Chapter Text
Rhys slammed into the floor of the town house, Spymaster and Commander in tow. Amren was instantly there, hands on Cassian's wings, cursing at the damage and at the hole in Azriel's chest.
He could hardly fight past his panic to muse how a real healer would need to come, and soon. If they waited to long, Cassian's wings...Rhys knew that the Illyrian would prefer death than the alternative.
Feyre.
Too much—too much was happening at once—
“Where is she?” Amren demanded, voice somehow reaching him past his panic.
Where is she where is she where is she
He tried to reach out again and feel their connection, their bond, but felt nothing. Only hollow air and emptiness, almost like it was never there in the first place. Not even a trace of their bargain.
“Get the book out of here,” he said instead, dumping the pieces on the ground. He hated them, the madness and despair and joy they brought with just a single touch. His Second ignored the order.
Mor wasn't here, off to find a place for Nesta and Elain that she deemed safe enough.
“Where is she?” Amren pressed again, hands still working on Cassian's back. He knew she wasn't asking about Mor.
As if his thoughts summoned his cousin, she appeared, haggard and panting. Not even sparing a glance towards anyone else in the room, she dropped down next to Azriel, her crimson-crusted hands shaking as she ripped the arrow off his chest, blood spewing on the carpet. She placed her fingers over the wound, light pouring from her fingertips—
Light. She was in light, flared it out, then she—
“Where is she?”
Rhys couldn't speak, couldn't force any words out. Neither could Mor as she tended to an unconscious Azriel. He wanted to roar at the sight of his bleeding brothers, at the hollowness of his chest.
Where are you where are you please where are you
He pushed again—nothing.
“Rhysand,” Amren snapped.
He couldn't think straight, couldn't see anything past the last moments she was there. Thrashing on the ground, flooding the whole room with light. It had been Day Court light, at first, white and purifying, then—
“She—she's gone,” he breathed out, staring at where blood dripped on the floor. “I don't—I can't—” He couldn't do this.
“What happened?” she breathed, not tearing her eyes off of his wide, panicked stare.
He couldn't answer, couldn't speak.
“She was there one moment,” Mor explained instead, “then...I don't know. She unleashed light everywhere. I thought it was supposed to be a distraction at first, or a diversion, but...” she licked her lips. “She disappeared.”
Silver eyes focused on him. He still couldn't push words out.
“We—Tamlin offered passage through his lands and our heads on silver platters to the king in exchange for trapping Feyre, breaking her bargain, and getting her back to the Spring Court,” Mor continued. “But Ianthe betrayed Tamlin—told the king where to find Feyre's sisters. So the king had Feyre's sister brought with the queens—to prove he could make them immortal. He had wards and spells set up all over, we couldn't escape. He had us by the balls.”
“Rhysand,” Amren said.
I managed to speak. “Tamlin was about to take her away, or kill us, or whatever they had in mind, when she...vanished.” Feyre please— “All we know is that after she left, all the spells and wards were broken. It was how we left.”
“How do you know she didn't winnow?” Amren breathed, Cassian's blood shining on her hands.
He contemplated not answering, too consumed in his grief, his panic, that he didn't know if he could force anything out. Feyre, he called out again. Feyre—
“I can't feel her. I can't feel the bond,” he rasped. Saying it...it felt too real. The reality of it hit him, making him take a step back as if he was just struck.
“That's not possible,” she breathed, staring back at Cassian's wings, an emotion Rhys didn't want to place sliding into her eyes.
“Then why can't I feel her?” he snapped.
Silence met his question. He gulped down a deep breath and tried to clear his head, his shattering heart—the only feeling in the emptiness of his chest.
“How about Hybern?” Amren continued. “Did the king have something to do with it? Or Tamlin?”
“No,” Mor shook her head. “They looked as surprised as we did.”
Which wasn't a lie. Heavy quietness weighed down on every single person in the room shortly after her disappearance, even the king sat there, eyes wide and fixed on the spot the youngest Archeron had been only moments before. Then, in the midst of the confusion and silent panic, Tamlin had all but marched to Rhys and demanded what he had done to Feyre, face in a furious snarl and voice nothing but a hiss. Rhys was too disoriented, confused to even feel angry at the High Lord of Spring, gaze trained on the recently empty spot, eyes still burning with the light the burned brighter than anything he'd ever seen. He only looked away when Mor winnowed to Elain and Nesta and vanished with them. Shortly after, he had winnowed his brothers out, despite his desire to stand there and wait, as if Feyre would appear again.
Despite not even feeling a glimmer of his mate, he...he knew. He knew that somewhere, out there, she was alive. He didn't know where, but he knew it. She had to be there, alive. And he would find her.
“I—I know she's alive out there, I know she is,” he affirmed, and he noticed tension that he didn't even know had fell on his Second's and Third's shoulders relaxing. “But I don't know where. Or how?”
“Then we'll find her,” Mor reassured, her magic flaring on Azriel's chest.
He believed her. He knew that he would tear apart all of Prythian to find her and bring her back home, to her court, to rule beside him. As High Lord and High Lady.
Feyre was High Lady of the Night Court. And no one even knew, only the two of them and the high priestess. They had planned on announcing it later, after today.
And she wasn't here—
They would find her. They would.
“And what of the Cauldron—of the book?” Amren asked.
He stared towards the door as if he would see her walk through it, laughing and vibrant and beautiful, “I suppose we'll also have to go to war.”