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“Ask me for help.” Rhysand was drawing magic hard enough it seemed to warp reality around him, dreaming starry shadows unfurled around his body, more menace than wings but for the borrow shape. “Ask me for help, Nesta Archeron, and I will lend my power to your people.” Cassian, five hundred years of service lived, could have torn out his tongue in that second. Instead, he caught Feyre’s eye. Feyre, one hand bunched in Rhysand’s jacket- whether she really thought she was holding him back or anchoring herself, Cassian couldn’t imagine- shaking her head in sorrow. Grief. Looking past him to Nesta like her sister was making a mistake. “Or,” Rhysand murmured, all velvet, “I can do it myself. I know how rare it is, for the legions to listen to a woman. Or even your own people. Ask me for help, Nesta, and it will be yours. I swear it.” Cassian had seen her move before. Knew perfectly well humanity was a truth held fractured in Nesta’s veins. That she could be terrifyingly quick, hold and maintain dominance like she’d been born for the way faeries communicated with each other. There was no sound louder than her heartbeat. Her rage, a scream of wind rattling the windows of the hall, a fear that wound all the way down to Cassian’s bones. He blinked, and she was right in front of Rhysand. “You will die on fire,” Nesta hissed, in a register no human throat could hold, “You will beg like the coward you are. No one will help you. No shadow will save you. You have spent centuries acting like no will matters but yours, but you will not be strong enough to survive. Maybe then I’ll ask your ashes what your help is worth.” Rhysand, cruel as dawn, smiled. But Cassian could see too, that he’d stopped breathing. “It takes much more than fire to kill High Fae, Lady Archeron.”