Hi Flowers! if you don't mind I want to talk a bit about the latest chapter of Your Heart that you posted a few weeks back. I really enjoyed it and Neris was such a power couple! The descriptions about the Hewn City and CoN is really cool too, and the general creepiness of Keir as well, like he is genuinely unsettling. Also: Rhys keeps his gentry locked in basically a basement??? (metaphorically I mean) that would be so in character for him. But also like this is such a terrible decision, they seem to be unsupervised completely, and like that could cause massive trouble for him to come? but he ignores that completely? absolutely unhinged.

Cassian is also very much in character, a very despicable hateful man. He deserves everything bad coming his way at that point lol. The audacity to storm the CoN and arrest/imprison Nesta and Eris yikes

Also you mentioned that the bad man body count will come up soon again, will it be one of the remaining Vanserra brothers? I'm very invested

I don’t mind at all, thank you!

The thing with Rhys- which is absolutely canon, but I do love to run with- is that Rhysand is a person of basically completely unchecked power, privilege, and position. But he’s not interested in ruling. It’s completely personal- Keir bows once and gets some broken bones? Rhys has won. Feyre throws a magical tantrum in front of all the High Lords? Right and justifiable. Canon says he dismissed his fathers...entire government? Court? and replaced them with his friends. He does not a give a fuck.

As for Cassian- he writes himself after acosf! He has one more brutal confrontation with the Vanserras to go before he truly slinks away in shame but my god, he probably deserves worse. What does he do when the lie of the dream- and Mor, Nesta, and Azriel- are all gone? THREE HUNDRED MORE YEARS OF SULKING

Keir dies first for a lot of reasons- Mor and Azriel as the worlds least likely allies to the Vanserra clan!- but also as a show: Eris and Nesta are stronger together. Literally capable of killing the closest thing to a High Lord, effortlessly.

But Beron’s real power isn’t power, it’s fear.

Nesta could probably snap him like a twig, but it is Eris’s worst nightmare to even have the two of them in the same room- he tells her to kill him. If Beron ever pays too much attention to her, to do it.

But Eris is not the heir to the throne.

Severin is, and he wants Eris- cunning, weak, useful Eris- alive. His coup of a wife? Not so much.

The less physically dangerous and still monstrous living brother, Osian, is primarily here for the drama. And the ownership of lesser faeries, because he’s a revolting nightmare person. 

Autumn is won in sacrifice, and blood. A throne of bone beneath red trees- Eris’s entire plan, Nesta’s entire focus, remains on ritual. They’re killing their way into a slaughterhouse, but the magic loves them. They’re not stealing the crown, they’re going to steal the land. What Eris has protected all these years, the spirit of a place where the year dies, in the hands of Lady Death herself. 

Once they manage that, they have no choice but to go after the brothers- and would anyway. 

Eris has a plan. His plans have plans. Nesta knows this, but is also NESTA. So there will forever come a time where she slides out of shadow like the sexy wildcard that she is, and knifes a High Lord for being terrible. 

Satan, Prince of This World

We give the above information in order that people who are sincere in their search for the TRUTH may be on their guard against bigots and those who stir up strife based on differences of colour, race and/or creed.

Time after time we have it dinned in our ears, in the press, on TV., by public speakers, by parliamentarians, from pulpits everywhere, all the time, that Communism is in reality a fight for possession of the minds of men, and therefore the root of all evil, and responsible for the mess the world finds itself today. That is the biggest lie the S.O.S. ever thought up and propagated. But that lie is not one iota different from the lie circulated to enable the S.O.S. to foment World Wars One and Two. We were told in America and Britain that Nazism was the root of all evil, and responsible for the chaotic conditions in the world. The masses in Germany, and the countries which were to be her allies, were made to believe the same untruths regarding the British and Americans. Hitler wasn’t an atheist. He most certainly wasn’t a Christian; therefore he must have been a member of the Synagogue of Satan.

This allegation is supported by the fact that it was Hitler who said “tell a big enough lie often enough and it will be accepted as the TRUTH.” Winston Churchill isn’t a Communist or a Nazi, but he can’t be much of a Christian either because he said, “I will join hands with the Devil if by so doing he will help me defeat that ----- Hitler.”

Before we trace the perfect continuity of the Luciferian conspiracy, as directed and controlled by the human beings who have constituted the Synagogue of Satan since 1776, we will first prove that the conspiracy, as revised and modernized by Weishaupt, never did die a natural death as those who directed it since, would have the public, and their elected representatives, believe.

The TRUTH is that both Communism and Nazism consider only the materialistic concepts of world domination. They seek control of our bodies so that physical control will enable them to control our minds and make us accept their materialistic ideologies. The Synagogue of Satan, however, believe in the supernatural and use Communism and Nazism to further their own secret plans. The S.O.S. is determined to obtain control of our minds so that it can determine the destiny of our immortal souls. Satanism has been delivering millions of human souls to Lucifer every few weeks. During an all-out war or revolution , the Satanic harvest in souls reaches its peak. Don’t let yourselves be deceived. Don’t let those who serve the devil’s cause, regardless of how they are disguised, pull the wool over your eyes. The eyes are the windows of the soul. Then don’t let so- called Illuminists pull down the blinds over your eyes. Insist on looking out through the window so you can see not only to the horizons of this world but appreciate that the struggle going on in this world is to increase the size of the Devil’s domains in the celestial world after God renders final judgment.

(Nesta Webster, and other historians confirm what I learned as the result of my own investigations. Directors of Naval Intelligence, and the late Inspector John Leopold, who was in charge of the anti-subversive branch of the R.C.M.P., 1943 to 1945, while I was in Ottawa, and other students of the World Revolutionary Movement, both clerical and secular agree that we are contending with the spiritual forces of darkness.)

Weishaupt, after he was banished, remained the Devil’s agent in human form. He directed the Luciferian conspiracy so that it developed into the Great French Revolution and others, including the American Revolution. We will deal later with the reason Weishaupt’s plan required the United States of America to become the last great nationalistic world power.

Weishaupt’s Illuminati, and his Lodges of the Grand Orient, went underground. They were succeeded by the Jacobin Clubs and convents as has been explained in Pawns in The Game. Mirabeau directed the French Revolution. He was ably assisted by Adrien Duport, who was also an initiate of the Higher Degrees of the Illuminati. It was Duport who set before the Committee of Propaganda the policy of destruction they were to carry out on May 21, 1790.

When Weishaupt had destroyed France as a monarchy and a world power, and had Americans cut each other’s throat because of alleged grievances which propaganda made appear very real, he then moved to Italy.

Illuminism was running hog-wild in Italy. Under various names and disguise, it was aimed at the destruction of the Vatican because it was both a spiritual as well as a temporal power. The Italian Illuminists reasoned, “how can we destroy ALL governments and ALL religions if we don’t first of all destroy the Vatican.” But this line of reasoning was not in keeping with Weishaupt’s plans as we will prove.

Italian Grand Orient Masons and Illuminists, and Alta Vendita members had not been initiated into the FULL secret. According to Weishaupt’s plan, as has been confirmed by Mazzini, Pike, Lemmi, and Lenin, the Vatican is to be allowed to survive, and control nearly 500,000,000 souls, until those who direct the Synagogue of Satan decide it is time to involve ALL Christian people in the final social cataclysm with all people controlled by atheistic-Communists. For this reason Weishaupt hurried to Italy to prevent a premature destruction of the Vatican. Nearly one hundred years later Pike had to take similar action to prevent first Mazzini and later Lemmi from upsetting the Synagogue of Satan’s plans by doing exactly the same thing, All this proves that only a very few men who comprise the High Priesthood of the Luciferian Creed know the full secret and how their conspiracy is intended to reach its final goal.

Tempest and Fealty

PART ONE  PART TWO PART THREE  PART FOUR  PART FIVE  PART SIX  PART SEVEN  PART EIGHT  PART NINE

Nesta did not actually hide from her baby sister in her office.   After storming a floor higher to her bedroom and ripping the sleeves back off her dress, she went down staircase after staircase, through the kitchen and deeper still into the subterranean wine cellar. They were a common enough feature in noble houses, once this very one had been famous at the height of her great-great grandfathers empire.   In her father’s time, it had been stripped, like everything of what had once been the ancient Archeron estate.   Elain and Nesta had rebuilt. Before Feyre had come back the first time, they’d walked the wreckage of the foundations- the very roof beams and tiles, marble and garden pavers sold in the face of their father’s debt- and tried to remember.   It took an entire day. But the end of which they’d ended up here; the cellar only intact because some particularly ostentatious ancestor of their’s decided to embed great unruly boulders of semi- precious stone to make the walls and floor, too big to be ripped apart without causing a collapse.   A lantern between them and a sheath of paper holding their futures, they’d sat together on a slab of lapis with the absurdly fine bottle of red Elain had somehow found buried.   Half a bottle passed between them to discuss the house, the debts, the future.   The second half to worry if Feyre was alright, if this was really happening, what they could do.   Half hysteric with relief, half mourning, an accidentally flailed hand- and they’d found this place: a second cellar, another flight of stairs down, a room of blue stone walls and hidden treasure. Archeron heirlooms, their father’s seal secreted away.   They’d starved and froze and been cast out- Lord Archeron had protected his inheritance all the while.   Nesta could have killed him with her bare hands.   Now, organized and cleaned, Elain and Nesta had spent the last year adding to the trove of family secrets. Every book on magic they could find that Lucien could vaguely verify made sense. A vault of ash wood and faebane imported from the continent, safely locked away. Treasure that they had yet to liquidate or couldn’t because of it’s magical properties.   Her first step on the cool floor and magic kindled in lamps, golden fire born of Lucien’s hands blooming overhead to light her way. Wrapped one of the coats by the door around her, skirting past the tables of Elain’s hand-distilled floral poisons and Lucien’s weapons, to stop before her war map.   Seven generations of Archeron’s had traded with the continent. Twelve with the Night Court’s secret city and the rest of Prythian’s ports.   Nesta had the blood of explorers and shrewd men and in women in her veins. As far back as their history could stretch recorded, not one Archeron had ever lost a ship, before her father.   That was what happened, after all, when innocent faery blood was spilled by hands bound to magic: ruin.   Ruin that just kept chasing them.   None of the sister’s ships had gone down in this magic-teeming seas that could sense a promise broken. A loophole, that they were their dead mother’s daughters? Or was the legend Nesta had been told only half the story? It had made sense, a merchant’s promise bound immortal in singing steel and fresh seethed gold, protection of the exchange.   Or was the curse bigger?   She so damned tired. 

Her sleep made nightmares by a life impossible, northern peaks that lived behind her eyes. Elain had the crown of Autumn in a hatbox, ready to wage war. Feyre believed so wholly in the man she loved- who’d kidnapped her, lied to her, was lying to her right now, a crown on her head- that she’d bet on all their lives and those of everyone they knew.   Vassals. Children. Farmer’s who’d wept when Elain and Nesta returned and tried to right the poverty their father had left them in.   Feyre and Rhysand could burn in hell, as far as Nesta was currently concerned. She had twenty orphans and an entire estate to save.  She’d work until she couldn’t breathe. Meet Elain and Lucien for a meal under six layers of warding to meld information and plans until the three of them were cataclysm enough to survive.   She wouldn’t live a thousand years- wouldn’t fall through those haunting mountain skies- but Nesta Archeron would be damned if she died now, with the world just in reach.

*** “Cassian.”   His first thought was that he was dying. Blinking in the dark and coming awake all at once as a hundred years of training had taught him, Cassian’s brain moved straight on to the certainty he was dead, seeing Nesta Archeron leaning over his bed.   Maybe she was here to slit his throat for daring infringe upon her honor.   Cassian rolled to land on his feet, knife in hand in less than a one frantic beat of his heart. “We’re under attack?”   “No,” Nesta hissed, before swearing softly. In the moment it took his body to catch up with his brain and lower the dagger, Cassian realized she was fully dressed- the same heart-rending dress as in the garden- a coat around her shoulders, and staring pointedly somewhere in the region of his right shoulder. “Why aren’t you wearing anything?”   The only positive in the humiliation was that for some reason Azriel wasn’t here in the room they were sharing to witness it.   Scrambling into a shirt and pants to the background noise of her gritted teeth, Cassian sent a silent prayer to whatever god was listening. Wind and sky, moon and mother. “Well, you see, sometimes even faeries sleep.” He turned in time to see her scoff, faint color high on her cheeks. “Something you should try.”   Nesta only scowled. “I sleep. Now come on, I need you.”   Because Cassian was insane, because those exact words in any tone from Nesta Archeron could have brought him to his knees, Cassian followed her out of the room and into the dreaming house.   They made it three flights and across a ballroom before he found himself trying again, stupidly softened by the late hour and unable to stop himself. It didn’t matter that Nesta’s straight spine gave nothing away, every taut muscle in her neck and down those graceful shoulders screamed the kind of fatigue that a mortal couldn’t just shake off. “You’re exhausted. We”-   She stopped so suddenly he almost ran into her. “I have things to do. Are you going to help me or not?”  Would Cassian somehow find himself alone in the dark with her every night he spent in this house? Her beautiful, furious face haunting him? Bright moon knew he was defenseless against her, fire and flame burning his throat.   “Or course I am,” Cassian heard himself say, tone too rough and true to meet her frustration unwounded.   It took a her full second to nod, staring up at him like she could see through the dark.   She led him down and down, out of view of the starry sky, through kitchens and storage, long servants halls and winding steps. Down and down into the growing cold, her determined steps echoing over stone.   Quieter, a knife slid between ribs instead of a battlecry, she asked in a wine cellar, the scent of bottled summer all around them, “How can you tell?” Because your eyes are the sky and your voice the wind. “I can smell how weary you are.”   She didn’t respond.   Like it was nothing at all, making precise movements in the near cave darkness Nesta pressed on the rock wall and then like magic, like a mystery that Cassian wanted to know every single detail of, stairs appeared down into the bedrock bellow.   Nesta stepped into the yawning blackness without a backwards glance.   Cassian followed.   “Not that good,” She was grumbling, voice echoing in the narrow space, “Lucien would never stop if”-   “I’m not high fae,” Cassian interrupted. Look at me, he thought, heart beating a bruise in his chest. He wanted to know if he’d dreamt the shape of his name in her mouth, how her voice would sound now that he was awake.   He wanted her to grumble his name with that same unspeakable familiarity that said knowing, belonging.   Which was insane. Two sunrises, and Cassian was desperate to know her.   The moment she reached the bottom of the stairs, light flared around them, revealing a large room and more of Nesta Archeron’s secrets.   They assaulted him on all sides: faebane and ash wood, foxglove and monkshood, enough faery-smithed swords for a small invasion. Cassian ran a hand over the smooth wood of a table covered in poisons, their stinging scent a refuge from the sheer intoxication of Nesta’s presence.   A menace with an armory.   Cassian was going to send for better weapons the moment the sun actually rose. Too many jewels- too much weak Spring make to be reliable- Illyrian steel could cut the very air. He wondered if this room would open for him, to leave them for her.   The space wasn’t big enough to obscure what Nesta had hung on the far wall, but the sheer detail took a moment to resolve itself in Cassian’s eyes. A map twice as long as she was tall depicting their corner of the world: Prythian, the far islands, the continent, in loving, perfect aspect.   A hundred colored pins grouped or linked with ribbon.   Silent, Nesta watched him with hooded eyes as Cassian followed her steps to stand before the map, heart in his throat. Troops- so many more armies gathered than just Hybern, motions echoing to the far reaches of faerykind.   “How many legions do you muster?”   Mechanically, watching her pale hand straighten a long string she’d tied between the armies of the Great Desert, Cassian answered truthfully. “Four.” What was the point of lying to her? They were in this together, all in the same danger. “If war is declared, more than half the steppes will fight- four thousand Illyrians.”   Who Cassian would be responsible for. How many had he trained himself over the years? Cassian could hear the bone drums in his head, the battle cries that would echo from peak to peak when he made the call. To protect his court- to protect this land- Illyria would rise.   Precisely, Nesta sank eight red pins into the blank northernmost corner of the map.   Cassian counted them twice, heart rising to his throat as his eyes raced over the map again, approximating. Hybern, Hesperia, the Blooming Country, the Desert nomads, the Queen’s Countries, Shallavar, the distant Black Land- Cassian swore.   “Nesta,” Her eyebrows rose immediately, and he wouldn’t do her the insult of asking if the numbers were right. Of course the numbers were right- that was why he was here, why her beautiful face gave no quarter despite her impending collapse. “How do you know all this?”   He could practically see her bristle- had to swallow the thought that she must be used to being written off; this painfully vital, clearly brilliant woman, how stupid could mortal men be?- and rein it in. Like exhaustion wore her sharp edges, like maybe, the ridiculous late night early morning hour softened her too, Nesta Archeron only huffed out a breath.   “Bribery, mostly,” She sniffed, looking at the map and not him. “And news from the trade routes.” News- the bowl she’d plucked up the pins from sat on the ruin of an old writing desk, every surface piled so high with paper and books the whole thing looked liable to buckle.  While he watched, apparently done and satisfied with his answer, Nesta turned away and started sorting ribbon bound letters, adding to two towered piles.   Cassian waited for the familiar sting of dismissal, but felt nothing but horrible, out of place hope instead. She’d come looking for him, no matter that they’d been fighting, that Cassian was barely in control of himself every second he spent with her. Nesta had asked for his help. It stilled the thrashing thing in his chest, the flame swept feeling that had left his hands shaking when she’d gotten that last, barbed word. Not Lucien, not Azriel, Nesta had trusted at least enough that he’d tell her the truth.   Something was wrong with him. But Cassian wasn’t about to walk away.   “The black,” Cassian heard himself say, voice rough, “They’re hundreds?”   Nesta’s head snapped up. Nothing given- but she answered, smooth as silk, simple as a shining blade. “Hundreds,” She confirmed, “Blue for two score, and”-   “Red for twenty-five,” Cassian interrupted, biting his smile when her gaze shot to his face with a scowl.   Feyre’s sister- not younger. Older and angrier, cut vivid and sharp. Impossible. Not just because she wouldn’t play by the rules of Feyre and Rhys’ plans, because Cassian couldn’t settle in his own skin until he saw her face. Impossible. But he wouldn’t treat her like they were on separate sides- it was too wrong, wrong as her fear, the weariness that seemed to bleed from her pores- even if Rhysand wouldn’t like it, Cassian could do a damned lot more to help than give this woman the honor of telling her the truth.   “We have spies, “ Cassian started carefully, hiding from her eyes by staring at the map, “In five of those countries. Azriel’s been trying to find the chain of command, where Hybern seeded their people into foreign military posts."   Silence.   Cassian waited. If she threw him out, at least he’d given her something. At least, the thought tangled, and he couldn’t help but imagine that if she threw him out, she’d touch him. Nesta Archeron seemed extremely capable of reaching out and dragging an Illyrian by the wings, manners be damned.   Gods only knew, he’d let her.   The cool china lip of a bowl brushed his arm. This time, Cassian couldn’t contain his smile. With equal silence, the feel of her gaze heavy on his face, Cassian sank green-tipped pins into the appropriate clusters, and passed it back.   Green- for the briar and blood flag of Hybern- had she seen it? Banners the color of decay, that single drop of blood in the design so bright you could see it from the skies.   Nesta Archeron, Cassian was nearly sure, did nothing by accident.   Silence had been the right answer, for all that he was biting his lip to keep it as the moment spooled on and on. Four hundred years of learning patience- Cassian who could and had let a snowstorm bury him to hold a mountain, who’d chipped away at a hundred centuries of tradition his whole life, who’d lived fifty years without the freedom of the sky and stayed sane- all undone, with ease, without intention, by this one mortal woman. Impossible.   “Before we resumed trade, I contracted out all of our ships for cargo. More than a year ago, before the armies mustered, so that by now, the auxiliary would know and trust our sailors reliability.”   Cassian turned it over, twice, to make sure he’d heard the full explanation she was offering correctly, before he met her blazing eyes. “Overland trade is too slow,” He breathed, watching her mouth quirk. A smile- gods, he knew he was grinning at her like a giddy child. “So they’re using your ships to transport their supplies?”   Quicksilver, possibly Cassian’s imagination, Nesta smiled back.   “And bribing the guilds and caravans for their numbers.”   Roundabout, fiendishly clever, “You’re working backwards?” Tallying troops from their supplies, inherently capable of error, but still a better estimate than they had.   Her face said yes, said pride, something fierce that echoed back from beneath Cassian’s ribs.   “So make yourself yourself useful,” Nesta purred, an unadulterated heat sweeping his body at her dropped tone, the complete and total confidence. “Tally confirmed numbers.”   Cassian took the pile of paper she shoved into his hands, and laughed.   Five hours of fraught, electric quiet only broken by Cassian saying stupid things he couldn’t contain later, he retreated upstairs. Tactically. Not because with nothing else to do he was getting twitchy in her presence, Nesta’s dawn bright eyes snagging on the motion of his nervous hands- but because she was tired.   An exhaustion so complete it colored the air like fog, her weary tension hitting every one of his instincts.   Cassian wasn’t stupid enough- disrespectful enough- to try to make her stop. It wasn’t his place. Wasn’t- it had never been clearer she wasn’t Feyre, someone whose youth and easy temper made it simple to look out for.   There was nothing easy about Nesta Archeron, and Cassian couldn’t stay away.   He could however, make tea.   It took him just long enough, following his nose through the kitchen stores to find the variety she’d been drinking earlier, that Nesta seemed to have thought he’d left.   Shed her coat, ripped the laced-on sleeves off her dress, and moved from her perch before the map to sit straight-backed atop the weapons table, the least formal he’d ever seen Nesta.   Cassian’s foot missed the last step.   Watching him with those predators eyes, leagues different from Cassian remembered any mortal, Nesta tilted her head at his approach. Instantly, helplessly, Cassian felt his neck heat. Sharp as a faery, dominant as an Illyrian, eyes like the damned sky.   She took the mug out of his hand like it was nothing.   Black tea and violets, lavender on her lips. It should be nothing- Cassian was the only member of the inner circle with any domestic talents. He fed everyone, all the time.    But for Cassian, the Illyrian, watching the steady pulse of her throat, it was the first moment of calm since he’d scented a fire he couldn’t find.   Wordless, swallowing against the dryness of his throat, Cassian held out the plate of cookies he was also carrying.   She picked one up absently, eyes wandering back to the map. Took a single bite that did unspeakable things Cassian. And then, mystifyingly, recoiled, setting it back on the plate.   Humans couldn’t possibly feel the way about food high fae did, Cassian tried to remind his racing pulse. He’d seen Lucien hand her things, seen Elain accept the pass off of platters from Az, surely-   “Don’t eat those,” Nesta instructed over his thoughts.   Cassian had the half horrified, utterly embarrassed thought that he’d managed to bring her something that wasn’t even actually a cookie. He took a deep breath. Buttery almond, sugar, vanilla, and- Cassian picked up the cookie she’d bitten in half, eyeing the delicate crumbs.   “Who are you planning on poisoning?” Cassian blurted.   Ash- the Archerons had burnt faery killing ash wood and baked it into shortbread. Without her reaction, it would have slid right by him, almond burying the scent.   She twisted to look at him.    Even with the high table helping, they weren’t evenly face to face. Too close at breakfast, too angry in the garden; it was the nearest he’d ever been to her without it being an accident. Nesta didn’t move away.   “Not poison,” She said, finally, “But enough to disable high fae.”   “For ten minutes,” Cassian replied, “Maybe twenty.”   “Plenty of time,” Nesta hissed.   He couldn’t help it, Cassian laughed. Not at her- but at the sheer warlike delight she had. Mortal life and human skin, Nesta was Illyrian at heart, something savage and beautiful all the way through.   He wondered if she were afraid of heights.   Wondered if she hated him.   “So how long before you’re done abetting the enemy?” It didn’t come out right, more accusation than joke, but Nesta only raised those damning brows at him.   “Why should I stop?” Nesta asked, razor edges to her beautiful voice. “No one has declared war on my kind.”   More awake, he might have accelerated right into anger her words. But softened by the night, by the glow of her pale skin in the place that was so clearly hers, nearly mad that she was even speaking to him- My kind. Hate didn’t matter, not now, not pared with trust. What Cassian really wanted know: could Nesta ever look at him and not see other? Shame wasn’t a part of him. Cassian had been born for the skies, could and would bleed for his warlike people.   He was the wind of north, vengeance on swift wings, but he didn’t look anything like a human man.   “Merchants are the only people who really win wars,” Cassian said, without any heat. “Will you run blockades?”   The wrong thing- he could see it immediately, furious temper flashing across her face. “Or,” Nesta’s voice sliced the air, echoing to his ears as the word dragged out. “I’ll wait until the fighting starts and starve the bastards when they need it most.” Vengeance- maybe Nesta Archeron had a taste for it.   Close, they were too close, Cassian breathed, “Good.” He might have imagined it- hope and sleep deprivation heady, but her body seemed to sway to the sound, a hairsbreadth closer. It made him reckless, made him savage. “Poison the last shipment.”   Better than a smile, respect flickered over the pale perfection of Nesta’s face. “What did you think the vault of faebane was for?”   He’d clocked it, wondered. So very vicious; faebane ate at magic from the inside out. Cassian was old enough to remember humans during the last war being horrified by the brutality of fae fighting. Different rules bound them. Honor didn’t mean pageantry or parlance- it meant promises kept. Meant surviving, no matter the cost.   Cassian would have done the same thing.   Their eyes met and held. Not a joke or a brush off, steady blue. Nesta absolutely would poison scores of soldiers sent to conquer her land. Insanely, he was thinking he would help her in an instant if she asked.   They remained that way, Cassian pinned in place by her gaze for longer than he could count. Could have been an age, or a minute- Cassian tried to divine the skies of her eyes, Nesta allowed herself to look back, no air left to breathe that wasn’t wild fire, didn’t possess the cold clarity of frost.   Until without warning, bringing the scent of fire that had never seen a mountain forest, Lucien winnowed to the foot of the stairs.   “I have the,” Lucien said and paused, as though he’d begun speaking before he’d fully appeared, stopping himself at the sight of Cassian.   Cassian, alone with Nesta.   A bloody sort of triumph, shocking him with its intensity, burst beneath Cassian’s ribs when Nesta didn’t falter. Remained in his space like it belonged to her, sipping tea as she met Luciens eyes from over the crest of one wing.   He’d worn the fox mask in the Spring menagerie, according to Feyre. Clever, dangerous, Autumn’s lost heir was an unknown element. Cassian wouldn’t forget the infinitely implied intimacy of Nesta grumbling his name.   Different then she said it now, silken. “Lucien.”   He grinned, flashing fangs. “Nes-ta.”   She bared her teeth right back before sliding off the table. Continuing the out of body- out of his mind- experience that was this night Cassian watched her liquid, storming steps across the room, furious grace not what his brain said was human.   But Cassian had been fighting with mortal men last time he’d been in these lands- Nesta Archeron was no man.   Like she leveled Cassian, snarled at Rhysand, Nesta drew close to Lucien like he wasn’t High Fae at all. Casual. Natural.   “Ready?”   Lucien nodded at her, passing over a flat cedar box that Cassian was briefly possessed by the urge to carry for her to next table. Which was- which was absolutely not happening.   “One bloodline curse old as the bone forest,” Lucien went on, following Nesta as she carried the damn box- as she was perfectly capable- to an empty corner next to the sword pile. Over her head, like he’d felt the force of Cassian’s gaze, Lucien caught his eyes. “Fell wind.”   Cassian nodded back, “Seventh son.”   Faery prick was a language he was also fluent in.   Ignoring them both, Nesta pulled out a low bronze bowl and an old fashioned quill, before opening the box. Without the sharp encasement of cedar, the smell would have knocked Cassian flat. As it was, siphon song shuddered to life as Cassian found himself gripping the table.   Blood. Nesta’s blood- copper and pain, a forest fires vitality gone dead.   “What is that?” He didn’t mean to ask, his words unmoored as they had been all night. Nesta didn’t react- thank stars and skies and bleeding dawns- but Lucien looked up again, and smirked.   “A contract,” Nesta replied, pulling out the parchment. Cursed by Lucien, but written by the hand he could now recognize as her’s in her own blood. “That your High Lord will not be able to break.”   Cassian closed his eyes. He wanted to say, Rhys will keep you safe. He would- Cassian had believed that even before he’d decided he’d go down bloody himself to stop any harm from befalling this glorious, nightmare of woman.   Because they were Feyre’s family. Were family now, full stop.   But Cassian also understood the tough calls required to make a war run; this part of Prythian would be a charnel house in year’s time. Protection would be the sisters in Velaris- not Nesta commanding her ships, not Elain doing whatever she intended with enough poison to kill an army of humans and Lucien Vanserra by her side. Safe would be on Feyre’s terms, and it would break Nesta.   Rhys was going to be furious with him.   On silent feet, wings rustling through the quiet, Cassian walked to Nestas’ other side. Didn’t baulk at the tiny, diamond-studded, precisely curved knife in her hand. Lucien let him get close, the temperature of the room rising.   “Freely given,”  Cassian recited.   Surprise, real and unrestrained, broke across Lucien’s face. Prick, Cassian thought. But all he really cared about was Nesta, her face gone faery sharp with interested.   “Will it work?” The question clearly not for Cassian echoed, but Nesta’s gaze didn’t stray from his face.   “Magic enjoys,” Lucien paused, drawn out, “Fidelity. Promises made and kept are just as personal as bleeding yourself, under the right circumstances.”   Enough of an answer, Nesta offered the knife. Instead of taking it, because he was insane, Cassian pushed up his sleeve and gave Nesta Archeron his sword arm to bleed as she would.   She knew where to cut. Gave him the honor of a neat wound.   As purple-red of drying Illyrian blood joined the more earthen stain of hers, Cassian read over Nesta’s shoulder. It wasn’t the blood loss than made him numb as the sun rose, but a growing horror. *** Both Rhys and Azriel were in the room when Cassian managed to climb back up through the sun-drenched house, walls of snow against the windows making every space bright.    In the middle of something, but Az still rustled one wing in Cassian’s direction, a silent are you okay? Cassian hummed an approximation back, tiredness heavy in his bones. Sure, he was okay. And furious, but he hadn’t gotten to where he was in life without the ironclad ability to fight down anger, to not outright choke on unfairness. They both had.   Pulling on more clothing and actual shoes that his panicked brain hadn’t accounted for in the middle of the night, Cassian tuned in to the conversation. Feyre wanted Mor here, Az would switch out with her to shore up the city defenses.   On the tip of his tongue, bitter heat that had nothing to do with Morrigan who he’d be glad to see sat in the shape of words: had Feyre asked, or even mentioned to her sisters housing them someone else was coming?   Another High Fae they’d be at risk for. Another- Cassian dragged a hand through his hair and breathed.   He’d fought coming here already. Az on his side and Amren quizzically unopposed, but Rhys had listened to Feyre. With her simple explanation it had been a risk- trouble, a mistake- but not impossible. Between Cassian and Azriel, they could keep two mortal girls safe, even from Hybern.   They’d been wrong.   Two women, and Lucien Vanserra besides, not an idle player in any of this, who they were irreversibly screwing over. Cassian would have been angry if it was anyone, but the Archerons were family and Nesta was- Nesta.   Maybe he’d thought it too loud, screamed her name even through mental wards, because Rhys was staring at him.   Cassian summoned half a smile at the severity on his face. But in clear warning knell before Rhysand even spoke, Az’s attention snapped to his High Lord with an icy clarity.   “I don’t have to ask you,” Rhys said in that voice like this was joke between brothers, like he was going to reach out and ruffle Cassian’s hair before they threw down in the mud like children, “Not to sleep with Feyre’s sisters, do I?”   Cassian froze.   Quieter than a breath, sharp and clear beyond the muffled haze of the rest of Rhysand’s words,  siphons sang to life, red death in the still air.   “-think if would really upset Feyre. Vanserra is bad enough already.” He was still talking, eyeing Cassian like this was casual. The proceeding shape of Nesta’s name on Rhys’s lips was enough to unlock his joints, to send a rush of fury to drown out all sense of the world.   “A fling, Cas”-   Cassian punched him.   Fluid and faster than even faery eyes could track- one minute sitting, the next crashing a fist into his brothers face hard enough bone splintered.   Not Cassians hand, he knew damn well what he was doing. Rhysand’s jaw, when he was caught too off guard to roll with the hit, to do anything but snarl. Gentle as a shadow, immovable as a wall, Az winnowed between them to grab Rhys by the shirt. “Rhys. You do not want to-“   “What the hell, Cassian?”   He didn’t have words yet. Too busy fighting the blood red haze behind his eyes, the every instinct in his body that said: rend. The need to defend Nesta, even the suggestion, was all consuming; a violent heat shaking every bit of him apart.   Rhysand was being a jackass, but that didn’t normally mean Cassian wanted to break every bone in his body. Az strong-armed Rhys out of the room before Cassian got a hold of himself.   He didn’t lose control. Didn’t loose himself to the keening violence that was his blessing and curse from birth- Cassian was better than that. Had to be, how else could he have ever survived long enough to wield more siphons than any Illyrian in history but for Az?   He didn’t loose control; which made this terrifying.   Slowly, Cassian came down with a cold, scarred hand pressed to his forehead. The shadows said breathe, and Cassian listened, fighting adrenaline until the rise and fall of his chest matched Azriel in front of him.   “He’ll be apologizing in six hours,” Az promised, voice low.   Cassian almost smiled from sheer familiarity. A fight every few decades was normal with Rhys, but this was different. Az, who could hear the air and siphon song that rang with violence, defend, protect, destroy, knew it too. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.” “Cas.”   “I wanted to,” Cassian shook his head, unsteady. Azriel just moved his hand from his face to his shoulder, grounding. “I don’t know”-   “Cassian,” Az sighed, infinite patience and terrible quiet, “You know.”   Huffing a laugh without humor, Cassian rubbed a hand over his face. “I made her tea, Az. We’re about to fight against armies who outnumber us by thousands and the only time I’ve felt sane since crossing the Wall was watching her take a cup out of my hands. Its”-   “Like falling.” Az agreed, knowing black eyes holding an untapped future. “Realizing the wings that’ll save you from crashing aren't attached to your body.”   It was a relief to admit. Unbearable to try to put into words- Cassian was in such deep shit.   Like he’d plucked the thought out of his head, out of the air- maybe he had, Az grinned suddenly. The face that said trouble was not one most people got to see, though Cassian had always had interesting luck.    “Such unrelenting shit,” Azriel promised, squeezing Cassian’s shoulder in a death grip before retreating. “You’ve never liked easy.”   Easy would have seen him dead in the cold ground before his fifth year.   “She’s a fire,” Cassian didn’t want to imagine how he looked, the raw tone of his voice too much to his own ears. “She’s going to burn the world in this war.”   Feyre might have seen herself as a protector of both her other sisters, but Cassian was certain of if only one thing about Nesta. She would not go quietly into the safety of the night. Rage and keep raging, foment chaos and continue making terrifyingly shrewd calls to protect mortal lives.   Nesta Archeron would go down fighting to protect her people, and Cassian couldn’t say he was any different.

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