭑ Nesta reading her smutty books out loud and Cassian and you act them out. 

⭑ Cassian cumming inside of you and Nesta eating it out of you

[writtenonreceipts]

Part One // Part Two // AO3 Link

Sometimes I think I shoulda turned this into a full length 25 plus chapter fic.  Other times I remember my sanity is hanging by a thread. Enjoy the chaos of expedited plot and questionable development.

To those of you who have been patiently waiting for this conclusion: Thank you for being here! I love you.

Warnings: mentions of torture/violence, death, blood, and injury. ~13k words

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

Howling Moon--Part 3

The familiar was gone.

No matter what he tried to do, Rhys couldn’t sense it, track it, or summon it.  He’d tried everything in the hours that Feyre had been gone.  But the creature either wouldn’t, or couldn’t, reveal itself.  And that did not sit well with him.

As a new day approached, Rhys stood in the small clearing from just last night.  Nothing had changed since that strange fog had taken Feyre.  According to Mor, who was a little more versed in witches magic than he, it was a summoning charm.  Someone had been looking for Feyre and chose last night to take her.  Rhys had no idea why someone would do such a thing and without the familiar, he doubted he would ever learn anything that would give him the answers he desperately wanted.

He kicked at a loose rock and looked everything over.  Feyre’s blown out candles and the few crystals she’d brought were scattered around.  There were even sachets of herbs.  He wondered if he should collect the items or if that would be taboo or unwelcome in anyway.

He didn’t know anything about witchcraft.  His mother had tried to teach him some things, before Benham had forbidden it.  Alanna had grown up the daughter of a werewolf, but she’d always had a peculiar talent for witchcraft.  She took great pride in educating herself on the rest of the supernatural world.  Benham, a purist, couldn’t have cared less about witches.  Unless they were being burned in public again or otherwise ostracized.

Rhys tucked his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants and sighed.  As soon as Feyre had been taken; he’d begun to shift back to his human form.  It had come automatic, the urge to change, and once it began, he couldn’t stop it.  Something about Feyre being ripped away from him so suddenly churned his gut.  He’d been moments away from snapping at her, scaring the living hell out of her, and then she’d been swallowed up.  And everything changed.

Now, he was back here again, not bothering to put on anything else on the cooling autumn day.  Just sweats and a thick flannel.  

There had to be something he was missing.

Heavy footfalls sounded in the trees and Rhys turned toward them.  It didn’t take long before Cassian and Mor appeared in their wolf forms.

Cassian’s enormous shape was nearly double Mor’s and his coloring far darker than hers.  They didn’t bother shifting back to humans.  Not only would it take too long but they’d be leaving soon enough as it was.

“Anything?” Rhys asked.

No, came Cassian’s reply to his mind.

A wolf pack was psychically linked and they could communicate without actually talking.  It was easier to be done in wolf form, but since Rhys was the alpha the strain didn’t affect him as much as it might others.

No sign of the familiar.  Her scent isn’t anywhere in these woods, Cassian continued. We went as far as the borders to Vanserra’s pack.

Rhys grunted.  It was probably smart of them to stay away from Beron.  They had enough issues to deal with without any of that.

“Has Amren found anything?”

Mor shook out her golden fur. No.  But, she won’t go to Spell-Cleaver either.

“Of course she won’t,” Rhys muttered, shaking his head.  

Amren was a very interesting wolf who technically wasn’t even a part of his pack.  She preferred remaining by herself, but had decided to stick around Velaris for the time being.  She was not only stiff with pride but Rhys was certain she could kill an Attor just by looking at it.  Why she didn’t want to be the leader of her own pack, he’d never know and he didn’t want her to kill him for asking.

“Is there anything you can tell me?” Rhys pressed.

Mor and Cassian shared a look.  Then Cassian let out a great huff and flicked his nose to the East.

There is the scent of another witch.  It’s new, not been here long.  We didn’t do anything other than watch it for a few hours.  

Many witches tended to be migratory as they looked from ingredients to spells, magically enhanced ground, things of the like.  And it wasn’t like there was any immigration laws against such a thing.  Rhys tried not to worry.

Mor’s tail twitched. Nothing interesting happened.  Azriel is looking for the sisters but he hasn’t tried to contact us.

“Me either,” Rhys murmured.  He clenched his jaw and stared off into the trees.  He couldn’t help but think this might have been his fault.  For chasing after Feyre like she was the enemy and not being cognizant of another threat.  She’d told him he didn’t understand.  She’d said she was trying to help him.  “Go watch that witch.  Only to learn.  I don’t want to spook them or make them wary.”

Both Mor and Cassian turned to leave.

“Mor,” Rhys added.  She paused and he could practically see an eyebrow raise even if wolves didn’t have them. “I want to talk to you.”

Cassian pulled away and headed off into the trees where he would wait for Mor when Rhys was done with her.

She sat back and stared up at him.  For all intents and purposes, she looked utterly innocent.  Rhys shook his head.

“Who was your source?” he asked.  She didn’t move. “When you told me not to touch Feyre Archeron, you said you’d heard from someone she was the one who summoned the Attor, that she was the one hunting our pack.”

Mor shifted and Rhys could imagine her delicately brushing her hair over one shoulder or picking at a nail.

The wraiths, Mor began slowly, and I know they are just as bad as a vampire in terms of trust, but these two are smart.  They know things.  They’ve given me good intel before.  And they told me that the Archeron witches are…strange.  

“They’re witches, of course they are,” Rhys said, impatiently.

They don’t touch black magic.  At least, two of them don’t.  They haven’t spoken in years even though their coven lines are still intact.  Mor paused.  Their father disappeared two years ago.  They don’t fit into the world, Rhys.  They’ve always been different.  Especially after their matriarch died.

“And this means Feyre’s untrustworthy?”

She’s the only one that stuck around, Mor shifted in means of a shrug. And her familiar…her familiar isn’t natural.  That’s all they told me.  They said the Archeron’s are strange creatures who have strange magic.  What was I supposed to think, Rhys?  I’ll protect my pack before I see anything taint it.

From what he could tell the conversation with the wraiths had been a mere mess of circles.

Just because something took her, doesn’t mean she’s innocent, Mor added. She could be in the middle of an elaborate set up.  Your blood, Rhys, could incite some powerful magic.

“She had plenty of chances to hurt me before,” Rhys replied.  When Mor said nothing, Rhys sighed.  “Go with Cassian.  Let me know if anything strange happens with those witches.”

Mor nodded and then took off into the trees.

Rhys waited until he couldn’t hear the patter of paws in the underbrush.  He waited until a breeze wafted through the trees.  He waited until the mid-morning sun began its slow descent into the afternoon haze.

A witch needed her coven.  Even if Feyre hadn’t spoken to her coven in years, they would still be the best chance of finding her.  Wouldn’t they?

He gave one more cursory glance around the clearing before turning and heading back down the trail that would eventually take him to his car.  

Whatever Mor might say, Rhys knew Feyre wasn’t trying to trick him.  There was something telling him to trust Feyre, some subtle pull deep within him that wouldn’t let go.  So he hurried down the mountain and back to his car.  He would go to Feyre’s shop and see if there was a way to contact her sisters there.  Or if there was any sign that she’d been in trouble with anyone.  It wasn’t much, but it was the best lead he had.

…

The cellar was turning into a nightmare.  A cruel sort of nightmare that ate at every insecurity and fear Feyre had ever known.

It was small, barely more than five paces by five paces.  The doorway at the top of a small set of stairs was carefully crafted so it remained snug when closed, making everything utterly dark.  It was as though she were buried alive with a very long timetable stretched out before her.

She tried her best not to freak out.  It wouldn’t help her in the least.  The only thing it would do was alert her captor to the fact that she was frightened.  And that was a sure way to lead Feyre to even more misery and woe.

Her captor was a witch.  Amarantha.  A strange name that Feyre didn’t recognize.  Still, Feyre couldn’t help but feel that there was something familiar about her.  Feyre might have given her advice or sold her something at some point.  Or it was in the way she carried herself.  She was a confident woman who looked down on Feyre as though she were merely a worm.

She wished she knew what the woman wanted.  But all she’d done when she’d visited was flaunt Feyre’s situation and croon over the woes of being outsmarted.  It must be one hell of a plan if the one random witch you captured was the cornerstone.

Feyre scrubbed her face with her hands.  This was madness.  It really was.  She had no idea who the woman was or what she could offer her.  She was just a witch who ran a mediocre apothecary.  If Amarantha wanted real talent she would have done better going after Elain or Nesta.  

Elain with her penchant for plants and Seer work.  Nesta who could call upon death and flames.

Feyre had no specialty.  Nothing that she could claim as her own.  She was a good little witch who kept a good little apothecary.  She wasn’t anything special.  All she could do was summon a very strange, very volatile familiar.

Amarantha was sure to be disappointed by whatever she forced Feyre to offer up.

As near as Feyre could tell it had been two days since she’d been brought here.  She’d been given two water bottles for each day and a handful of granola bars.  There was a plastic bucket in the corner that she could relieve herself in.  

Realistically, Feyre knew this wasn’t the worst it could be.  She could be tied down, she could be naked and starving, she could be dead.  Nothing had been done to her beyond being trapped in the darkness.  Underground.  Which, honestly, was Feyre’s worst nightmare.  She’d long struggled with the dark, long struggled with the unknown things that could lurk in the shadows.  As a witch, she should have been able to use magic to protect herself, but Amarantha had bound her magic.

A precaution dear.  I do need your promise that you won’t do anything…rash…before I can let you have access to your powers again.

Feyre knew that Amarantha was controlling her, manipulating her into giving in.  She also knew it was only a matter of time before the other witch snapped.

“Bryaxis,” Feyre whispered, running her fingers over her tattoo.  No matter how many times she’d done so, she’d never gotten a response.  She couldn’t help but hope though.  Couldn’t help but keep waiting for that subtle presence of comfort of their bond.

She had to get out of here.  No amount of pacing or investigating the cellar door had told her anything other than what she already knew.  There was a spell in place, layered with iron and salt, that no amount of mundane persistence would alter.  Her only hope was that perhaps, Amarantha would choose to move her.

Once she got out of the cellar, her magic would come back.  She’d be able to summon Bryaxis.  She’d find help.  Maybe Rhysand—

Rhysand.

Rhys.

She’d been able to gloss over thoughts of him for a while now, but it was impossible to forget him entirely.  He thought she’d betrayed him.  It had been obvious given that look in his eyes as he’d surged over her.  She’d felt the hurt and the anger rolling off of him.  And then she’d simply vanished in a puff of smoke and magic.

Did he know what had happened?  Did he care?  Or did he simply think she’d chosen the easy way out and was never going to come back?

Those thoughts sat heavy within her.  She didn’t want him to think any of that about her.  Sure she had her reservations about werewolves, but she’d been beginning to think that Rhys was different.

As she’d been working on her own summoning charm with the Relic, she’d felt old magic pulling at her.  And when she’d been directing the magic to pick out ties to Rhys and his pack, there had been something innately powerful there.  She’d been able to feel the strength of his pack, the loyalty, the love.  Rhys was the most powerful alpha she’d ever heard of in this generation—and he cared.  He cared about his pack, about the magic he represented, and he cared about Velaris.

He’d trusted her and she hadn’t been honest with him.  Not about Bryaxis, not about the magic she was doing.  Not that she minded lying to him.  She still felt he deserved at least a little honesty.  She shouldn’t even be giving him this much thought.

Her slow descent into madness halted when the cellar door creaked open.

Fresh, cool air raced down the steps and enveloped Feyre.  She shuddered at the chill and also at the relief when golden light raced down the cellar steps.  If Feyre had to guess, she’d say afternoon was beginning to fade.

Amarantha stood at the top of the stairs, choosing not to come down to Feyre this time.  Maybe she’d just chuck the next water bottle and a granola bar at her.  But after a moment, Amarantha slowly decended into the cellar.  Her steps were light on the old wood steps, the only noise was from the groan of the old wood under strain.

Standing on the last step of stairs, Amarantha gave Feyre an assessing sort of look.  Feyre felt a chill rise on the back of her neck.  Even surrounded by wards and iron there was a distinct pulse of power around the other witch.  Feyre swallowed stiffly and lifted her chin.

“Well, little witch,” Amarantha said, “are you ready to obey?”

If she’d had any saliva left in her mouth, Feyre would have spat in the other witch’s face.  As it was, she only stared with hardened eyes and as much bravado as she could muster.

Amarantha grinned.  It was a sharp smile that could have ripped Feyre apart.

“You know you can’t escape this, dear, it will be better to just comply now,” Amarantha said.  Her lilting voice sounded so calm and assured, as though she’d already won this little game.

And maybe she had, Feyre had no idea what was going on—no idea who this witch was or what she wanted.  Amarantha had the advantage and Feyre didn’t like it.  She usually always had a plan for things or always had some inkling of an idea of what the next day would entail.  But here she was thrown in the deep end of a mad woman out for blood.

Feyre cleared her dry throat. “I don’t even know what you want.  You never did explain that.”

That same, slow smile crept across Amarantha’s face.

“You took something from me,” the witch said, “so now you will pay the price.”

Setting her jaw, Feyre didn’t waver. “That doesn’t really sound like me.  I like keeping to myself.”

Before she even had time to regret her bout of confidence, Amarantha crossed the small space of the cellar and slammed Feyre against the wall.  The breath hissed out of her lungs as pain racked up and down her spine.  Stunned by the pain, Feyre could only blink dazedly up at Amarantha.  The witch curled a hand around Feyre’s throat and squeezed.

“You killed my attor, you took the werewolf, and then,” another hard squeeze to Feyre’s throat, “you broke the contract your father created with me.”

Stars danced in Feyre’s vision as she tried to gasp for air.  But the last words Amarantha spoke left her breathless again.

“My father?” she asked, the words forced and broken.  

What was Amarantha talking about?  Her father was a lesser witch, barely capable of even simple charms.  She wouldn’t want anything to do with him.  He wouldn’t want anything to do with her.  Elias had disappeared without a trace, lost in the grief of losing her mother.  The whole reason Feyre had summoned Bryaxis in the first place was to find him.  But nothing.  Nothing but bitter silence.

Amarantha released Feyre so she slumped to the floor.  Coughing, Feyre shuddered as she tried to catch her breath.  The air in the cellar shifted, dropping colder and colder until goosebumps rose on Feyre’s arms and her breath fogged with each exhale.

“Your father,” Amarantha said, “was a lonely old man who was far too easy to manipulate.”

She crouched down until she was eye-level with Feyre.  Her bright eyes gleamed in the sliver of light that slanted through the cellar doorway.  She had an earthy scent about her; subtle and smooth.  But Feyre couldn’t help but feel fingers of dread prodding at her.  There was something unnatural about this witch.  She also didn’t like the way Amarantha spoke about her father.  While Feyre didn’t much care for the man, he wasn’t a complete fool.

“He wouldn’t align himself with you,” Feyre whispered.  Her throat still burned and chills still raced along her skin, but she was steady.  She was steady and strong and she would see this through.

“Of course he would,” Amarantha said.  She tossed her long, red hair over her shoulder and laughed. “I could give him anything he wanted.  All he had to do was summon the attor.”

“He’s not,” Feyre began to protest but Amarantha waved a dismissive hand.

“Anyone can be strong enough when they’re motivated,” Amarantha replied. “Even a man like him.  I admit he probably did have a little help, but I got what I wanted in the end, so it didn’t really matter.”

“You wanted a demon to wreak havoc for you?” Feyre raised a brow.  Sure there were plenty of supernaturals who enjoyed causing problems and mayhem and giving the humans something to piss their pants about—but summoning a demon?  Feyre could count on one hand who would be stupid enough to do that.

Amarantha slowly rose to her feet as she let out a laugh. “I’m not going to tell you all my secrets.  Just know that tomorrow you will finish what your father started for me.”

Reaching out, Amarantha patted Feyre’s cheek a little too harshly making the skin smart even after the witch retreated from the cellar.

When she was alone again, Feyre shuddered.  And not just from the cold.  She didn’t like anything about what Amarantha had said.  She didn’t like the implications about her father, the mentions of tomorrow, she didn’t like how this cellar had been set up as a holding cell long before Feyre had come here.  

She could smell the magic and feel it deep in her bones.  Salt and iron had an ageless quality to them anyways, but this…this was different.  The cellar was supposed to be carefully guarded, carefully curated.  Feyre had the distinct impression she was not the first person, or creature, to be held here.  

She held back from shuddering again.  She would not be afraid.  She would not let Amarantha defeat her, not like this.  She just had to figure out what the witch wanted and that would lead her to how to get out of this mess.

Feyre remembered the way the Attor had disintegrated around her just a little over a week ago.  Bile rose in her throat.  She didn’t relish the idea of slaughter, even if one evil creature deserved it.  But would she have a choice?

“Focus Feyre,” she muttered.  Mostly she just needed to hear herself speak, hear something other than her thudding heart of the gapping silence of the cellar.

It wasn’t hard to think of why her father would go to a witch like Amarantha: to bring back her mother.  For all of Elias’ faults; he’d loved his wife.  Not that he managed to extend that same love to his daughters.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said.  Her voice sounded dull in the small space but she would take what confidence in the words she could.

As soon as Amarantha pulled her out of the cellar, she would make a stand for herself.  She would fix whatever hell Elias had gotten their family into and put an end to this madness.

…

The next time Amarantha visited her, Feyre was determined to whittle any bit of information from the witch she could.  Because really, Feyre had no idea what Amarantha intended.

Elias may have summoned an attor for Amarantha, but since Feyre killed it after rescuing Cassian there was no getting the creature back.  No matter what Amarantha did, Feyre refused to try and summon a new one.  Besides, attor’s were very particular creatures.  Usually only warlocks or death magic could bring one about.  And now trapping Feyre, who really was nothing special.  She wasn’t even a part of a coven anymore.  Not since Elain and Nesta went their separate ways.

Feyre scrubbed a hand over her tired eyes.  She was missing something.  She had to be missing something.

It wasn’t until the door of the cellar opened and a pair of feet descended the steps in a leisurely fashion that Feyre realized just how much she’d been missing.

It wasn’t Amarantha that appeared in the stretch of late afternoon light but another face that Feyre recognized.  Pit forming in her stomach, Feyre watched the witch with icy blonde hair and pale skin come down the final few steps, hands resting on her hips as she stared at Feyre who leaned against the wall at the far end of the cellar.

“Hello, Feyre,” Ianthe said, “I’m sorry I never stopped by your shop sooner.  That spell you gave me never worked though.”

Feyre kept her expression neutral as she tried to reign in her fear.  It had only been a week ago when Ianthe had come by the shop claiming to need a summoning charm.  Feyre had dismissed it; people often came by to find trinkets and spells for whatever they needed.  Nothing major unless there was a cleansing or banishment.  But she’d never had anything dangerous happen.  Rhysand not included.

“Sorry,” Feyre replied, “no refunds.  It’s my policy.”

Ianthe gave a humorless laugh. “Oh, I have everything I need, don’t worry.”

The other witch didn’t approach Feyre, only paced a little in front of the steps of the cellar.  She wore a pair of slim fitting jeans and black sweater.  She looked more like she was ready to go to the mall then threaten Feyre with spells and magic.

“I’m surprised though,” Ianthe continued lightly, “that you didn’t see that spell for what it really was.  You’re not as smart and powerful as everyone thinks you are, hmm?”

Feyre kept her mouth shut despite how hard it was not to lash out and defend herself.  Ianthe just wanted to egg her on and feel powerful in her own right.  But she really didn’t know what Ianthe was talking about.  It had been a simple summoning charm.  A little more powerful than normal, sure, but nothing concerning.  She would have known.

“You can say that all you like if it makes you feel better,” Feyre said.  

She shrugged as she kept her position against the far wall. The good thing about dealing with a witch was that it was easier to hide fear and discomfort.  Unlike wolves or demons or the likes, witches couldn’t scent a change in someone’s temperament.  So, Ianthe likely had no idea how worried Feyre was.  She did have a good poker face after all.

“Though,” Feyre continued, “you still didn’t know your charm was missing a bonding agent—” she paused realizing what exactly she was saying. “You’re trying to summon another attor, you and Amarantha.  That’s why you needed the charm.  Kidnapping me won’t make any difference, you know.  Even if you do end up killing me and using my blood or bones or what have you.”

“I know dear,” Ianthe said.  With a mocking pout she faced Feyre and cocked her head to one side. “You’re just not special enough for a spell like this.  But you know someone who is.”

Something lurched in Feyre's gut as Ianthe’s words slowly sunk in.  Someone powerful enough to summon an attor that had been sent back to hell.  Someone powerful enough to do the impossible.  And there was really only one person Ianthe could mean.

“Rhysand Avitas is the most powerful werewolf, the most powerful supernatural really, to be seen in centuries,” Ianthe said, “and offering him up for an attor? We’d be fools not to think of it.”

“So, your grand plan is to…what?  Lure him out with me?” Feyre scoffed. “He won’t care.  He doesn’t even like me.”

Well, as near as Feyre could tell.  She and Rhys were not necessarily friends.  They simply helped each other out when the other needed it.  Argued a bit.  And sure, Rhys flirted any chance he got but that was just him.  He wouldn’t care if she lived or died.  And given how she lied about her father—

“You’re wasting your time,” Feyre said again, pushing back as many thoughts about Rhys as she could. “Sacrifice me, don't sacrifice me—I don’t care.  But either way, you aren’t going to get what you want.”

Ianthe only raised a brow. “We’ll see about that.  Rest up.  We’re leaving at nightfall.”

With that, the witch left.

Shuddering, not from the cold, Feyre pushed away from the wall and started pacing the cellar.  She knew even if Amarantha and Ianthe strung her up with a pretty bow and all the magic and money in the world—Rhys wouldn’t come.

She’d seen the look of betrayal in his eyes.  The hurt.  The anger.  He wouldn’t care if anything happened to her.

And yet…and yet Feyre couldn’t help that niggling bit of fear in the back of her mind.

What if he did come?

She’d never forgive herself if something happened to him.  She might be an arrogant prick, but he was her arrogant prick.  Come nightfall she would have to put a stop to Amarantha’s plans and pray that Rhys wasn’t stupid enough to come looking for her.

…

Rhys never thought he would have as much association with witches as he was now.  Sure, he’d admittedly been enraptured by Feyre and the help she’d provided him in recent months, years even.  But that was one witch.  One witch he’d been more than willing to spend time with.

Now, he was staring at three.  Well, two and a half if you wanted to get technical.

The inside of the Archeron apothecary was a little too crowded for the amount of magic that crackled about.  Aside from Rhys and Azriel, the other three women practically overflowed with their own magic.

Nesta Archeron’s silver-gray eyes bore into him from across the shop.  She looked a great deal like her sister with the same golden blonde hair, though Feyre’s was a bare shade lighter and she had softer features.  But the unimpressed brow raise and the confident stance were the same.

“So, you’re the one that got my sister kidnapped.” Nesta regarded him with a raised chin and almost sneer to her lips.  She wore a pair of black pants and combat boots, a leather jacket over a gray t-shirt.  

On either side were the other witches.  One full blooded, the other half.  The full-blooded witch had brown skin and dark hair twisted in a braid.  Her smooth, pretty features betrayed nothing of what she thought, but the displeasure was evident.  The third was younger than the others, only by a year or two.  Her coppery hair hung straight over one shoulder, bright teal eyes hard pressed and ready for violence.

And she was part nymph.  He could scent it on her—lily and salt and earth.  It was a strange combination, witch and nymph, but not entirely unheard of.   And for her to be accepted so readily by the two other witches...it said a lot. Witches had a tendency to have a cruel obsession with the way blood ran.  But not these.

“And you’re the sister that shows up after the damage has been done,” Rhys replied.

That earned him a smile sharp as any werewolf’s claws. 

“We don’t have time for this,” Azriel murmured from where he stood off in a far corner of the shop, near a display of obsidian blades. “Whatever has Feyre shouldn’t be left alone any longer than necessary.”

Rhys turned a glare to his brother. “Then please, tell me where the bitch is.”

He was met with a bland look of disinterest.  Az had always been the one that Rhys trusted to find out information.  Azriel always had a knack for getting what he wanted.  Except for this.

Azriel didn’t flinch under the scrutiny, merely crossed his arms over his chest.  That was all the response Rhys was going to get out of him but he could sense the answer well enough.

A strong witch makes for a strong ward.

And a strong witch made for destroying a ward.

Rhys was certainly powerful in his own rights.  There were many magical capabilities that he possessed as a werewolf beyond shifting.  But nothing he’d been able to do had broken through the wards surrounding Feyre.

“Do you know what has her?” Nesta asked.  She turned her cool gaze on Azriel.

“A witch,” Azriel replied. “A witch strong enough to call an attor and know what to do with it.”

Nesta cast a look to the brunette witch who nodded.

“Give me a minute.”  She broke away to begin sifting among the many shelves and cabinets of Feyre’s shop.  She moved carefully and didn’t cause much of a disturbance, but Rhys still didn’t like the idea of someone else rummaging around here.  Not without Feyre present.

“Emerie’s always been the best at collecting spells and knowing how best to work new ingredients into them,” Nesta explained.  “She’s done the most research out of us.  Gwyn—” a nod to the redhead— “is the muscle.”

Gwyn smiled at that and Rhys had the distinct impression that muscle would turn out to be the blandest descriptor for the witch.

He lifted his chin, attention back on Nesta. “And you?  What are your specialties?”

Nesta didn’t rise to the bait.  She looked between Rhys and his brothers before shrugging. “Nothing interesting.”

“She makes things,” Emerie called out from behind the main counter.  She already began tossing herbs and other items into a large, stone bowl.

“And kills them too,” Gwyn added.  

Nesta remained a mask of indifference.  Though after knowing Feyre for a few years now, he should have expected her sister to be much the same.  There was something far colder about the eldest Archeron though—cold and dark and violent.

“Only when it comes to it,” Nesta conceded.  

Rhys recognized the small bit of regret in her words—not remorse or sorrow—but a near resignation to the fact that death was a part of her.  It was something he knew all too well.

Sighing, Nesta relaxed just a fraction.  She met Rhys’ gaze and nodded once. “I just want to find my sister.  I felt when she vanished and I…I didn’t like it.  We may not be a real coven anymore but we still are blood sisters.  She’s in trouble.  That much I do know.”

“You have another sister, don’t you?” Az asked from his corner of the shop. “There’s three of you?  If the other were here, that might be enough to break whatever spell is masking Feyre.”

“Elain, yes,” Nesta said.  She frowned. “She’s been with the Spell-Cleaver for the past few years.”

“The warlock?” Rhys asked, unable to hide his surprise. “Why?”

Helion Spell-Cleaver was not known for taking apprentices. Nor granting favors.  Rather, the warlock enjoyed keeping secrets and causing mayhem.  Especially where wolves were concerned.

“Elain is different and that’s all you need to know.” Nesta’s walls slammed back into place and Rhys doubted they would come down the rest of the night.

“We’ll be fine,” Rhys said.  He wouldn’t take no for an answer. “And extra strength you need for the spell, my pack can provide.”

Az let out a huff of laughter. “Amren will love that.”

“My pack,” Rhys repeated coolly.

He was the damned son of Velaris, heir of the oldest bloodline of wolves left on this cauldron damned earth.  He was the one who owned his wolves and saw them safe.  He was the one who had power flowing in his veins.  He was the one who gave it freely as needed.  He was the one they called leader when the moon bled silver.

Az blinked, breaking eye contact, and acknowledged his placement in the pack.

“Cassian and Mor are finishing one last patrol,” Rhys said.  He looked to Emerie who was finishing collecting the things she needed for whatever spell they were going to cast. “I don’t want to try anything without them.”

Nesta rolled her eyes impatiently.  “Well, they better get here soon, it’s nearing midnight and the later it gets the more time there is for something to go wrong.”

Before Rhys could say anything, constructive or not, he heard the sound of running wolves outside.  The gaits were easy to identify, he’d been running with them for years.  Cassian and Mor were nearly there.  Good.

“Get the door,” he told Nesta, who scowled again at him, “my other wolves are almost here.”

She waited just long enough to almost challenge him, she was a witch after all and a different order of magic flowed in her veins, but it was enough to irk him.  Nesta finally flicked a wrist and with a small burst of magic, the front door of the shop creaked open.

Not long after that, Cassian and Mor entered.  They’d shifted surprisingly fast on their way here.  Rhys supposed that was good, having them in human form would make communication easier.  Cassian’s gaze swept over the witches; his expression unreadable.  Though, he lingered a moment longer on Nesta who glared right back.

Smirking, Cassian looked at Rhys. “All clear on the borders.”

“But there’s a strange ward up in the woods, just off of the 56th service road,” Mor added.  

Unassuming and utterly at ease, Mor much preferred the element of surprise when it came to interacting with the unknown.  And three witches were definitely unknown.  Her blonde hair was swept up into a bun, her clothes loose and simple.  But, much like Cassian, she didn’t miss anything. 

“There’s over two hundred acres of wild land out there, there’s no way to narrow anything else down,” Mor added, “but nothing else seems to be out there.  At least, not another attor.”

“The familiar isn’t around either,” Cassian added.  He wore a pair of sweats and black t-shirt that was at least one size two small.  Sometimes in a hurry, it was hard to find clothes that fit properly.

“That’s what—” Rhys began explaining about what the witches were here for, but Nesta cut him off, finally looking a little uneasy.

“What familiar?” she asked.  She looked between the four wolves. “Who has a familiar?”

“Your sister,” Rhys said, he glanced at Mor who was always the best at detecting a lie or feigned words. “She’s had him for ages by my guess.”

“No,” Nesta said slowly, “she doesn’t.  She wouldn’t, not after our father...” Nesta, for the first time that night, looked at him without any inhibition.  Genuine worry laced with confusion flashed in her eyes. “Did she ever call him by name?”

“I, don’t—” Rhys began, wishing he’d had more time to ask Feyre about the familiar.

“Bryaxis,” Cassian said, “I heard her call it that when I was taken.”

If possible, Nesta’s pale skin paled further.  The dark circles beneath her eyes became more pronounced and the angles of her face sharpened as she tilted her chin up to stare at the ceiling.

“My sister has a death wish,” Nesta murmured.  She met Rhys’ gaze and sighed. “She was trying to find out why our father disappeared.  Wouldn’t accept that he was a deadbeat warlock who didn’t care about us.  Not to mention she likes causing problems.”

Nesta crossed the shop to where Emerie was finishing whatever spell she was creating.  Quicker than Rhys could react, Nesta grabbed a silver blade from her side and dashed it across her palm.  She didn’t flinch as she held the wound over the bowl, letting a trickle of blood ooze into the concoction.  She whispered something under her breath that Rhys didn’t catch but with her words, a thin stream of smoke, iridescent and practically silver, flickered up into the air.

“Bryaxis,” Nesta said as she looked over her shoulder, “is a demon.  And if he’s not here then something is very wrong indeed.”

…

Iron shackles bit into Feyre’s wrists as Amarantha dragged her through the underbrush of the forest.  The other witch had been smart enough to cover Feyre’s head with a canvas sack.  So even though Feyre could smell the sweet pine and aged detritus, even though she could feel blackberry vines scrape her bare legs and cool night air—she couldn’t see.  And without sight Feyre had no way to know where she was.  Maybe if she wasn’t as drugged as she was…

She stumbled over a tree root, pitching forward.  The iron tugged painfully against her, magic burning flesh.  Amarantha grabbed a handful of Feyre’s hair to keep her on her feet.  

“If you take this bag off my head, I’d be able to walk better,” Feyre said, a little breathless.

“I’m not a fool,” Amarantha said.  “You can manage.”

Snorting with derision, Feyre did her best to skirt around a branch that poked her side.  “This isn’t how you confuse a werewolf you know.  They’re going to find you.  And rip you apart.”

“Oh, little witch,” Amarantha chuckled, “so young and so stupid.”

Despite the pain radiated throughout multiple points of her body, Feyre tried yanking away from Amarantha.  It was dumb, she knew, to use up her strength on an action that wouldn’t do anything, but Feyre never liked being docile.

She could smell her own blood welling on her wrists, dripping down her palms.  Her sweat was poignant with fear.  Amarantha’s nails dug into her scalp as she forced Feyre to keep a steady path.

“You haven’t figured it out yet,” Amarantha said, “such a shame.  I thought you were smarter than this.”

Feyre tried to keep her panic at bay, tried to convince herself that everything was going to be okay.  She wasn’t completely useless or helpless, she knew that.  Even if her magic was stunted right now she knew that she would find her moment to strike.

At least…she had to believe that.

“I know you’re pinning all your hopes on Rhys thinking I’m worth saving,” Feyre said.  “But you’re as stupid as I am if you believe he cares.”

She didn’t know what else beyond using Rhys’ blood (and death) to summon the attor would do—but Amarantha seemed to think it would give her immeasurable power.  Enough to bring even Velaris to its knees.

That was not a pleasant thought. 

She had to get out of this.  But breaking through iron chains and staving off day’s worth of sedatives wasn’t an easy thing to do.  Even with the flickering flame of magic that was still burning through her, Feyre would need a miracle to see this through.

If the irons were removed that would already help her connection to the earth and her real magic source.  With that she could get away and cast a cloaking charm.  And then without the outside interference she’d be able to summon Bryaxis again.  Hopefully.  But the light that usually attended her tattoo had remained winked out.

For now, she could only remain silent as Amarantha continued to drag her through the forest.

As the night chill grew stiffer Feyre used that as her grounding force.  She was fine being cold.  Could use that to remind her to stay on target.  That she was alive.  That she would get through this.  She might get hypothermia but she would get free.

Amarantha finally pulled Feyre to a stop with another sharp tug to the hair.  Feyre stumbled over her feet at the abrupt motions, nearly falling into Amarantha’s side.  She tried to break free enough to reach for the sack over her head, desperate for a return on her most needed sense.

Something hot and sharp pressed into her side through the fabric of her shirt.  The burning sensation nearly sent Feyre to her knees.  She should have known Amarantha would be so carefully prepared.  It was an iron blade that would control her just as easily as the chains would.

Feyre bit into the side of her cheek—refusing to cry out in pain.  She wouldn’t give Amarantha the satisfaction.  She tasted salt and metal as she broke skin and focused on that instead of the immense pain radiating across her side.  Amarantha hadn’t stabbed her, yet, only gave enough of a nudge with the metal that Feyre’s witch blood reacted automatically.

“Have you ever tried asking nicely? Feyre bit out, “you might actually get some success.”

She was promptly thrown to the ground.

That at least disrupted the rough sack over her head and Feyre managed to yank it off with stiff fingers.  How her hands hadn’t fallen off given the pain shooting through them at the heavy iron, she didn’t know.  But she would take what little function she had left.  While she knew iron wasn’t completely lethal, if the chains didn’t come off soon there would be irreparable damage.

She didn’t bother getting up, knowing that anymore movement would illicit Amarantha beating her further.  But Feyre managed to look around.  They were in a wide, open clearing somewhere in the middle of the woods.  They were in deep up one of the old service roads.  Feyre only knew that from the distance they drove to get here, the rough unpaved roads, and the bare glance she got when Amarantha opted to change a blindfold to a canvas sack.  Apparently, a sack was more dramatic.

Dry grass poked in through Feyre’s leggings and she could feel sharp rocks and dusty earth beneath her.  They were still surrounded by trees, towering masses of cedar and pine.  And while the fresh air tasted like an elixir in comparison to the cellar—she couldn’t let it comfort her.

Not when she saw Ianthe across the clearing already waiting for their arrival.  She was surrounded by dozens of candles.  Many were of the smaller variety, but there were also ones of the spellcaster variety with thick wax and towering flames.  Feyre also noted the circle of rocks messily created along the edge of the clearing the larger ones had been marked with runes.

Already, Feyre could feel the hum of magic in the air.

A shudder rippled down her spine.  

This was the type of magic she’d played with once, just she and Nesta, and they’d both sworn to never again use it.  It was dark and cruel like something out of Hell itself.

The one comfort Feyre could give herself was that Rhys certainly wouldn’t track her here.  Powerful or not this type of magic would confuse even the most dedicated.  Unless they were explicitly prepared.

“Get up.” Amarantha kicked Feyre in the side.  Hard.

Feyre swallowed hard, ignoring the tang of blood still coating her tongue.  Making sure to let the chains rattle as annoyingly as possible, Feyre slowly rose to her feet.  It took much more effort than she wanted to admit.

They’d been walking nearly two hours which wasn’t anything Feyre had an issue with, but combined with the iron and Amarantha’s easy deliverance of punishment her body felt stiff and worn.

“He’s not going to come,” Feyre said.  “You don’t even have a full coven.  This spell isn’t going to work.”

Amarantha only smirked. “We’ll see.”

She prodded Feyre in the back with the blade.  To avoid the risk of getting her spine snapped, Feyre moved.  

Stealing a glance at her tattoo, Feyre silently wished something had changed in the ink.  But the lupus constellation remained dimmed, even the lines connecting the individual stars seemed to fade.

Bryaxis, she thought desperately, hoping that he could still hear her.  He wouldn’t have left her.  Not yet.  Not until the debt of summoning him had been fulfilled.  

She knew summoning a demon had been stupid.  But she’d been desperate.  Not just for protection and help.  But company too.  And Bryaxis had been quick to answer her.  All he wanted?  To be in the human realm.  Oh she was certain he got into his own sort of mischief, but nothing that ever came to her attention.  So it couldn’t be all bad.  Could it?

Her mind remained silent, though, telling her that he either wasn’t near, hadn’t heard, or decided to break their bond and see her killed.

That was far from comforting.

Feyre let Amarantha prod her across the clearing until they met Ianthe.  The blonde was dressed in a dark blue gown with her hair hanging loose down her back.  Amarantha too had chosen to wear a black gown herself even to trek through the mountains.

In her leggings and sweater, Feyre was far too underdressed.  But she’d never understood why witches or warlocks felt the need to dress a certain way for their spells.  It hardly made a difference.  The runes didn’t care.  And she highly doubted the attor they wanted to summon cared either.

“Is everything ready?” Amarantha asked.

Ianthe nodded. “Yes.  All we need is the wolf.”

“Good,” Amarantha replied.  “It won’t be long; I can sense a change in the woods.”

Feyre highly doubted that, but knew her opinion was not welcome.  She lifted her hands, trying to adjust the way the iron cuffs hung on her wrists, but only succeeded in aggravating her already raw skin further.  She would be useless to help herself like this.  Even if she did manage to get away, the iron would still impede her magic and her ability to navigate the woods properly.

“You should take these off,” Feyre said, lightly.  She wiggled the chain looped between her hands. “The iron will affect your own spell.  Especially one like this.”

The other witches exchanged a look.

“I’m not a fool,” Amarantha said. “You could just as easily lash out at us and ruin everything.”

“You’ve kept me bound in iron and drugged me.” Feyre shrugged. “I’m not a threat with my magic.”

How fast the last dose of drugs was wearing off was Feyre’s own business.  If Amarantha was stupid enough to forget to dose her again, that was her own fault.

“Besides,” Feyre continued, “I know you won’t do anything to ruin what you’ve worked so hard to accomplish.”

She rattled the chains again for emphasis.  

“She won’t get far even if she does try to run,” Ianthe said.  She shrugged to Amarantha. “And she’d right about having that much iron in the circle.”

Lip twitching, Amarantha nodded once before she reached out to grab Feyre’s arm.  Her slender fingers dug into Feyre’s bicep with far too much force.  Just another set of bruises to add to the list.

Pulling a simple key from a pocket in her dress, Amarantha unlocked the cuffs at Feyre’s wrists.  The iron fell with a heavy clatter and thump against the earth.  The change was immediate.  Not just in the relief from the weight but the way Feyre’s magic breathed within her once more.  

“Oh,” she said in a relieved sigh.  Even if she wound up dead in the next five minutes, she didn’t think she’d actually care.

“Now,” Amarantha began, but she was cut off when a howl echoed through the night.

It was soon joined by another and another until a whole pack of wolves was making itself known.  They didn’t sound close, at least a few miles off.  But the low call that wavered off with careful unity and strength was nearly impossible to ignore.

Amarantha cut Feyre a knowing smile. “See?  I told you.”

Feyre didn’t answer.  Didn’t want to.  Because even if it was Rhys, he could very well just be coming to kill her.  Or it could just be a regular pack of wolves.  Even though regular wolves hardly tread in the same terrain as werewolves.

Amarantha and Ianthe wasted no time though.  They spread out a woven blanket of black with white thread of a specific design that reminded Feyre of ancient runes straight out of the Book of Breathings.  These two were idiots indeed if they were going to use such magic.  If anything, they’d all die together.

On the blanket, Ianthe spread out another iron knife, a few crystals, bundles of herbs, and bones.  From what Feyre could tell, they were animal bones, but she wouldn’t be surprised if some were human.  Especially that one that looked like a phalange.  

It wasn’t long at all that the sound of howling wolves grew closer.  Feyre tensed.  She wished she had a weapon.  Something, anything, to protect her from what was coming.

Her tattoo remained silent.  Her mind remained blank.

“Get the wards finished,” Amarantha ordered.

Ianthe scrambled as she lit a smudge of sage and herbs before she began reciting a spell.

In her own mind, Feyre started reciting a spell of her own.  Nonverbal magic was a fickle thing and there was the possibility that it wouldn’t do anything, but she had to try.  

A soft whisper brushed across her mind and she almost dismissed it as Ianthe’s spell at work.  But then it came again.  Stronger.

Feyre.

Her name.  Someone was reaching out for her.  Someone—

She heard the snarl of the wolf before she saw the giant loping frame.  Coming in straight behind Ianthe the wolf was hurtling at a speed that should have been impossible.  But the great black mass flew.  In a bounding leap he broke through the trees and came straight for the line that had been set up for the wards.

“Ianthe,” Amarantha tried to warn her friend, but she was too late.

In a flash of white snapping teeth and vicious claws the wolf attacked.

Feyre watched in horror as the wolf’s jaws snapped around Ianthe’s throat.  The witch scream in pain before she was abruptly cut off when the wolf bit down harder.  Blood oozed down Ianthe’s pale body, bubbling around the wolf’s muzzle.

The only thing that pulled Feyre’s mind out of the haze of blood and violence were the bright violet eyes that bore into her.

“Rhysand.”  There was no one else it could be.

He dropped Ianthe’s body unceremoniously leaving a thick trail of blood and saliva.  Even though one threat had been eliminated, there was still Amarantha to content with, but Rhys had eyes only for her.

Feyre.

Her name brushed across her mind once again and this time she recognized the subtle undertones accompanying it as Rhys’ voice.  How he could communicate with her while she was very much human, she didn’t know.  But just having that small bit of him was enough to anchor Feyre.

Amarantha let out a snarl of rage.  She managed to throw herself away from Rhys before he could lunge for her too, but it was only a matter of time before she had to stop running.

“Custodia!” Amarantha managed to grab the still smoldering sage and tossed it in the air completing the warding spell Ianthe had set up.  

In a pulse of magic, a nearly invisible shield extended around the clearing.  Feyre could just make out the shimmering edges of the magic as the ward extended down to the rocks that had been set up to line the clearing.

Just in time too because from a few yards to either side of where Rhys had appeared, two other wolves now came to a screeching halt.  The ward prevented them from entering the clearing, even their howls and snarls were muted.  A third wolf prowled along the edge where Feyre and Amaratha had entered not twenty minutes before.

“You can’t stop me,” Amarantha said.  She stared directly at Rhys who licked blood from his maw. “You’re too late.”

Rhys growled, low and gravelly.  His entire body shuddered and Feyre felt his own magic working against what Amarantha had done.

“She wants your blood,” Feyre said, voice surprisingly steady.  She was still a few feet away from Rhys, being unable to move from the shock and unwilling to get any closer to Ianthe’s body than was necessary. “She’s going to kill you.”

Rhys seemed to shrug unconcerned at the warning.

Feyre rolled her eyes at the dismissal.  “You shouldn’t have come.”

Another growl, this one for her specifically, that was accompanied by another word flitting across her mind. Stubborn.

And, despite it all, Feyre snorted a laugh. “Bastard.”

“Enough!” Amarantha drew herself to her full height.  Her red hair had fallen in a slight disarray around her pale face. “This ends tonight.  I will summon what is rightfully mine.”

Feyre put all her mental effort into pushing at the wards in a similar way she knew Rhys and his pack were trying to do.  But the magic was too strong.  Amarantha’s magic was at a different level than even Feyre’s.  

“And for what?” Feyre demanded.  Maybe if she could distract Amarantha long enough a weakness would appear. “An attor will betray you the second it can.”

Amarantha scoffed. “I am not so simple minded.  Do you not know the power that can come from such a creature?  One brought forth with the blood of a lycan?  I will be the most powerful witch that this age has ever seen.”

She was insane.  Absolutely.

“And you think the attor will just hand you that magic?” Feyre shook her head. “You’ll get us all killed.”

Rhys seemed to agree with the growl he gave and the threatening step he took towards Amarantha.

The witch didn’t have time for such arguments.  Quicker than Feyre could see, Amarantha flung one hand out threateningly.  It wasn’t until Rhys yelped and stumbled that Feyre realized Amarantha had thrown her iron blade.

In all the commotion, Feyre had forgotten that Amarantha even had the thing.  It wasn’t silver so it wouldn’t inflict too much damage on a werewolf, at least not enough to kill easily, but it was enough to slow Rhys down.

Feyre, knowing she had to act moved toward the disrupted blanket that had held all the needed items for the spells Amarantha and Ianthe were planning on performing.  If Feyre could just get to that second blade.  

Her magic still felt stunted within her, even as she tried to muster a bit of extra strength and speed.  She hardly made it three steps when a force slammed into her side.

Feyre went flying, skidding against the ground.  When she tried to get up the force remained pressed on her like a boulder, trying to press the life out of her.  Feyre reached for her magic, desperate for relief.  She managed a few week tendrils that flailed around her, but nothing more.

“Really, Feyre?” Amarantha sighed, not at all impressed. “I thought better of you.”

She pointed a single finger at her, enough to keep Feyre right where she was.  

Squirming and lashing out was only making it worse, but Feyre had to do something.  Rhys was already gaining his balance again and from the determined look in his eyes, he would not go down easily.  Even as blood poured from his own wound.  His abilities were already working to heal him given how the flow up blood was already easing, but werewolves were not immortal.  Given enough of a beating not even their healing magic could save them.

“Rhys, don’t,” Feyre managed to get out.

It didn’t do much good because Amarantha was already inciting another spell.  With another pained yelp, Rhys collapsed to the ground.  This time, his entire body started rippling and Feyre heard the distinct sound of snapping bones.  Amarantha had forced him to shift.

Shifting as a wolf was already uncomfortable enough, near misery.  But to be forced into it?

“Now that he’s busy,” Amarantha said.   She started a new incantation, one that caused a wind to pick up and static to rise in the air.

Feyre continued fighting against the magic that held her.  Even if her mind was alert, magic had a strange means of being bound.  It took care manipulation and care to free yourself, especially when the attacker was careful.  

Out of the corner of her eye, Feyre could see Rhys was still struggling with his forced change.  Since he hadn’t initiated it—his mind would fight against his body.  It could sometimes lead to gruesome results, but he was strong enough to withstand.  He had to be.

Outside the ward, the other wolves were still fighting to figure a way to break through.  And if Feyre wasn’t mistaken, three humans had joined them.

She didn’t dwell long on that.  Not as the sharp odor of sulfur wafted in the air.  Snapping her attention back to Amarantha, Feyre watched as the witch continued to work.  The incantation fell easily from her lips and her hands moved as though carving various runes straight into the air.  Before her a halo of red light started to form.

She was really doing, then.  She was opening a portal for the attor.  Rhys’ blood had been spilt and having Ianthe’s dead body too would likely help as an incentive.

Feyre pushed against the iron wall in her mind.  She pushed and shoved and fought with all her remaining strength.  The attor hadn’t appeared yet, she still had time to stop Amarantha.  

The thing about Amarantha was she was far too confident in her own abilities.  Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing in some cases.  But in this instant, Amarantha had severely underestimated her.

Slowly, Feyre began to pick and poke and prod at Amarantha’s threads of magic.  She could deal with stinted magic and simply attack with grit and spite and she would be fine.  Amarantha was so enraptured by the opening portal that she’d even loosened a bit of the magic that was holding Feyre down.

The portal was quickly opening, though.  The red light was darkening with thick rings of obsidian black.  It wouldn’t be long now.

Feyre started murmuring her own spells, ones that would counteract Amarantha’s.  That combined with her sheer determination and Feyre was already able to push herself onto all fours.  She looked at Rhys who was now a crumpled form.  He at least looked mostly human now.  Utterly naked, but human.

A high-pitched scream erupted from the portal.  It was near deafening and Feyre forced herself to endure it.  She didn’t have time to slow down.  She just gained her footing when light slanted from the portal.  It was bright, nearly white even with the red and black outlines of the actual portal.  The split was unsettling.

Through the open portal, a long skeletal hand forced its way through. The fingers resembled claws as they swiped at the air.  The forearm was quickly followed by a thin bicep and shoulder.  Then the face appeared.  It was just as horrible as Feyre remembered with a too wide mouth full of too sharp teeth and deadened black eyes.

There was another scream as the attor gripped the edge of the portal with one hand as the other clawed its way through next.  

“Claude portam,” Feyre whispered.  Close the gate.  Her head throbbed and her body ached and she was certain that she wasn’t actually accomplishing anything.  She nearly stumbled as she took a step toward Amarantha. “Claude portam.”

A sharp pain lanced its way across Feyre’s arm.  She looked down to see the lupus tattoo had started to glow.  Her heart skipped a beat.

Feyre looked at the portal with the attor still fighting its way out of hell.  If a portal was open and if Bryaxis hadn’t been speaking with her…

“Bryaxis,” Feyre said with as much force as she could muster. “Come to me.”

The shift was instantaneous.  

Muted static crawled through the air as the light of the portal pulsed once, twice.  The attor’s body fell back within the confines of the portal and Amarantha screamed.

The attor disappeared entirely as a black shadow poured over the lip of the portal.  The shadow slowly took shape into something twisted with long limbs and a hunched back.  Its shaggy head cocked to one side and a pair of bright yellow eyes glared out over the scene.

When Bryaxis had first appeared to her, he’d been a simple dog.  Giant to be sure, some old Irish hound if you had to give him a class.  But nothing as horrifying as the creature that emerged from the portal now.

With a long shrieking howl, Bryaxis lunged for the attor.

It was as good a distraction as any.

Feyre spun and started to look for the other iron blade.  She wouldn’t have long to get it.  She ignored the sight of Ianthe’s dead body and yanked on the ceremonial blanket.  When the blade dropped out, Feyre grabbed for it.  It burned her skin, the heat sending painful waves up her wrist and arm, but she ignored it.  She barely had time to turn before Amarantha was on her.

Beyond them Bryaxis was yanking the attor back to the portal.  The scent of sulfur and blood was heavy on the air.

Amarantha flung a spell out in Feyre’s direction, messy but true.

The air squeezed out of Feyre’s lungs, pulling a gasp from her lips as she floundered at the loss.  Her entire body convulsed as Amarantha only grinned above her.  In the distance, Feyre could hear Rhys yelling for her from his bindings.  Her name was a desperate plea left only for the gods.

“Poor little thing,” Amarantha crooned, grabbing a fistful of Feyre’s hair and yanking.  

Feyre gasped again, desperate for any bit of air to fill her lungs.  That damned spell cinched tighter.  She leaned toward Amarantha as if that would offer some relief.

“I guess you never were—”

And then Feyre struck.

Her arm snapped forward with the little energy she had left in her body, even as her vision started blackening at the edges.  The iron blade struck home in Amarantha’s gut.  Hot blood oozed from the wound as Feyre withdrew the blade and struck again and again.

Amarantha collapsed before Feyre, her lovely face still a mask of shock and pain.  As the last vestiges of air left her, Feyre’s own breath returned.

Beyond her, the portal and its hissing static gave another crackle, the red light rapidly dimming.  There was no sign of the attor as the portal slowly sunk in on itself, fading as the last vestiges of Amarantha’s power fizzed out.

Feyre flung the iron blade to the side and fell to her knees.  As she gulped down air, she was vaguely aware of someone running towards her. Two someone’s.

First, there was a great heap of black fur emerging from the black shadows of the vanished portal.  Bryaxis, whole and now a dog, loped toward her.

Second, there was the tall, broad frame of Rhysand.  He’d finally finished his transformation to his human form, but he couldn’t seem to stand properly.  Instead, he crawled to her on his hands and knees, blood still weeping from the gash on his side.

“Feyre,” Rhys spoke, voice ragged. “Feyre, are you alright?”

Bryaxis growled at the wolf and angled his body between them. “This is your doing.”

Whatever Rhys said in reply, she didn’t hear.  Another high-pitched ringing had begun screaming in the back of her head and she felt as though her entire body were about to break apart.  She only had a moment to gaze into Rhys’ violet eyes before she pitched forward and passed out.

…

She awoke to a giant, smelly mass of fur in her face.

Groaning, Feyre swatted at the fur.  At least, she tried to.  Her arms were heavy, feeling like lead cudgels that wouldn’t move.  It smelled like sweat, salt, sage, and blood.  Magic.  A familiar shade of magic she’d recognize anywhere.

Feyre opened her eyes to the pale light of dawn that stretched across her bedroom from the windows on the opposite side of the room.  She could make out her art equipment, her laundry chair, and an old spell book she’d borrowed from an old friend.  Everything was familiar and as it should be. Even the giant wolf paw that pressed against her bladder.

“Get off Brax,” she groaned, pushed against the paw and the rest of the giant body next to her.

It was then that reality caught up with her.  Her entire body pretested each of her movements and a dull ache thudded at the back of her skull.  

Too many images flashed through her mind all at once.  The woods.  The portal.  Ianthe dead on the ground.  Bryaxis twitching in pain.  Amarantha holding a knife to Rhys’ throat.  

Feyre sat up abruptly, a gasp choking in her throat.  The warm form on the bed next to her disappeared and was replaced by another and a pair of warm hands gently cupped her cheeks.

“Feyre?  Feyre, open your eyes.”  The voice held too much authority for her to ignore that she immediately obeyed. 

Rhys stared back at her, violet eyes intent and even filled with concern.  He ran a thumb over her cheek, not saying anything as he just kept watching her.

It took another minute for Feyre to find her voice and when she did speak, it was raspy and hollow. “Rhys?”

“Hello, darling,” he said, a small smile quirking one side of his mouth.  But the lilt of amusement didn’t mask the circles visible beneath his eyes or the uneasy pallor of his usually tanned skin. 

She had no idea what to say.  No idea what exactly had happened after she’d stabbed Amarantha, but she did know that Rhys’ grounding presence was keeping her from teetering over the edge.

He kept one large hand curved against her cheek while the other trailed down her arm, running in soothing circles against her skin.  He remained seated on the edge of the bed, not coming any closer and not drawing away either.  In her peripheral, Feyre noted Bryaxis’ large form perched resolutely at the door.

“Are you alright?’ Rhys asked.  His brow furrowed in concern at her continued silence.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.  Because really, she was still in shock.  She unconsciously leaned into his touch, seeking out his warmth as though it were the one thing keeping her sane.  “I don’t…All I remember…there was so much blood.”

That was enough for Feyre to break eye contact and she looked down at her hands.  They were clean, a little battered with a few scars and bruises from the iron chains, but no blood.  There should have been blood.  There should be blood because she had killed Amarantha.

As if reading her thoughts, Rhys gently tilted her chin up so she had to look at him again.

“You did what you had to do,” he said.  There was no disgust or hatred or judgment in his eyes as he spoke. “She would have killed you if you’d tried to spare her.”

He might be right, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

She could only nod in acknowledgement of his words.  If she tried to speak, she knew she would start crying.  She still needed answers though.

“What happened?” she asked, “everything is a mess in my mind right now.”

“As soon as Amarantha died, the spell she was working went with her.  It was already weakened without Ianthe that she couldn’t hold it on her own much longer.  The portal disappeared and the shields with it.  We thought,” Rhys paused as a bit of pain lanced across his features, “we thought you would go with it, vanish with the portal because she tied you to it.  Because of me.  But Bryaxis—”

“My duty has been fulfilled,” the familiar interrupted for the first time.  He hadn’t moved from his vigil by the door, but he remained perfect alert.

“I guess you’re,” Feyre agreed.  In summoning Bryaxis, Feyre really hadn't meant to bring forth a demon.  But it was an excellent means of protection.  “But you’re still here.”

“I’m a demon,” Bryaxis said, “I do as I please.”

That got a smile out of her.  The first one in ages it felt like.

Rhys let out his own huff of amusement. “He was helping to keep you tethered to this realm.  After that and we were able to reach you, we did what we could.  My pack that is.  Our magic doesn’t transfer to witches very well, and your sister and her friends were busy cleaning up after Amarantha.”

“Nesta’s here then?” Feyre asked.  She thought she’d been hallucinating.  In the wild events of what happened, Feyre had seen her sister.  She’d just never thought Nesta would come to her aide…hadn’t realized it as a possibility.

“Refused to leave until you woke up,” Rhys said, “she spent most of her time in here with you until you woke up.  But Cassian convinced her to go eat something.”

“And she didn’t kill him?” Feyre knew her sister and if there was one thing Nesta hated it was being told what to do.  Then she realized something was off about what he’d said. “How long was I out for?”

He winced slightly. “Just a day.  And a night.  Somewhere around thirty-six hours?  Mor was monitoring you.  It’s fine.”

Feyre whacked him.  It seemed the only reasonable thing to do. “You’re a prick!”

“Ow!  I’m sorry but at least you weren’t doing anything else stupid.  Ow!” 

She’d whacked him again for good measure.  Though he was smirking now so it probably wasn’t having the desired effect.

“If you murder him, mistress,” Bryaxis spoke up again, “I will gladly hide the body.”

And with that the demon disappeared in a puff of smoke, officially leaving Feyre and Rhys alone.

“I’m so glad my near-death experiences amuse you,” Feyre said.  She pulled away from Rhys now, reluctant but needed.  It wouldn’t do good to get close to him.  Not after this mess.  She wasn’t ready to get out of bed though, so she sat up a little straighter and leaned against the headboard.  Someone, Nesta most likely, had helped get her changed into a clean pair of clothes.  She now wore a lost t-shirt and sweats.  Oversized and utterly comfortable.

Rhys didn’t take the same amusement from her words.  He frowned, shaking his head. “That was the worst night of my life, Feyre.”

“Amarantha stabbed you!” she exclaimed.  How she’d let that detail slide, she didn’t know.  Feyre reached out, fully intending to yank his shirt off if necessary, just to get a look at the wound.

Rhys grabbed her wrist, careful of her own still healing wounds, and kept her at bay. “I’m fine.  Werewolf, remember?  I heal quick.”

“I thought you were dying,” Feyre said, the levity of earlier evaporating with a snap. “She stabbed you and I thought—”

She cut herself off before she said something really stupid.

Rhys tightened his hold on her, just a bit.  His fingers dug into the skin of her forearm, well clear of the iron burns and writhing black marks of holding that cursed blade.

“What did you think, Feyre?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Rhys wouldn’t let it go, however.  He leaned in close.  Close enough that his scent of salt and citrus washed over her making it obvious that he’d been weaving in and out of her unconscious state over the last day and a half.

“What did you think?” he insisted.

And, forced once again to meet that stupidly enthralling gaze of his, Feyre relented.

“I thought that I didn’t want you to die,” she whispered.

Even with all the grief he’d given her, their occasional spats, and everything in between—the last several weeks alone had allowed for a subtle shift.  It wasn’t one that Feyre knew what to make of, or if she should even examine it further.  But she knew that felt instantly better just by having him close.  Just by feeling the warmth of his body radiating against her.

The words were far more honest and bare than anything she’d admitted to anyone in her life.  Not like this.  

“Didn’t want a world without me?” Rhys teased with a smirk.

But there was no mistaking the worry in his gaze, the circles beneath his eyes, and the careful way he held himself a respectable distance away.

“That’s not funny,” Feyre said.  

Before she knew what she was doing, she was reaching out and trailing her fingers along his jaw.  A fine layer of stubble scraped her skin.  She’d wanted to touch him for ages, wanted to make sure he was a solid force.  She could still see the way his body shuddered in his forced change.  Still hear his snapping bones.

And cauldron damn her, but she’d been terrified.

Feyre didn’t know who moved first.  Maybe it was her thriving on the fact that somehow they’d survived.  Or maybe it was him acting on the simmering tension that had existed between them.  But they collided together with enough force to press Feyre into the headboard.

It was a messy kiss that was desperate and hungry.  Feyre didn’t even bother to try and restrain herself as she plunged her fingers into Rhys’ hair and pulled him closer.  All she was aware of was the rapid beat of her heart and the way her body demanded more.

She would have been perfectly content to spend the entire day just as they were with Rhys pressed against her and the promise that there was nothing else demanding their attention.

Rhys pulled back, with effort, given the small groan vibrating in the back of his throat.

“Feyre,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against hers.  There was a breathless quality to his voice and a lingering look to his gaze.  

“You’re going to tell me to go back to sleep, aren’t you?” Feyre asked, amused.  She curled her fingers through his hair, not quite willing to let him go.

“You were kidnapped and drugged,” Rhys said.  He ran a soothing hand up and down her arm until his fingers trailed along the black marks left behind from the iron blade.  “You need to rest.”

Feyre narrowed her eyes. “I’m fine.  You were the one that was stabbed.”

He left no room for argument, however, as he pulled back even further.  

“I’m going to get you something to eat,” Rhys said. “And drink.”

“Wait,” she said, “just wait.”

She didn’t even try to kiss him again but simply wrapped her arms around him.  She wouldn’t admit it, didn’t know how, but she just wanted to be held.  To have him close and not feel alone.

Rhys melted against her.  In the fold of his arms, Feyre finally felt safe.  After the nights in the cellar (even in the last weeks and months) she’d been left alone and she just wanted to feel something other than that panic, that fear.

So Feyre buried her face in the crook of his neck and let his scent wash over her.  Rhys’ lips grazed her temple and he murmured softly in her ear.  Feyre didn’t know what he said, she was already drifting back off to sleep, but it was enough to cause a small ember to burn in her chest.  She had no idea what the future held but she decided that no matter what came—it would be alright.  

end.

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

sweet mercy.

thanks for reading and to the five of you who have been patiently waiting for this conclusion. LOVE YOU! <3

[thesistersarcheron]

Pairings: Elriel, background Feysand Rating: E Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Murder, Attempted Kidnapping, Inappropriate Erections, BDSM, Blood Kink, Choking, Title from a Taylor Swift Song, Elain rips out a man’s throat with her bare hands and that’s a turn-on for Azriel Summary: When a stranger tries to kidnap Nyx during an outing to the park, Elain reacts the same way she did that day on the battlefield: by going for the throat. Azriel distracts her in the aftermath. Part 1 of 3 in the Anti-Hero series ——— Find more on my masterlist or read this fic on AO3!

Azriel wanted to kiss the blood off of Elain’s lips.

He had forgone the temptation of helping her out of her coat, simply layering the blanket atop it instead. It would be best, he reasoned, to make sure she retained whatever body heat that still lingered in her soaked dress until the danger of her going into shock passed.

It would be best not to risk starting something he wouldn’t want to stop.

“Tell me what happened.”

Elain shivered, and he pulled the blanket he’d draped over her shoulders more securely around her. She clutched the gathered material that he handed her with the red-stained hand that wasn’t clutching the tea he’d already brewed her—and Azriel had to take a deep, calming breath at the sight of it.

The windows behind her were still blackened by Rhys’s rage despite the early hour, the starless darkness undoubtedly aiding the hunt he was carrying out in the streets of Velaris.

“Do I have to? I showed Feyre…”

“It’s best to recount events like this in your own words while the memory is fresh, to cement the details in your mind before the panic strips them away,” he told her. It was all too likely that Feyre had focused on Nyx in what she’d seen in Elain’s mind, blurring out the details, but Azriel wanted—needed—the full picture. 

And if Elain had been acting on Fae instinct, the call to protect family and especially their younglings, he needed to head her off. Those impulses never came in one overwhelming tidal wave, but ebbed in and out like the tides. And if Elain were still feeling it…

He bitterly regretted letting her ride it out on her own after the battle with Hybern. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

But to do so, he needed to know everything before Elain could forget. He needed to know where else to look, who else to kill, when Rhys was finished dealing with the initial onslaught. When he was finished with helping her down from the high.

No one planned to harm a High Lord’s sister or his son alone, and no citizen of Velaris was foolish enough to attempt an attack on anyone within the city or ignorant enough to not recognize an Archeron sister or the winged babe she carried.

“I was in the park with Nyx. Feyre asked if I could take him this morning, since she had some paperwork she needed to get to,” Elain started, glancing up at him through her lashes and then back down at her tea.

From his seat on the ottoman at her feet, he nodded soothingly, reassuringly. “Did you notice anything amiss before you made it to the park?”

She bit her lip, her teeth sinking into it dangerously close to the droplet Azriel wanted to lick off of it. “No… I don’t think so.” 

“Okay. What were you doing there?”

“I was pushing Nyx on the swings, trying to let him get a little air in his wings like Cassian taught me. To develop the muscles?”

“That’s a common exercise for winged children his age,” Azriel said when she looked at him again, keeping his voice a steady murmur.

“That’s what he said. But I was helping Nyx out of the seat because he kept pointing at the merry-go-round, and then…” 

Elain’s hands started shaking, and Azriel reached out. He hesitated for a split second, and the tea sloshed over the edge of Elain’s mug and onto her fingers. She winced, and he could tell it was hurting her, burning her—

He laid one hand over hers, reveling in the feel of her soft skin beneath his scarred fingertips, and lifted the mug from it with the other.

A sharp inhale. 

“And then what happened, Elain?”

It was unfair of him to use her name, to say it in that voice, when he could practically taste that minute shift in her scent on the air between them.

“A man—a male, I mean—just appeared behind Nyx. I looked up from the swing, and he was there, and he grabbed Nyx, and all I could think was No!”

“Can you describe him for me?” 

Elain’s eyes went wide, and Azriel could have drowned in the endless black of her dilated pupils. 

He leaned in, taking a long drag of the breath she loosed. “Tall or short? High Fae or lesser faerie?”

“No… Oh, no, I’m so sorry.” Her voice was small as she hung her head, and he nearly got on his knees to meet her eyes, to convince her in whatever way he could to hold her chin up.

Instead, he merely dropped the mug into a passing wisp of shadow and lifted his hand, bypassing the lovely, silken skin of her neck that had tortured him for well over a year and cupping her cheek in his palm instead. 

“That’s okay,” he said. The sorry bastard was probably already dead at Rhys’s feet by now, his head mounted on the highest point of the moonstone palace and overlooking the entrance to the Court of Nightmares, if he’d survived whatever had happened to cause so much bloodshed in the first place. “What did you do?”

The sight of before him, her stained skin against his tainted hand, in addition to the arousal in her scent and the way she laid her head in his hand caused his trousers to grow tight. He called a shadow to his ear, desperate for distraction.

His family was just a few rooms away, Cassian dabbing the blood from Nyx’s wings and checking again for any scratches on the delicate membrane while Feyre held her son close. It didn’t matter what unrestricted access Rhys was allowing him or what change of heart he’d had to give Azriel such blatant permission to be alone with Elain—as if forbidding him had ever stopped Azriel from contacting her, from desiring her—if the entire River House heard what he did the moment he had her alone.

But Elain had evidently honed her own senses in the past year, and she took another, deeper breath, her eyes flickering to his lap.

She licked her lips, and Azriel followed the path of her tongue without a second’s thought with his thumb, collecting the moisture gathered there. It was all too reminiscent of a different wetness, one he would beg to drink directly from the source, from her, if that’s what it took…

Despite his fraying restraint, he remained seated, though he couldn’t tamp down the urge to examine the pink stain left on the pad of his thumb and then put it in his mouth, licking it clean. The heady combination of rust and honey on his tongue overcame him, dulling every other sense, and his eyelids fluttered at his first taste of her, mixed as it was with the spoils of her vicious, protective instinct.

“Oh.”

Azriel’s shadows sighed sweetly, and he opened his eyes to catch her as she rocked closer to him, pressing herself just once against the edge of the armchair, no doubt seeking friction. He stopped her with a hand on her thigh.

She would get what she needed from him, not Feyre’s chintzy furniture, after he got what he needed from her. 

And as much as he enjoyed reaping the benefits of delayed gratification and keeping his lovers on edge, he had already waited far too long to have her. 

A year should have been nothing to him, but a year without Elain? It had been crueler than any torment he could imagine. He had gotten creative enough in the dungeons beneath the Hewn City to turn even Rhys’s stomach in the interval in his desperate attempts to best it, to prove to himself that he could survive it. 

His cock ached, pushing against the fastenings of his trousers, but he forced himself to say with utmost calm, “What did you do, Elain?”

Elain blinked hard and swallowed, and he wanted to bite the column of her throat, to feel the harried beat of her pulse beneath his teeth as he took her until she was dizzy and lightheaded with pleasure.

“All I could see was Nyx and the hands trying to pull him away from me. I looked up, and then Nyx was screaming, and all I could see was that male’s neck…”

A thrill of lightning coursed through Azriel’s veins, anticipation lighting up every nerve-ending in his body. He was overcome with the scent of her arousal, jasmine and honey and rust, desire and death in one.

He knew where this was going. 

The half-moon crescents of blood crusted beneath Elain’s fingernails, the pattern of the spray against her face, her chest. The way the most forceful droplets had hit her cheek before the wound was widened, opening from a spray to a flood and then drenching her clothes. The fingers she had curled into Nyx’s onesie, leaving two perfect, bloody handprints behind.

He knew where this was going, and he had never wanted Elain more.

For better or worse, he was Illyrian. As surely as Cassian knelt at Lady Death’s altar, Azriel would dedicate himself to his gentle Kingslayer. His bloody flower-grower.

She had protected Nyx without a single moment of training. She had operated only on instinct, protecting herself and what was hers without allowing a single ounce of harm to befall him. It was like she was born for this, to deal these necessary deaths just as she pruned the rotten stems on her rose bushes.

“I don’t know what I said to him, but then I reached out with the hand that wasn’t holding Nyx, and…” She made a clawed motion with the hand that Azriel wasn’t holding, the blanket gaping open again to reveal that beautiful purple dress, and her meaning was clear.

And Azriel could hardly breathe, he needed her so badly.

“You went for the throat.”

Elain seemed to shrug, but she did it in the elegant way Elain Archeron did everything—the way that always left Azriel second-guessing all those years of training to make him smooth, silent courtier, a shadowsinger schooled in spying and stealth, and the worst of the nightmares in Rhys’s father’s court.

He loved her. 

He loved every sweet, graceful, vicious part of her.

It wasn’t a revelation. He had loved her for years now. He had loved her since she pressed Truth-Teller into his hand after she saved his brother’s life, as clean and sharp as if it had never been sawn through a king’s neck. He loved her enough to risk touching her in a house where her mate slept entirely unaware of his transgression, enough to spend thirteen months afterward skirting the orders of his High Lord to slip a letter to her through the shadows every day. 

He loved her enough not to ask her to burn those letters after she read them; let her keep them if she must, if she needed the reminder that he loved her. That he loved her, and that he wanted to be with her even if he could not speak to her. Let another spy find them, let her publish them in the newspapers. Let Cassian fly her up to the highest balcony in the House of Wind to throw them into Velaris on the breeze. Let Mor or Feyre snoop through her things and share with Rhys the proof in ink and parchment that he had a heart, and that it belonged to Elain Archeron.

Let her tie his daily confessions up with a ribbon and spritz them all with her perfume and mark the envelope on top with her peony-pink lipstick before she delivered the parcel to her mate. 

Let her damn him.

She could do with him as she pleased.

“He grabbed me, but I just… held tighter and pulled until he stopped,” Elain said, lifting her arm for him to see, and the world went black.

Underneath the mess on Elain’s sleeve, beneath the addicting scent of his female and someone else’s blood, Azriel smelled the pungent, burnt wool. A single black handprint lay singed into the creamy fabric at her wrist.

The shadows screamed, fury unbound, and Azriel’s list of suspects narrowed to only five names. 

Four.

Only four males were power-hungry and stupid and most likely scared enough of the power the Night Court had been amassing since ending Koschei to attack Rhysand’s family in his own city.

Vanserra.

A mate couldn’t inflict that sort of damage, and an ally who knew what just one Archeron was capable of creating wouldn’t dare, but Azriel knew that one of their brothers might. Damn them all to hell, their High Lord might.

It was only the wards on the River House keeping him in place, dragging him back and stopping him from winnowing directly into the woods beyond the Forest House and finishing what Elain had started. Had they been targeting Nyx… or had they wanted her? To make an example of her like they had Lucien’s lesser faerie lover?

He was frozen with rage, the chill making his limbs go stiff, but with that thought came one far more welcome: regardless of which member of the Night Court’s royal family that Autumn wanted, Rhys had no need to play nice any longer. They would have no need to wait out Eris’s endless plot to assassinate his own father.

At least four Vanserra males were as good as dead the moment Elain walked through Rhysand’s door covered in blood. What was one more if Elain’s mate called a Blood Duel?

Would he call a Blood Duel, after he watched the Night Court cut down his kin?

His heart thundered in his chest, pounding a bruising beat against his breastbone. Kissing her wouldn’t be the sacrilege he once thought it was, would it, if her hands were as sullied as his own?

He lowered his head to hers, forehead to forehead.

Her eyes were heavily lidded, her lips parting. Beneath the blood on her cheeks, her pretty blush deepened to a rosy pink. She twisted the hand he still held until their fingers were entwined, and she breathed, “Azriel.”

And Azriel stole his first kiss from her.

He started with the drying bead of crimson liquid cradled in the bow of her lips and licked her mouth clean, tangling his tongue with hers when she opened herself to him. 

He savored the sweet, metallic taste of death on her lips.

[impossiblescissorspeachpaper]

Come back Nesta, please

This is perhaps the silliest thing I’ve ever written. Honestly it’s ridiculous. But considering Nike has her own Cassian at home I’m sure she can relate to these antics. Maybe :)

Happy birthday @nikethestatue! It’s been so lovely getting to know you this year and honestly I cannot imagine a day going past without chatting with you. Not only are you strong and intelligent, but you are so generous and truly care about your friends. So, here’s a little drabble of ridiculousness just for you. Don’t ever leave your Cassian 🤭 lots of love to you today, and always 💕

Bat boys + background Nessian. 1.3k words. Fluff/idiocy.

The final bars of a moody Mariah Carey song blasted through the tiny apartment Azriel shared with his brothers. It was tough being a fresh university graduate and they all told themselves the living situation was temporary, but really, it was second nature.  Azriel, Cassian and Rhys had all been living together since Rhys’ mother had fostered the other two boys when they were eleven and even shared a dorm during their college years.

It felt like home for Azriel, and he really didn’t mind it. That is, until last night. When Cassian had decided to incessantly play that fucking song on repeat. That whiny, depressing, shrill song. We Belong Together. Over and over and over.

Sure, Mariah could croon with the best of them, but his last nerve was fraying. Her voice was blasting though the speakers and echoing down the hall from Cassian’s room where he’d been holed up for about fourteen hours now and Azriel had developed a tick in his jaw.

Rhys, even more infuriatingly, seemed unperturbed.

Azriel tried to concentrate on the words he was typing on the resume he was updating to send to prospective jobs he intended to apply to. His jaw clenched as he deleted the last line he’d messed up, backspacing aggressively.

As the final notes of the tune faded off, he breathed a sigh of relief… before he heard that insufferable song start up. Again.

Slamming his laptop closed, Azriel only saw red as he muttered darkly, “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

Rhys’ head snapped up from his phone at the violent declaration, lazily sprawled in a brown leather armchair, one leg hitched up on the armrest. He sat up at attention when he spied the livid look on Azriel’s face.

“Wait. Az. Stop—”

Abruptly standing from the couch, Azriel shoved his laptop aside as he trudged down the hall, his footfalls stomping loudly, ensuring Cassian would be well aware of the onslaught that was heading his way.

Azriel didn’t even turn around as he growled back, “It’s been long enough! And if I have to hear that gods damned song one more fucking time—”

“He’s just upset, leave him be. You know what Cass is like,” Rhys reasoned, trailing after Az as he barrelled down the hall.

Azriel had reached Cassian’s room and, not bothering to knock, he burst through the door with such force Rhys was surprised it hadn’t been ripped clean off the hinges.

…I should have held on tight, I never should have let you go I didn’t know nothing I was stupid I was foolish, I was lying to myself…

The song pounded through the small space, like a wave engulfing them as Azriel opened the door. The melody ricocheted off the walls of the tiny bedroom, the curtains drawn tightly closed, Cassian seemingly intent on giving the room a cave like quality in his melancholy.

Peering around Azriel’s shoulder, Rhys spied the most pathetic sight he’d possibly ever seen: lying feebly in his bed like an 18th century maiden who had taken ill and required to either be shipped off to a distant aunts’ home by the sea or await her demise on her deathbed, was Cassian.

If Azriel hadn’t been so irritated, he would have laughed, then perhaps felt a little bad for the guy. But as it were, he was just annoyed.

“Cass!” Azriel shouted over the loud music. “Turn that shit down, or turn that shit off, but either way I do NOT want to hear it again!”

Cassian turned his hazel eyes onto his brothers, now both standing in the doorway; Azriel’s face twisted in a look of disgruntled rage, while Rhys’ mouth seemed to be wobbling, either trying not to burst out laughing or truly feeling sorry for his friend.

From his bed, he curled into a foetal position on top of his duvet, clutching his pillow with the most wretched, forlorn looking expression on his face. After a beat of silence between the brothers, Cassian just dramatically started singing along to the words, intent to ignore Azriel’s requests to turn it off.

“When you left I lost a part of me, it’s still so hard to believe, come back baby please, ‘cause we belong together.”

Azriel just exhaled through flared nostrils. “For fucks sake, Cass—”

“Who else am I gonna lean on when times get tough…”

Rhys, this time interjected. “She didn’t even—”

Cassian only got louder, singing over his brothers’ fruitless reasoning. “WHO’S GOING TO TALK TO ME ON THE PHONE ‘TIL THE SUN COMES UP?”

“Cass. She’s only—”

“WHO’S GON’ TAKE YOUR PLACE THERE AIN’T NOBODY BETTER OH BABY, BABY, WE BELONG TOGETHERRR!”

Azriel and Rhys could only stand there dumbfounded, each with various shades of disbelief and incredulity splashed across their faces.

Rhys leaned towards Azriel, his eyes flaring in alarm and flicking towards Cassian before landing back on Az. “You’d think after draining the life out of that song repeatedly for the last 14 hours he’d know the words,” Rhys muttered from the corner of his mouth, a smirk fighting its way across his lips.

Azriel pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply, trying to fight the urge to straddle Cassian where he lay and suffocate him with his own pillow. Instead, he just stomped to Cassian’s desk and turned down the volume, Mariah reduced to background noise as his brain finally cleared of its rage induced fog.

“Cassian, get a fucking grip, man!”

“You don’t understand!” Cassian started heatedly, sitting up on his bed, his hair ruffled and matted behind him.

“It’s really not that bad, Cass,” Rhys placated, leaning against the door jamb, his arms crossed against his chest.

Cassian scoffed. “Easy for you to say. Feyre didn’t just up and leave you!”

“Oh my god,” Rhys sighed. “Nesta did not just up and leave you!”

“She did! She’s gone, she’s not here!”

“She is on student exchange for two weeks. TWO GOD DAMN WEEKS! You’re acting like she ran off with her yoga instructor,” Azriel exasperated, arms flailing around him as he tried to make his brother see reason and stop the insanity.

Cassian narrowed his eyes, before hurling his pillow at Azriel’s face.

“At least I express how I feel. Pined after Elain much, lately?”

Azriel caught the pillow and promptly launched it back at him.

“I don’t pine! And she has a boyfriend.”

“She dumped him months ago!”

Rhys interjected, sensing one of their infamous brawls brewing, and he didn’t feel like replacing a lamp or cleaning up pieces of broken desk tonight. “Cass, why don’t you just call Nesta? She wouldn’t be starting classes straight away.”

Cassian averted his gaze, a look of sheepishness fleeting across his rough-hewn face. “I tried. I don’t think she’s landed in Japan yet.”

Azriel snorted and Cassian cast narrowed hazel eyes in his direction, as if daring him to say something. Rhys swallowed his lips, smothering his own desire to make fun of his friend as he grabbed Azriel by the shoulder and led him out.

“Well, come out when you get hungry. We ordered pizza…”

Cassian just grunted in response as Rhys closed the door behind them.

They hadn’t reached halfway back down the hall when the music started blaring through the corridor again, Mariah serenading them all once more, to Azriel’s dismay.

“Nesta better not extend her exchange program. I’ll be throwing a sack over his head and abandoning him in a forest otherwise,” Azriel muttered.

Rhys just chuckled, clapping his brother on the shoulder before responding, “It would be no use anyway, he’d eventually find his way back home. He’s incredibly needy.”

*******

tagging: @offtorivendell @fawnandshadows @swankii-art-teacher @pagemasters @the-laughing-bubble @sakurakittypeach @tswaney17 @wingedblooms @thefangirlofhp @alwayssara @ultadverb

[jyndor]

I don’t mind that Cassian isn’t from Fest but like. There are so many holes in the alternative explanation. Like how it says his father was killed on Carida protesting the Clone War. Carida is most definitely not Ferrix and Clem was killed after the war. You’ve got Wookieepedia saying Cassian’s biological father was the one killed on Carida, but what was he doing there instead of on Kenari? He didn’t leave to fight the Separatists because apparently they hadn’t become a thing by the time Kassa was found. How did the rebels even know Cassian’s biological dad was killed on Carida if he’d been adopted by the Andors before it happened, after he was long gone? Did he go on a quest to find his real father, just like his search for his sister, and find out about that happening? Actually that makes some amount of sense. But still, HOW DID HIS DAD END UP ON CARIDA????

im assuming jeron andor's entire story has been wiped including the carida protest. his biological parents probably died on kenari. i do have a problem with fest being retconned but i doubt it impacts most viewers at all - they probably don't know he was originally from fest XD the fact that they actually addressed it in the show was surprising tbh and a good example of how to deal with retconning IMO.

BUT i still miss fest and so in the fics im working on (multiple wips lmfao rip to me) i've developed a backstory for clem that has him from fest, an idea i didn't come up with, i just forget who i saw come up with it :(((((( im sorry i usually like to credit people for their ideas so if you think you thought of it first please lmk

[shallyne]

SJM Romanceweek Day Seven

Office Crush

I wouldn't dare ending the week with any other ship than my comfort ship. FEYSAAAAAAND! For @sjmromanceweek edited by @midnightgoldstone

Words: 2,783

TW: none

Feyre and Rhys have little crushes on each other and one day Rhys is brave enough to talk to Feyre

Feyre looked at the little piece of paper in her hand. She had turned it and just stared at it, for nearly an hour now, in awe. Awe, and maybe a little bit of shock, because never in her life would she have thought that she would hold this tiny scrap of paper in her hand. It felt sacred, it felt holy. It felt like she held her hopes in her hands. She smiled again when she saw what was scribbled on the paper: Rhysand’s phone number. Feyre took the phone from her nightstand, hoping that she could turn it on now. Her battery was dead when she met Rhysand today, so he had to quickly write his number on a ripped piece from an old bill. They had then parted ways but now that it was charged, she could save his number and text him. Today was the first time they had talked at all. They worked in the same office building but Feyre had just started there a few months ago. Which was enough time to develop a huge crush on Rhys, who was her boss' son. She just watched him sometimes from afar, how effortlessly he seemed to sway people and how his movements seemed so graceful. Today, he stopped at Feyre's desk and started talking about the band shirt she wore under her blazer. A blush had crept on her cheeks, bracing herself for a scolding but he had complimented her and they quickly fell into a discussion about music. 

Feyre's smile didn't falter as she typed the message. 

>> Hey! It's Feyre, from the office. My phone is fully charged again! It was nice talking to you today

She pressed send before she could change her mind and change things forty times before she sent the exact same text as before. So Feyre just looked at the message and watched as sent turned into seen which turned into writing… she panicked and threw her phone on the foot of her bed, hiding her face in the pillows. She didn't dare look up when her phone vibrated. 

Rhys was only half listening to the conversation that Cassian and Mor had during dinner. Knowing his brother and his Cousin, half of it consisted of flinging insults at each other. The whole time Rhys was acutely aware of the phone in his pocket, waiting for a message from a specific person to arrive. Rhys had watched Feyre a few times across the office since she had started at his father's company. He often planned to talk to her but he always found himself suddenly nervous and focused on other tasks, cursing himself when Feyre left the office. He was an idiot. Then he saw her wearing a shirt of his favorite band and prayed that it wasn't just an old or borrowed shirt, he took that chance to talk to her. Rhys finally asked for her number but Feyres battery was dead and Rhys had forgotten his phone in his car, so he quickly wrote down his number. He then had to leave for another meeting and when he was done, Feyre already went home, to his disappointment. 

After some drinks, Rhys said goodbye to his family, Mor and Cassian pressing  kisses to his cheek, and went to his bedroom. He checked if there was a message he maybe didn't hear, but nothing. Sighing, Rhys threw his phone on his bed before getting rid of his jacket and the tie he already loosened during dinner. He had just opened the second button of his shirt when his phone vibrated. Rhys hurried his bed and snatched the phone up to open the message.

Unknown Number:

>> Hey! It's Feyre, from the office. My phone is fully charged again! It was nice talking to you today

Rhys smiled as his eyes roved over the message again and again, abandoning the last few tasks of the day as he thought about a response. He started writing his response a few times but he deleted and rewrote it because it just wasn't good enough for Feyre. He probably would have spent all evening putting together a response but when he saw that Feyre was online, he put himself together and just answered. 

>> Feyre Darling, I'm glad to hear back from you. It was a pleasure talking to you, I hope we can repeat that soon, preferably not between meetings and with a cup of coffee in our hands

He was surprised that the sent under his message immediately turned into seen and she started writing. Rhys let himself fall back in his bed and waited for the message. 

Feyre Archeron:

>> a pleasjre indeed! Your calendar is probably packed, so just tell me when you want to grab a coffee

>> pleasure* sorry I have paint on my fingers

Rhys chuckled as he typed his response. 

>> My calendar IS packed but I'll always make time for you

Feyre let out a huff when she put the coffee pot back into the machine and picked up her cup. She was tired and even though it ran deep, she wouldn't change anything about it. Rhys and Feyre started texting frequently as he was away on a trip for the last few days. Last night they lost sight of time and when Feyre took a look at the clock, it was suddenly four in the morning and they still talked for a full hour afterwards. Yes, she was tired but if that was the price she had to pay to talk to Rhys, then so be it. 

She was glad that there wasn't much going on in the office today. Two days after Rhys went on a work trip, her boss had to travel somewhere too. He took quite a team with him on this trip but Feyre wouldn't ask questions because that was not in her pay range. Since the boss was out, there also weren't any meetings which meant there weren't a lot of people running around. 

Grabbing the cup like her life depends on it, Feyre went back to her desk. She threw a quick wave to Aranea as she passed her desk. She's in her mid 50's and one morning they started talking. Aranea told Feyre that she started weaving after she lost her husband and Feyre in return told her about her painting. They became quick friends who gossiped during their breaks about half the office and sometimes, Feyre even joined Aranea when she took her dog to the dog park. 

When Feyre neared her desk she was greeted by the familiar sight of Rhys's backside. Shit, shit, shit. She took the time he was typing something on his phone to check her reflection on a glass panel beside her. She should have washed her hair this morning but she wanted to take the time to sleep. Why did she use the time to sleep?! She was tired either way! Feyre fixed her hair as best as she could and then put on her most welcome smile. The moment she turned around, Rhys put his phone down and looked back, directly at her. Feyre's smile became softer as she stepped closer, "Rhysand!" she said. 

"Are we back to Rhysand? I thought we left that behind us," Rhys said, humor dancing in his eyes. 

Feyre took a sip of her coffee. Did they? They definitely did in private but now they were at work and Feyre assumed here they kept it all strictly professional. She didn't even expect to talk to him during their work times. It was almost like Rhys could read her mind as his gaze became softer and he said, "Rhys is fine." 

"Okay, Rhys," Feyre said. "I did not expect you to be back today." 

He shrugged. "We seemed to pretty much agree on most things so I was able to fly home earlier," he told her. "I landed about an hour ago." 

"And you're already working?" Feyre asked, grinning. 

Rhys snorted. "No. I'm here to take you out for lunch." 

Feyre looked around the office. The few people that were working did not seem to listen to their conversation. "Rhys-" 

"It's just lunch, I promise. As innocent as you want it to be," he said. Feyre rolled her eyes and punched his arm, but she smiled and said, "Alright. Lunch, then." 

He smiled brightly and turned her towards the elevators. Feyre quickly put down her cup as he took her hand and pulled her with him. "Now?" she asked. "I can't just-" 

"As far as it looked to me, you're done with everything. It's just waiting until your shift is over now. Don't worry, you'll get paid and you won't get in trouble," Rhys said and pressed the elevator button. Feyre threw him a doubting glance and the smug grin that she saw so often was plastered on his face. "I'll make sure of it, I promise." 

Rhys did not let go of Feyre's hand as they entered the empty elevator and he pressed the button. He continued to not let go of her hand as he led her to his car. On their way Rhys told her about his flight and the people he met at the meetings. 

The restaurant he took her to was wholly different from what Feyre had expected. It wasn't big and fancy, it was a small, cozy restaurant on the Sidra. Feyre was glad because it took away a big part of her nervousness, especially as they entered and Rhys greeted the owner with a hug. She introduced herself as Sevenda and got them a table with an overview of the Sidra. Rhys smiled brightly at Feyre, "Be ready to taste the best food ever made." 

"That good?" Feyre asked, smiling. 

Rhys's smile didn't falter as he said, "You'll see." 

He was right, it was the best food Feyre had ever tasted and Feyre told Sevenda as much when she came checking on them. During their meal, Feyre asked Rhys some questions. After he answered them, he then turned the attention back to Feyre and asked her about the painting she was working on - the painting she had worked on as they talked late at night. She hadn't told him what she was painting and she wouldn't tell him now that it had turned into a portrait of him. She told him about her progress though and he listened as she started talking about unnecessary details. He smiled even though Feyre would think she'd sound like a madwoman. 

"What?" Feyre asked when Rhys looked over at Feyre for the fifth time without saying anything. 

Rhys put down his fork and wiped his hands on the napkin. "Are you free on Friday?" 

"For what?" Feyre asked, as if she didn't know what came next. 

"I want to take you out on a date," Rhys said. He played with the napkin and Feyre had the sense that he was nervous; she had never seen him nervous. She smiled softly, "Isn't this a date?" 

"Is it?" 

"A lunch date." 

Rhys huffed a laugh, "It is, I want to take you out on a proper date though, let me be a gentleman." 

"I don't know, you already are a gentleman," Feyre said. "But I'm free Friday evening." 

Rhys's eyes shone like a thousand stars as he answered, "Perfect, I'll pick you up at seven." He put down the napkin that he nervously played with, "I can't wait." 

Rhys had parked a street down from Feyre's apartment because he was way too early. He didn’t want to leave her waiting and left early in case the traffic would be a nightmare. It wasn't, the traffic was fine and he still had half an hour until he was supposed to pick her up, but he would not stand on her front step thirty minutes early like an idiot. He also didn't want to risk her seeing his car already outside and stress her out, so he just parked the street down and waited. He looked at his phone but he didn't actually read anything - his thoughts wandered back to Feyre whenever he tried to focus. He sighed and looked at the time. Twenty nine minutes to go. Rhys sighed and looked at the ceiling of his car and though it seemed impossible in that moment, he managed to kill the next twenty nine minutes and parked perfectly on time in front of Feyre's apartment building. He took a deep breath and got out, walking towards the front door. He definitely should get his shit together soon. Rhys never was that nervous when he went on a date and he didn't want to creep Feyre out. 

To his surprise, halfway on his way to the front door the door already opened and Feyre slipped out. She was slightly out of breath when she said "Hey!" Feyre smiled at him. "I saw you parking and already came downstairs."

Rhys couldn't answer directly. He felt like someone knocked the air out of his lungs when he took a look at Feyre. She always looked stunning, but tonight she looked drop-dead gorgeous. So, Rhys just smiled until he found words again, "We should get going, I made a reservation." He held his arm out for her to take and she did. As they walked down the three stairs in front of the building, Rhys spoke into Feyre's ear, so close that he could smell her lilac and pear scent, "You look exquisite, Feyre Darling." 

Feyre looked up at him, still a smile on her lips, not trying to hide her blush and answered "You too," she tightened her grip on his arm. "Look handsome, I mean." 

"Oh, I know," Rhys smirked. She slapped his arm with her free hand but laughed. The sound reverberated through him and was nearly his undoing, but Rhys caught himself and opened the car door for Feyre. 

As they were driving to the restaurant, their conversation was easy - as if they never did anything else. 

The whole evening felt extremely easy and comfortable with Feyre. They talked about everything, Rhys talked about his family and Feyre talked about painting. They talked about college and jobs and dreams.  Everything. 

That evening when Rhys brought Feyre home and was about to get back to his car, she asked him to say. He did. 

Feyre could not sit still. She couldn't even stand still at this point. She was walking and jumping and dancing through Rhys's apartment, waiting for Mor, Cassian, Azriel and Amren to arrive. Feyre adjusted the vase with the bouquet of flowers that Rhys got her at least five times. Not because they looked out of place anywhere but because she needed something to do. 

Rhys just entered the living room, the only sign that he saw that the vase was moved again was a little smile and a quick gaze in its direction. "Mor is on her way upstairs," Rhys said, stopping in front of Feyre. She smiled, put her hands on Rhys's arms and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth. "Remember that we're waiting until they all arrive to tell them." 

Feyre rolled her eyes, "I can be patient." Rhys just chuckled and pulled her closer, kissing her again. Longer than before, softer and patient. 

"Stop the smooching, I want to hear about your trip!" Mor interrupted them. Feyre pushed Rhys away, turning to her best friend. "Rhys proposed to me!" Feyre said, grinning brightly. 

Rhys muttered something under his breath. Feyre didn't pay much attention to it as Mor threw her arms around her. *Oh my god, congrats! You said yes, didn't you?"

"Of course I did," Feyre said. 

Mor laughed as she walked to Rhys and hugged him "What a surprise!" 

"Actually we wanted to surprise you all together," Rhys chuckled and looked at Feyre, who grinned and shrugged in return. 

"Surprise us with what?" Cassian's deep voice sounded from the entrance. He entered the living room, followed by Amren and Azriel. Amren snorted, "Did Rhysand finally propose or what?" 

Feyre and Rhys looked at each other, which was enough for Cassian to let out an excited "Whoop!" followed by him picking up Rhys. Amren walked over to Feyre, taking her hand and inspecting the sapphire ring. She nodded approvingly and said, "Congrats, girl." Azriel hugged her next, congratulating her. Then it was Feyre's turn to get picked up by Cassian. She squealed and slapped his shoulder. "Let me down, you maniac!" she laughed, all the while Mor already opened the champagne. 

As they all settled in and calmed down, Feyre slid her arms around Rhys's waist and watched them all, proud to have found her family. 

[silverdreamscapes]

Azriel and Rhys’ conversation in the bonus shouldn’t be taken at face value

There’s been a lot of discussion about the POV, specifically Elain, Gwyn, and the necklace. But for me the most interesting part was the conversation between Azriel and Rhys, and I have a slightly different perspective than some. I don’t think the conversation is something we can take at face value.

Firstly Rhys. I’ve seen a lot of people use his reaction to catching Elriel almost kissing as some sort of proof that Rhys sees Azriel as toxic towards Elain and shouldn’t be with her or they wouldn’t be good for each other. Except, his reaction has nothing to do with Azriel, nothing to do with Elain, and nothing really to do with whether or not Rhys believes they would be healthy or good for each other as a couple. It came purely from a place of anger and the disruption it would cause for him politically and to his alliances. Not about Azriel and Elain as a couple. Rhys’ anger was his prominent emotion, not concern, and from the very beginning he comes at Azriel with hostilty.

Rhys sat at his desk, fury a moonless night across his face.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“(…) he snarled.”

Rhys growled.

“If you need to fuck someone go to a pleasure hall and pay for it.”

“but if I see you panting after her again, I’ll make you regret it.”

And then he brings up his objections, by bringing up the blood duel and the fragile alliances, which are all politically and personally motivated and not specifically about Elain or Azriel’s feelings.

“And your doing so will rip apart any fragile peace and alliances we have, not only with the Autumn court, but also with the Spring court and Jurian and Vassa.”

Which brings me to Azriel. One of the things that is repeatedly brought up by Rhys, Cassian, and other characters is how closed off emotionally Azriel is. How hard he is to read. How he has the best poker face because he never gives anything away. He is someone who is not comfortable sharing his feelings under the best of circumstances, and here he is, caught by Rhys. And the first reaction of his own brother and high lord who he loves and respects, is to be angry and accusatory. It is not the sort of reaction that would engender open, honest conversation and the sharing of feelings. Rhys’ first reaction is hostility and accordingly, Azriel closes himself off, deflects, and ignores Rhy’s questions.

“Azriel donned the frozen mask he perfected while in his father’s dungeon.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Azriel ignored the question.

Which brings us to this exchange.

The way that deserve is italicized, it makes Rhys’ question come off as more of an accusation than a sincere question. And if you notice, Azriel doesn’t actually answer the question, he deflects. If Azriel is already prone to not opening up or sharing his feelings, having someone he loves and respects insinuate that he shouldn’t believe he deserves Elain, is going to make him shut down even more and not want to confide to Rhys anything about his feelings for Elain. We also know he has a lot of shame and guilt about what he feels for Elain and himself in general, and I don’t think he feels he deserves her at all. In fact, it’s the opposite. Of course he isn’t going to answer Rhys’ question, which is why he deflects to Lucien.

And as for the “not planning” part, we need to remember what he said to Cassian in ACOSF, when Cassian asked him if he ever thought about children. He said “it doesn’t matter what I want.” He spent centuries in love with a woman who didn’t return his feelings, no matter how much he wanted otherwise. He now finds himself developing feelings for another female, and she’s mated to someone else, again proving it doesn’t matter what he wants. Children are the future fruition of a relationship with Elain, a woman he thinks he can’t have. Maybe he doesn’t want to get hurt again, and sexual fantasies are the safest thing he can allow himself, but never to allow himself to go beyond that. Why would he “plan” a future…a relationship, marriage, children, love…with a woman he thinks he can’t have and he isn’t even sure reciprocates his feelings, when he spent centuries pining for a woman who didn’t want him in return?

I think there’s a reason that it was Rhys who caught Elriel before their kiss and not Lucien, Gwyn, or anyone else. The entire exchange I think sets up one of the most interesting conflicts for the next book, and it isn’t a love triangle between Elriel/Gwynriel. I think it’s between Rhys and Azriel. Rhys was coming at Azriel from a place of anger and fear immediately after discovering them before he even knew what was going on, and then ordered Azriel to stay away from Elain. Azriel, who already suffers from shame and is prone to shutting down emotionally, wasn’t being honest in that exchange with Rhys and in a way, is an unreliable narrator because he is’t being honest with Rhys by deflecting or outright not answering questions. He’s shut down every emotion but his anger. Which leaves Rhys and therefore the reader, with the impression that Elain might not be more than a sexual attraction, and why he then orders Azriel to pay for sex elsewhere and leave Elain alone. I think this conversation was set up to create obstacles and angst not only between Azriel and Elain, who doesn’t know about Rhys’ order. But Rhys, who thinks a purely sexual attraction could ruin his tenuous political alliances, and Azriel, who was ordered by his brother and high lord to stay away from the woman he wants. The angst and tension is goin to be so good.

[acourtofthought]

I'm not loving the argument that because Lucien isn't doing more for Elain he couldn't possibly care for her while Azriel was willing to die for her which means his feelings are pure and true.

I don't dispute that Az cares for Elain but do you know who else he cares for? Who he's always willing to risk his life for everytime he goes into a dangerous situation?

Mor. Rhysand. Gwyn (when he saved her in the temple). Nesta. Cassian. Feyre. Literally anyone he considers good and in need of help.

Yes the Cauldron is dangerous. Yes, heading into the Kings Camp to save Elain was dangerous. But so is every other situation that Azriel puts himself in.

“I’m going in,” Azriel said.

“Chain me to a tree, Rhys,” Azriel said softly. “Go ahead.” He began checking the buckles on his weapons. “I’ll rip it out of the ground and fly with it on my damned back.”

Azriel said this after he saved Elain. After they all witnessed the Carver wiped out by the Cauldron. A truly immortal being, gone.

Azriel is a warrior, a protector. Again, I don't dispute that he's developed feelings for Elain however his rescuing her is not proof that his feelings have reached epic level love status. Nothing he has done is proof that he truly loves her.

Lucien claims Elain was "thrown at him" because Feyre had already told him she's in love with and engaged to another man. He's thinking this because the female he loved did not end up being his mate. The female that CHOSE him was not fated to be his. And this is within the very first moments of Lucien meeting Elain, when she was catatonic and ignoring him. When she hadn't even looked at him. Are we really going to use his thoughts before he even had a conversation with her against him?

If you've read TOG, Rowan told Aelin the world would have been better if she'd died. Let's not ignore the fact that SJM's couples are notorious for having rocky starts and that their beginnings are not proof of anything.

Let's also not act like Lucien would not be doing more for Elain if he received any sort of signal that she was receptive towards it. That he wouldn't also lay down his life is there was a scenario where hers was in danger and he was by her side. Lucien risked his life for Feyre while UTM, a female who was barely a friend at the time. He is respecting that Elain does not want more from him at the moment. He is giving her time and as much space as possible considering Feyre is still his friend and he works for the NC.

True Love is not selfish. True love means doing what is best for the other person even if it tears you up inside. I'm not even saying Lucien is truly in love with Elain considering they haven't had enough interactions for that to develop. But he's trying to be supportive of what she wants.

I don't know how you can look at Lucien's actions and not realize that everything he does IS with Elains best interests in mind.

Then claim that Azriel’s actions are proof of caring for her more. When he has never once said or thought anything proving that his feelings for Elain are real love. We were inside his mind and there was nothing backing up that those actions were born of deep emotions. Not one thought of how incredible Elain was, how kind, how brave, how thoughtful, how she made him laugh. Only that she's too "pure" to be touched by his hands. Elain is more than a pretty picture that someone doesn't want to get dirty.

I'm not saying that his feelings can't evolve into more but at this moment it does not sound like "True Love" is what he has for Elain. And that there's anything proving he cares more for her than Lucien. To me it seems like Az should be a lot further along with what he feels for Elain considering he's been given the time to get to know her. Considering she has had conversations and regular interactions with him before he started avoiding the River House. I would have thought that after over a year of engaging with her he would have more thoughts in his mind as to who she is as a person instead of just fantasies that have gone no further than sexual and worrying that she can't handle his darkness.

[bloodycassian]

anon asked:

ok hear me out, azriel x reader where reader can hear thoughts or something along those lines and she doesn’t know how to control it so she’s constantly hearing or feeling thoughts/emotions and it’s heats super overwhelming and az helps her through it <3

The headaches hadn't stopped for weeks. Rhys had even called over a medwitch from the continent to help, but there was nothing she could see that was wrong. They were all worried, but their worries just somehow made your head hurt even more. The whispers you could hear from them down the stairs of the townhouse were the worst part. 'Do they need a cleansing?' 'What happened to cause it?' 'Their body is doing this for a reason.' they went on and on and on, never answering each other. Each voice different through the muffling of the walls.  You were ready to scream. Pillow over your head wouldnt even block them out. You rocked in bed, hands over your ears. Nothing, no more silence ever. Just the ringing in your head of all the voices. Mor had tried asking her father if he knew anything about such subjects. Anything for help. Azriel swooped into the city streets, nodding at a few shopkeeps as he went. After being gone for the last few weeks, the welcome faces of his home were a sight for sore eyes. He held the bag of various salts and salves gently, just as he had his whole trip back. He landed with precision at the front gate of the town home. The familiar wrought iron fence squeaking slightly when he opened it. You felt his presence before he even opened the front door. The coolness of his essence seeping through the walls. The curling shadows that darkened everything ever so slightly. "Your condition seems to have...developed since I left." He set the tote down on the chair by the door, then closed it softly. The whispering became more intense, a pounding in your head that drowned out almost everything else.  "Oh-" He breathed as he walked in. A shocked look then he was grinning. "Leave us." He dismissed Rhys, who gave him a look before obeying. He took off his jacket, leaving him in a dark tunic that made his eyes look brighter. He cocked his head when staring at you, then took a breath. The shadows seemed to summon around him, making him look even more intimidating than normal. They slunk around his ankles like a fog. Then they covered the walls of the room, blocking off the light from the window entirely. The relief in your mind was overwhelming.  You choked out a sob, looking at him with wide eyes. The silence, the weight taken from your brain was like breathing for the first time. "H-how?" You panted, getting up from the bed. Sickness did not weigh you down any longer. The pounding ceased completely, alleviating your too warm temples. He came close to you, only too close because of the thin nightgown you wore. Really it was one of Cassian's old shirts that just fitted you like a dress. When you had taken his room due to your apparent illness you had found a few 'interesting' items of his that were left. "It seems your condition has...evolved since I saw you last." He reached a hand out to you, the siphons atop thrumming with a warm dark blue. You took it tentatively, your eyes slid shut -then there he was. His scent, his thoughts, his everything was in your mind. You scrambled away from it mentally, your heart slamming in your chest. He stroked a thumb over your hand. His mental voice was warm, yet rough and commanding. "Slow. Think, but slowly. I'm here, you're okay." The voice said.  His darkness seemed to follow him to your mind, coating it in a coolness that was much appreciated. "What do I do? What am I?" You took a breath, trying to center yourself. Your entire being was roaring at you to fight back against the intrusion, but he shushed you into not trying it. "You...are new. You're like me, in a way." He whispered softly, his essence drifting over you comfortingly. Like a soft blanket, cold but still comforting.  "How do I get it ito stop?" You sighed, wanting to bury your head in your hands again. He touched you then, slowly at first. Dragging a soft, textured hand up to your wrist, then pulling you in for a hug. His warmth was the opposite of everything else about him, those shadows did nothing against the core of him, his heat.  "You dont, you learn how to make it work with you." He said aloud, his presence rolling out of your mind like a thundercloud. He pulled out of the embrace, "You need to make the thoughts blend like street noise- like a crowd. Learn to select what you want to hear. "  "You make it sound so easy." You rolled your eyes at him, crossing your arms over your chest. Azriel may or may not have glanced at how it hitched up the oversized t shirt. Hunger opened up in the pit of his stomach at the filthy thoughts. He knew it was Cassian's shirt, recognized and scented it. It made him want to put his own scent on you in several different, creative ways. He cracked a grin and shrugged slightly, "It'll be like reading a new language. But you need to learn to speak it first." He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and lead you to the balcony, the shadows following you in a close bubble the whole way.  "All these people have their thoughts, their words and actions. My shadows tell me all about their outfits, their scents, their hair. Unnecessary unless they have a weapon." He gestured to a few fae males outside a townhome a few houses down. One threw their arms up in the air and stormed back inside." I can't keep them from giving me this information, but I do let it go. I dont even listen unless I detect a threat."  You let out a long breath, feeling the anxiety of him leaving already. "Please stay." His stomach dropped at the words. You grabbed for his hand. As if the open sky was demanding he take off that second. " I cant-" You kept your voice from trembling. "It's too much. Why me? Why now?" Tears threatened and you looked away. He couldnt bear to see you in such pain. He wanted - he needed to give you relief from it. He squared his shoulders and squeezed your hand back. "Are you afraid to fly?" he asked, flexing his wings. The shadows answered with their own wave. "I'm not the biggest fan-" Before you could give your list of excused you'd rather not fly, he was shooting into the air, the backs of your thighs rubbing over his deliciously warm skin. Your yelp of surprise was left behind you. You held on to his shoulders for dear life. "If you would open your eyes you might not be so scared." He laughed, his siphons glaring a bright shield around you that protected you from the wind. He flew fast, and far. His presence was the only one you felt, like a cool rain on your still reeling mind. He had sent Rhys an advisory thought before he took you, letting him know you needed some 'fun'. "If I open my eyes I'm going to vomit all over you." You said, squeezing your eyes tighter. You felt the laugh through his chest. His thumb circled the back of your knee, giving you goosebumps that had nothing to do with the slight chill running through the shield. The shirt was not nearly enough for an outing, and you doubted he was taking you anywhere with anyone who would mind. The thought sent a thrill through you. Alone. He wanted to be alone with you.  As if in approval, his essence drifted happily into your mind, caressing you as his thumb did. He flew lower slowly, enjoying your scent mixed with the cool smell of the lake below. The way the sun at this angle made your hair shine. He landed softly, setting you down only after you'd made him promise you were no longer flying.  "We're done...for now." He winked when you opened, marveling at his wind tosseld hair for a second before collecting yourself and brushing your shirt absently. He grinned wider, and the coolness you'd felt since he showed up in the town home receded. You felt...like you. Normal again, weightless in comparison after the weeks of buzzing in your head. And the view beyond his goofy grin was marvelous. A snowcapped mountain towered above, sloping to create the lake. Mixes of different rock lay everywhere. The scattered pines seemed like giants whispering in the breeze. "Listen to the birds, enjoy the silence for a while." He said, then began walking to the bank of the bright blue water. You stood in shock for a while, letting the sound of the wind and nothing else seep into you. You reveled in it, joying in the simplicity of it. Everything seemed so much louder than you remembered.  You sat on a boulder and watched him skip rocks, the short splats of them echoing off the mountainside. He skipped one after another, occasionally picking up smaller ones and pocketing them. You let your mind wander, trying to regain the feeling he had shrouded you with in the townhome. The solid wall he had put up around your mind for you. But he had said you needed to learn to let it blend in, to deal with it and not shut it out. It was an asset, not a hinderance. You shuddered at using the gift for much. You didnt care to know peoples ins and outs in normal conversation, let alone without them knowing. You attempted to summon that wall. It was like grasping at water, thick and heavy and impossible. The lingering remnants of control slipped away like sand through your fingers. You buried your face in your hands, letting the tears fall.  When he approached, you didn't bother hiding. He had been in your head, he knew what it was like. He said nothing, just wrapped an arm around you and let you cry into his shoulder. Holding you tighter on the bigger sobs that ripped out of you. 

[psychee92]

Why ACOTAR 5 Is (Without a Doubt) Elain’s Book

Warning: This post will be a long one, and will analyze the series as a whole (including ACOSF). As you read it, please consider taking your shipping goggles off, as none of this has anything to do with shipping and everything to do with character development/plot/the overall narrative of the series/good storytelling. Thank you!

Main points: 

Elain’s role in the ACOTAR series

Elain’s character evolution throughout the series

The foreshadowing in ACOSF (+ bonus POVs)

The overarching plot 

SJM’s own words

The ACOTAR Series and Elain’s Role

We have multiple interviews of SJM saying that Nesta and Elain’s role started off as a fairytale trope: that of the evil sisters. Then, Nesta surprised her when she decided to go after Feyre in ACOTAR, and the rest is history.

The sisters went from being a trope to being an instrumental part of the series. In ACOMAF, they were a link to Feyre’s human life (a final thread that she needed to let go of), as well as a means to an end (first, by being a bridge between the IC and the Queens, and then, as leverage, or weapons that were used against Feyre in Hybern). The final scene in ACOMAF was the catalyst for everything that happened in ACOWAR—and everything that is yet to come—but, most importantly, it also opened the door to two new character arcs/journeys—two new protagonists.

The protagonist exists as a sympathetic device to drive a story. To be effective in this role, they are usually there from the inciting moment to the end.

The similarities between their journey and Feyre’s are astounding: human made into something that she was raised to fear; coming to terms with trauma; letting go of the past; accepting her new condition; and the list goes on and on.

Now, who had more to lose by becoming fae?

And who lost more than anyone else?

Elain lost a future.

She was happy, content, in love.

Then, everything was ripped away from her in the span of a few minutes.

She was turned into something she had been raised to fear, something that her own fiancée had been raised to hate.

And, if that wasn’t enough, she was also forced into a bond neither her, nor Lucien, wanted. Mated to a man who participated, even if unknowingly, in the loss of her life—of her future. A man who did not know her, want her, love her.

This, right here, is good storytelling. It sets the stage for what is to come—for Elain’s future story and character arc.

ACOWAR is centered around repercussions:

For Elain, this book is one of healing, at least on the surface. SJM built the foundation of Elain’s journey, evidenced by:

Elain hitting rock bottom

Erasing any hope of a future with Graysen

Severing the last thread to her human life (with the death of her father)

This book also emphasizes Elain’s vital role in future books by:

Making her powerful (a seer)

Making her instrumental in the war against Hybern (due to her visions)

Having her save both, Nesta and Cassian (the protagonists of ACOSF)

Creating a connection between her and Vassa (and, ultimately, between Lucien, Vassa, and Jurian)

Having her introduce the next big bad (Koschei)

Hinting at her being the only one who can locate the one thing that can kill Koschei (the onyx box)

So, when you add everything that we know from ACOMAF and ACOWAR, what do we have? Potential.

We also have a character whose journey has been building since ACOTAR. The most significant hint is the constant use of the “dirty hands” imagery in reference to Elain. But more on that later.

Once the ACOTAR series wrapped up, we learned that, while Feyre and Rhysand’s journey was over, Sarah had more stories to tell—specifically, Nesta, Elain, and the ICs. As such, ACOFAS had two purposes:

To wrap up Feyre and Rhys’s story.

To introduce the future plot/main conflict and, with it, the next couple.

ACOFAS, however, also served to set up the stage for future protagonists, as well:

We saw some progress in Elain (her keeping busy with gardening and baking, her still having bad days, her friendship with Nuala and Cerridwen, and her slowly finding her place within the IC)—all of this was brought up again in ACOSF.

We got hints about Azriel and Elain’s growing feelings for each other (a storyline that was present throughout ACOSF, and confirmed in Azriel’s Bonus POV).

We learned about Azriel’s estate—Rosehall.

We got Mor’s POV, and learned some new things about her which will probably factor into her future book.

Again, SJM spent time focusing on Elain, fleshing out her character (while still giving Nesta and her journey center stage), which only solidifies the fact that she will be getting her own story soon.

It’s interesting to note that Azriel was not given a POV like Mor, and had very little character development (in comparison to Elain).

Now, let’s look at ACOSF. We have:

New conflicts—with the Queens and Beron

A new villain—Koschei

An overarching plot that connects the conflicts with the villain—the alliance between Koschei, the Queens, and Beron

A secondary, but related, plot—Vassa and, with her, the Band of Exiles (Lucien and Jurian)

Potential weapons—the Made objects

A potential solution—the onyx box

What do all of these have in common?

Elain.

She is directly tied to both, the Queens and Beron (and the Autumn Court). She’s had ties to Koschei since ACOWAR (she was the first to tell the IC about him, after getting visions about him). Her visions, in turn, led to the introduction of Vassa, which created a link between them both (and Lucien, because of their mating bond). She is the only one, apart from Nesta, who can find the Made objects (and a 4th one was introduced in ACOSF). She is also the only one, apart from Nesta, who can Make an object. Finally, she is the only one who can locate the onyx box (an image she’s been seeing since ACOWAR).

As a seer, Elain is arguably the most valuable character in the NC. She has been having visions about both, Koschei and Vassa, since ACOWAR.

Most importantly, however—her journey has been hinted at since ACOMAF:

Her role in future books having already been established, what about Elain as a character, as a protagonist? 

Let’s begin by looking at what a character arc is:

While main characters might face big challenges, character arcs have to do with internal, personal change. Characters will find their strengths and weaknesses tested over the course of the story—so that by the time they arrive at the story's end, they are a changed person.

When the protagonist overcomes external obstacles and internal flaws in order to become a better person, it becomes a hero’s journey.

At its core, this arc is made up of three points:

The Goal: Every character needs to have a goal. It might be to fall in love. Or it might be to make as much money as possible. Either way, their journey will be hindered by...

The Lie: A deeply-rooted misconception they have about themselves or the world that keeps them from reaching their true potential. In order to reach their goal, they’ll need to acknowledge and overcome the Lie, by facing…

The Truth: While the character may have their own plans, the positive change arc has its own goal: self-improvement. This is achieved when they learn to reject The Lie and embrace The Truth.

Now, let’s look at what we know about Elain:

The Goal: To defeat Koschei/the Queens/Beron.

The Lie: That she doesn’t have what it takes. That she is not as strong as her sisters. That she is the weak link, too gentle and sweet to get her “hands dirty.”

The Truth: That she is just as powerful AND capable as her sisters, and that she can do anything she puts her mind to (find the 4th object, discover the location of the onyx box, fight against Koschei/the Queens/Beron).

We already see SJM start to break down the Lie in Feysand’s Bonus Chapter:

This is followed by Feyre saying:

So not only is Elain not afraid to get her hands dirty, she’s also not afraid of getting hurt in the process.

ACOSF is filled with moments that hint at Elain becoming just as powerful (if not more so) than her sisters. She has a very important role to play in future books, because she is the only one who can locate Koschei’s box and the 4th object. Her visions have been instrumental in the series so far, and there is a big hint that she might have more than just seer abilities:

Powers. Plural.

It makes sense for Elain’s book to be next. SJM has been scattering crumbs for her story since ACOTAR, and she is the character who would add the most to the plot—the only character who can move the plot forward.

You cannot ignore all the foreshadowing:

= a literary device that writers utilize as a means to indicate or hint to readers something that is to follow or appear later in a story.

Clear foreshadowing in ACOSF (it would take too long to list all the passages in previous books, as well): 

These are just a few examples but, for me, the one that gives it away is this passage (that can easily be overlooked) in Feysand’s Bonus POV:

SJM is basically telling us that, once Nesta’s journey ends, Elain’s will begin.

And it makes sense!

This series is about the Archeron sisters. About human women turned fae.

The first three books were about Feyre. The fourth about Nesta. It would not make sense to skip Elain, only to return to her story in the final book. Why?

Because, in order to defeat Koschei, all three sisters need to have reached their full potential. All three need to be healed, and strong, and fully in control of their lives and powers. You cannot cram everything into one book: Elain’s healing journey/character arc, Vassa’s own journey (because there is no way that SJM will NOT write a Swan Lake retelling—just look at her Pinterest board!), finding the 4th object, finding the box, and, ultimatly, defeating Koschei.

Feyre had a whole book to heal—ACOMAF

Nesta had a whole book to heal—ACOSF

Elain will have a whole book to heal, as well.

No other character adds as much value—or has as much untapped potential—than Elain.

Also, there is no way that SJM will postpone telling her story in favor of a male character (Azriel). If you’ve read any of her books, you know that it is always the female characters that eclipse the male characters.

Also, if Elain will become dark or even a villain (temporarily), then this will take place in her own story, and will not be used as a plot device for angsty!Azriel or for another couple to make sense/be pushed together.

If we look at the pattern in ACOTAR, we have:

The first book ends with a happily ever after. The MC has defeated the big bad and has walked off into the sunset with her LI. There are hints about a future conflict, but nothing is fleshed out (in ACOTAR, Feyre’s bargain with Rhys + a potential conflict between the courts and with Hybern).

The second book is all about development (both, character development, in the form of the MC’s healing journey, and plot development). The scene is being set for the final conclusion (the war/battle), and everything that takes place serves to bring the characters closer to the main conflict resolution. The book ends on a false happily ever after (Feysand’s mating bond, having what they need to annul the Cauldron’s powers), followed by a cliffhanger (the sisters turning fae, Feyre returning to the Spring Court).

The last book is centered around defeating the big bad and ends on a happily ever after for (almost) everyone involved. It brings the main players together in a final showdown that ends with good ultimately defeating evil.

If we are to look at this pattern, then:

ACOSF - Ends with a happily ever after (Nesta has healed, reconnected with her sisters, found her place in the IC, and has a family outside the IC—Gwyn, Emerie). She has defeated Briallyn, but the biggest threat—Koschei—has barely made an appearance, and there is no ending in sight.

ACOTAR 5 - Elain’s healing journey. Finding the 4th object. Knowing exactly what has been happening behind the scenes with Beron, the Queens, and Koschei. Finding the 4th object and uncovering the location of Koschei’s onyx box. Cliffhanger: Koschei has been freed/has found a way to free himself.

ACOTAR 6 - The journey to find the onyx box or a way to destroy whatever is inside. The repercussions of Koschei’s freedom. Vassa’s story coming full circle. Now that all three Archeron sisters have reached their full potential, they will most likely join forces/powers to hold off Koschei long enough for Vassa (because she NEEDS to have the killing blow) to finish him off.

This post is already long enough, but here are some honorable mentions that I haven’t spoken about because I wanted this to be a mostly character-driven argument:

The mating bond—Elain needs to either accept it or reject it, and I cannot see this happening in the last book because it would lose its effect (considering that they need to defeat Koschei in this book)

Elriel—The unresolved feelings between them need to be addressed/dealt with.

The Blood Duel—There is no way this isn’t happening. SJM wouldn’t mention it without it playing some sort of role in Elain’s book.

I might make another post (because I still haven’t addressed everything I wanted to), but Elain’s book is (without a doubt) next.

As a reminder: SJM has recently said that writing about characters that are hated/disliked is something that she loves doing. I think it’s safe to assume that, given the recent wave of hatred/dislike towards Elain, we are in for an epic journey.