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Chapter Text

Nyx leaned in closer to the pretty female wiggling her hips to the music, murmuring, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Terpsichore. But call me Cori,” she replied, lifting her sparkling eyes to give him a suggestive wink, and Nyx didn’t object when she shimmied closer to him on the dance floor, threading her long arms around his neck and shoulders. He had to lean in to hear her over the pounding drumbeat of the music, and he took in her delectable scent — fresh oranges and cotton candy, to go with her sunset-colored skin and wings.

I wonder if those wings feel as good as mine when they’re touched, he thought wickedly, though it was a rare partner indeed who got to touch his wings. It felt too intimate, too vulnerable for a fleeting encounter, and at only twenty-three, Nyx was adamantly uninterested in having a serious partner right now. He wanted to be young and stupid for at least a few more centuries, until all of his cousins were settled down with three younglings each. Then he might consider it.

“I like it, Cori,” he purred, though he was obliged to half-shout over the noise in the dance hall. “Terpsichore, the Muse of the Dance.”

She looked delighted, her lips curling into a shimmery smile. “A scholar, too? That’s just not fair. What’s your name, Dark and Brooding?”

Was I brooding? It’s the hair, I expect. He’d let it grow out a bit longer, giving him a bit of a roguish appearance. He was dressed in his usual all-black, as well, an homage to his his court of origin. It was a tiny slice of home while he was far away, and if it accentuated the brooding look, Nyx didn’t mind as long as the females liked it.

“I’m Nyx,” he said, and for some reason, she giggled, the sound buzzing pleasantly along his spine. The wine here must be stronger than I thought. Better tread carefully.

“Are you from around here?” he asked, running a finger along her bare arm, as though he could trace a line all the way back to her home. Maybe later.

“Oh yes,” she said, “though I can see that you’re not.”

Nyx chuckled, taking her meaning. Aside from his buttoned up black suit, which left everything to the imagination unlike what all the other males were wearing, Illyrian wings were not a common sight at the Day Court, not even since the treaty. Most Illyrians kept to their own enclaves and didn’t make much of big city life, even in their own court, but certainly not abroad. Nyx stuck out here, but most of the time he didn’t mind it — not when it so often drew the right kind of attention.

Like right now, for instance.

Cori sashayed dangerously close to him, almost close enough for their lips to meet, and Nyx braced a hand on her hips, the thin fabric of her dress delightfully soft and silky to the touch. The night was warm and sultry, like most nights at the Day Court, and the club’s lights scattered and flashed over the crowd of faeries gyrating, kissing, knocking back drinks, ogling each other to their hearts’ content.

Nyx’s blood hummed pleasantly as he thought about how the night might play out — he’d suggest stepping out for some late night cupcakes to go, or a cup of coffee at an outdoor cafe if the female wanted to take things slower. He could suggest a stroll through the sculpture gardens, or by the public fountains that were always lit at night, or whatever else she felt like doing, which hopefully involved going back to her place…

“Well, Cori —“ he began, leaning down again, thinking he might brush her lips this time, when a flash of red hair and a golden glowing light suddenly drew his attention.

“Nyx Archeron.” Her voice rang out even above the pulsating music.

Shit.

“Hold that thought, sweetheart,” he murmured, hastily withdrawing his hands and maneuvering himself off of the dance floor, not stopping to hear Cori’s pouty reply, and made a beeline for the female in the entryway.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” she snapped, folding her pale slender arms across her chest. She ignored the incredulous stares she was getting, the murmurs and whispers of the Princess reverberating through the room.

Yes. “No, no, of course not,” Nyx stammered, wincing when she punched his shoulder. “Ow, Sibs!”

“Of course you did,” his cousin declared, sinking her fingers into the lapel of his jacket and tugging him forward, like she would march him right out of the club that way. “You’re such an embarrassment. All the scholars are assembled and waiting.”

“Sorry. Okay. Let me just say goodbye to —“ Nyx turned, thinking to snag his little sunset muse of the dance to arrange to meet up some other time, but she had melted back into the crowd of revelers, apparently deciding he wasn’t worth waiting for.

Or she saw me with Sibyl, and drew the wrong conclusion.

It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing had happened.

Nyx had long since learned not to be too embarrassed when people mistook Sibyl for a girlfriend, rather than family. He couldn’t help it that Sibyl was the only one of the cousins who didn’t have an Illyrian for a father. Even Catrin and Aneirin, who had the same flame-red hair as Sibyl, had Uncle Az’s Illyrian wings and tanner skin, and the sturdy Illyrian build that made them so ruthless in combat. Sibyl was built differently — slender, almost slight, with such pale skin that her power glowed right through her. It made her look deceptively delicate, like she was made of porcelain.

Nyx turned back around, just in time to see that a group of males congregated near the bar had turned around, and were openly leering at Sibyl in a way he did not appreciate. She was a lovely sight, in her traditional Day Court chiton that bared one smooth shoulder, as well as her neck and back. They were far too old, and had drunk far too much, to be staring at his nineteen year old cousin that way. Nyx didn’t need to be a daemati to know what they were thinking about.

But Nyx was a daemati, and he could hear what they were thinking. How they were raking their eyes over Sibyl’s assets, thinking about what they wanted to do to her, whether she wanted to or not. It was vile.

Nyx resisted the urge to tear off his jacket and throw it around his cousin, shield her from view. Instead, he settled for baring his teeth at the offending males, and they all quickly whirled around, or averted their eyes.

“What was that little display?” Sibyl asked, as they threaded their way through the crowd at the door and tumbled out onto the street again, the music now muffled enough to have a proper conversation. “You’re gonna get a reputation around here.”

“Good,” Nyx fumed, clenching his fists. “Then maybe those males will keep their eyes in their heads and their hands to themselves.”

He had half a mind to go back in there and teach them some respect — but no. He couldn’t risk it. He was a visitor to this court, a guest of the High Lord, and he’d be shaming Helion as well as his own parents if he started brawling in the streets of Rhodes. Plus, his magic had grown so strong and difficult to control that it was liable to lash out of him at the wrong moment, and then there’d really be trouble.

Sibyl frowned at him, her coppery eyebrows knitting together. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

“I know.” He acknowledged it readily. Sibyl was no hand-to-hand fighter, but had powerful magic, from two courts of Prythian. At only four years old she had already developed her powers enough to shield both of them from a High Lord’s firepower, raising speculation that she might be the next heir to the Autumn Court, and her magic had only grown since then. She could handle a few slimy club-goers. “I know you can, Sibs. Just — why should you have to?”

Sibyl huffed out a sigh. “No one should have to. That’s just how it is. Males are gross.”

Nyx laughed, but didn’t deny it. “What was this symposium about, again?”

Sibyl smacked his arm. “I knew you forgot.”

“I’ve been busy, okay?” Between magic lessons with Helion, and his own research at the Great Library, and visiting his family back in Velaris every chance he got, Nyx was running himself ragged. And while letting loose at the dance halls was a way to blow off steam, he’d probably been doing a little too much of that, too.

“Busier than a High Lord and all his top scholars?” Sibyl needled him.

“All right, all right, I get the message,” Nyx grumbled, self-consciously straightening the lapels of his jacket, and hastily glamouring the scents of the nightclub from his clothing, as they turned towards the main square and the imposing palace in the center of it. If Velaris was a sparkling city of bustle and starlight, Rhodes was a museum of columns and marble, more like an art gallery than a proper city. Nyx liked it well enough, especially its side streets with their many cafes and dance halls and shops, but this place would never feel like home to him.

Sibyl said, “This is the biggest symposium of the year, Nyx. Even the folks that never leave the Library are coming tonight. It’s going to be a Who’s Who of experts on every topic. If we’re late —”

“Want me to fly you there?” he asked, grinning mischievously at her. “I’ve taken lessons since the last time.”

Sibyl’s lips quirked, though she didn’t quite smile. The first time Nyx had ever flown, he’d been carrying her to get her away from kidnappers, and his technique had been less than practiced. They hadn’t crashed, though, and that had been all that mattered. It had convinced Nyx to really learn to fly properly. He wished he had more time for it, if only so he could be faster than his Illyrian cousins, who were all committed warriors and had had years of aerial combat training.

“Here we are,” Sibyl announced, as if he could have missed the palace looming overhead.

Passersby gawked as the two of them ascended up the palace steps, heading straight for the open-air courtyard with the elegant hanging gardens — all Aunt Elain’s design, of course — where the High Lord liked to conduct his symposia in the open air. Any member of the public could attend, provided they could find a spot on the ground to perch on and could stay reasonably quiet, for the Day Court’s cadre of scholars skewed old and frail, and some were easily startled.

Uncle Lucien spotted them first, from his seat at the foot of the table. Not the head, not ever, no matter how many times the High Lord pestered him. Nyx understood it well. Being the heir to a court was no simple matter. Everything you did, or didn’t do, was endlessly noticed and commented upon, even if you hadn’t grown up in a rival court, raised by your enemy’s family, as Uncle Lucien had been. The scrutiny could be stifling.

His uncle broke out into a broad grin. “Ah, there they are. Fashionably late, as always.”

It was a gentle ribbing, delivered with a wink at Nyx, but Sibyl flared red. “I was just fetching our guest, or I’d have been on time —“

“Don’t trouble yourself, we have not yet begun,” High Lord Helion assured her, lounging at the head of the table, with the Lady of the Day Court seated comfortably beside him. Sibyl broke away from Nyx and stalked towards the empty seat by her grandmother, who looked so much like Sibyl that they might have passed for mother and daughter. Sibyl was well known to the scholars, for she had been attending symposia and studying privately with several of the attendees since she was a wisp of a youngling, so it was utterly unnecessary for Helion to formally introduce her, but he did so anyway, emphasizing the word granddaughter with a beaming smile that told the entire table exactly how he felt about her. And from the way Sibyl grinned back at him, the feeling was clearly mutual.

It was hard not to feel jealous. Nyx had no living grandparents, though from the tales told of his grandfather Llyr and his legendary cruelty, he figured that he wouldn’t have what Sibyl had with Helion, anyway. His grandfather Archeron was far more complicated, as he’d been more weak than cruel, and had been afflicted with some sickness of mind and body that had tarnished his character, but he’d proven himself worthy, in the end. Nyx would have loved to learn more of the continent and the human lands from him, and especially more about Koschei and how to negotiate with a death god.

As for grandmothers, that was complicated too — one had been mortal and died of disease, while the other had been viciously slaughtered in an unprovoked attack. It had left a terrible scar upon his father and all the family, an aching absence that was still felt, especially on Starfall. The injustice of it was galling enough that it made Nyx want to fly down to the Spring Court and pummel its High Lord, who’d let it happen. Tamlin, that cursed beast, was damn lucky that he still drew breath, after all he had done to Nyx’s kin.

Nyx scanned the table, noting a seat had been laid out for him next to Uncle Lucien, and he strode for it, grateful to see that it could accommodate his wings. The scholars were busy greeting Sibyl, standing up to offer respectful bows, while the most elderly, who were unsteady on their feet, simply raised glasses to toast her health. Sibyl received it all gracefully, acknowledging each of the scholars by name, and kept the table busy enough for Nyx to whisper to his uncle, “Where’s Aunt Elain tonight?”

“Back in Velaris,” his uncle replied, smoothly reaching over to pour Nyx a glass of wine, so that he could lean over and not look like he was ignoring the proceedings. “Helping out your mother with her — symptoms.”

Nyx tried to smile at that, but it came out as more of a grimace. Intellectually, he knew that his mother was fine and would be fine, that there would not be a repeat of the issues from her pregnancy with him, but he still worried. How could he not? She’d almost died giving birth to him — had died, actually, and had gotten a reprieve through Aunt Nesta’s intervention. But Aunt Nesta had given up almost all her power in the process, and would not be able to intervene like that again, not that it was fair that she’d had to do so even once.

It made Nyx profoundly uncomfortable to know how much she’d sacrificed for him and his parents, how he could never really repay his debt to her. And although Aunt Nesta didn’t seem to resent it, it made her own daughter profoundly jealous.

Nyx forcefully shoved that out of his mind. He would not think about Enyo now, about the rip-roaring fight they’d had before he’d left Velaris. She was impossible these days, sharp-tongued and hot-tempered, and they’d both said things that they were sure to regret. Nyx already regretted most of them, though he would never admit that out loud, not until Enyo was ready to apologize too.

“—and our honored guest,” Helion was saying, gesturing towards them with an outstretched hand. Nyx straightened, knowing that the eyes of the assembled were all turning towards him, and he stood up, intending to bow to the High Lord and his Lady and scholars, when there was a clatter and a cry from the middle of the table.

Several attendants rushed forward to assist as a wizened old scholar rose, one trembling hand planted on the table to support himself, the other extended towards Nyx, pointing accusingly. “The Deceiver.”

Nyx held up his hands, utterly flummoxed by this, but his uncle was up beside him, and Helion had risen as well. “Dear Epicurus,” the High Lord said kindly, “calm yourself —“

“I will not,” hissed the scholar, his finger shaking in midair. Though there was no power of a death-promise behind it, Nyx flinched anyway. “You have brought him here to our table, he who ruined this great city — who served at the Witch’s pleasure, reveling in our misery — shame!”

Sibyl’s face had drained of all color, and she was frantically whispering to her grandmother, while the rest of the table had broken out into an unpleasant buzz of murmurs and glares in Nyx’s direction.

“Friends, do not mistake the son for the father,” his Uncle Lucien entreatied, drawing the crowd’s attention. He drew an arm around Nyx as he went on, “This is not the Deceiver, but an innocent child. Look on his eyes, and you will see for yourself.”

“He might be glamoured,” another scholar spat.

“You know me, Phaedrus,” Nyx burst out in disbelief. It had been some years, but he wasn’t that forgettable, was he? “You taught me spell-casting!”

The male squinted at him. “Did I? Yes, perhaps. Perhaps you did not so much resemble your father then.” He spat out the word father, like it was a vile curse.

Epicurus swayed on his feet, and the attendants flung out their hands, trying to support him. “Child, father, it makes no difference. The damage wrought to our city and folk will take centuries to repair, and much of our trove of knowledge is lost irrevocably. His villainy will be a stain upon the family forever.”

Nyx felt a hollow ache building in his chest, a cold seeping dread that made him feel heavy and numb. What is he talking about?

Sibyl spoke up. “Nyx is my family,” she said, gently but sternly, “and is no more a villain than I am.”

Nyx smiled at her gratefully, but when he turned to look at the scholars again, he saw that they were still eyeing him suspiciously, though less murderously than a few moments ago. Sibyl's grandmother patted her shoulder in support and gave Nyx a smile, though it didn’t quite meet her eyes. Like she, too, saw some specter of the past when she looked at him, and it caused pain to her.

“If my presence here is disturbing, I will go,” he said, feeling ashamed to have caused so much trouble. They all looked so fearful, so horrified, when they looked at him. It made him feel sick to his stomach. “I do not wish to cause offense.”

“Offense,” scoffed Epicurus. “As though torture and depravity merely cause offense.”

“Hush, old friend,” another scholar admonished him, patting his shoulder gently with her own shaking hand. “The boy is innocent. Don’t visit on the child the sins of the father.”

Sins? Nyx didn’t like the sound of that.

He struggled to keep silent, under the intense scrutiny. What history did his father have with these faeries, to cause such an extreme reaction? He wanted to protest that it wasn’t fair, that surely they’d misjudged the situation, that his father was wise and learned, that he ruled their court as fairly as any High Lord could, and whatever he might have done, surely he’d had reasons.

The arm around Nyx tightened. “There is no need for you to depart. You’ve done nothing wrong,” his uncle said firmly. “Damo has it right. Your grievances are not with Nyx, but with his father.” He inclined his head respectfully towards the female, and towards the trembling elder next to her. “You are wise, Epicurus. You wouldn’t judge the boy based on mere appearances.”

Helion nodded vigorously, rumbling, “No scholar in my employ would fall prey to such shallow thinking, or violate our traditions by needlessly insulting an honored guest at my table.” A few of the scholars grumbled under their breaths, but no one outright objected.

“I am sorry,” Nyx burst out, desperate to make them all understand. “For whatever has happened.” That earned him a few tentative smiles, some raised eyebrows, but most of the faeries simply averted their eyes from him, or continued to observe him with distrust and fear.

“We thank you, dear Nyx. We appreciate the sentiment,” Helion said kindly, though it was clear that many of them didn’t. “Now, let us continue, and no more interruptions. Any further grievances can be brought to Phoebus in the morning.” Helion’s advisor stirred at the mention of his name, not looking particularly happy with the idea that he would be inundated with complaints, but then went back to quietly flirting with the young scholar seated next to him.

Helion gestured to Nyx to sit back down, which he did at once, though his comfortable chair felt like a bed of poisoned nails that might puncture him at any moment.

The High Lord started talking again, moving on to the agenda for the meeting, but Nyx heard none of it. Instead, he speared a frantic thought towards his uncle. What do I do, Uncle Lucien? Why do they hate me?

Leave it, came his uncle’s answer. Hold your head high, and carry on as you always would. You are good, Nyx. Anyone worth anything will see that.

But what about my father? Why do they hate him?

There was a too-long pause before his uncle answered. They have reasons.

Nyx didn’t know what to say to that.

He knew full well that being a High Lord sometimes meant being unpopular. That High Lords were forced to make tough decisions, even do terrible things, for the sake of their people and territories. Surely every High Lord in Prythian, past and current, had his critics?

But somehow, this felt different.

His villainy will be a stain upon the family forever.

Nyx looked up, and caught his cousin’s eye from down the length of the table. When Sibyl saw him, she tried to give him an encouraging smile, but she looked rattled, like the whole thing had upset and confused her. Nyx couldn’t bear the thought of his cousin, whom he’d known since she was a squalling newborn babe, looking at him and seeing a villain instead of a friend.

I have to know, he told his uncle.

Another uncomfortably long pause.

Please.

All right, Nyx. Of course. You have the right to know everything, his uncle’s voice finally said. Maybe you should go home? Talk to your parents?

I can’t bring this home. Mama’s pregnant, he reminded Uncle Lucien. She shouldn’t be dealing with this right now. And it’s put my father on edge. You know how he gets.

I know. His uncle sighed heavily, like the whole matter exhausted him. I just — He broke off, then tried again. It’s going to be a lot, Nyx. I just hope you’re ready.

Nyx hoped so, too.

Chapter Text

“Papa? How did you and Mama meet?” Nyx asked, leaning back, arranging his wings so they wouldn’t get pinned underneath him as he cuddled in his father’s lap. They’d been lounging around ever since breakfast, while Mama was off teaching a special painting class for the priestesses who lived in the Library. Nyx loved having Papa to himself, which didn’t happen very often, as Papa was a High Lord and usually very busy. It made Nyx feel very important indeed that Papa had cleared his schedule to stay home with him, instead.

His papa’s broad hand smoothed out a stray lock of Nyx’s hair, the calluses brushing rough against the skin of his forehead. “It’s rather a long story,” he said, his deep smooth voice rumbling through Nyx pleasantly.

Nyx looked up at his papa, into those shining violet eyes that sometimes seemed to hold the stars. “I like stories,” he said hopefully.

His father smiled, his handsome face looming larger in Nyx’s vision as he leaned down. “I know, Nyx. I found four books in your bed this morning.” Nyx flushed, deciding not to mention that The Light of Gwydion stashed under his pillow would make five. “You’ve been staying up past bedtime again, haven’t you?”

Nyx nodded nervously, hoping he wouldn’t be in too much trouble. But to his relief, his papa smiled. “Well. I can’t exactly take away your flashlight, can I?” He clasped one of Nyx’s hands in his much larger, stronger one. “Show me a little of that light of yours?”

Nyx obliged, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to concentrate. It was easier to summon his powers when he didn’t have an audience, but for his papa, he would try anything. He sighed in relief when his fingertips bloomed with a soft glowing light, just like what he used for reading by.

“Beautiful,” his papa said reverently, cupping Nyx’s fingers in his hand. “Just like your mother’s.”

Nyx loved that thought, that he and Mama shared their special powers, that he was in any way like her. “So? How did you meet Mama?” he pressed.

Papa smiled down at Nyx, though for some reason he seemed to look sad, just for a moment. Then it cleared away, and he was just Papa again, strong and clever and wise and loving. “Well, I saw your mama from afar, long before we met.”

“With your mind powers?” Nyx asked eagerly.

“Yes — though Mama lived far away back then, with the other humans. Across the Wall,” his papa explained. Nyx nodded, remembering how he’d read about the Wall in some of his books. “I couldn’t see very much, with such powerful magic keeping us apart. But what I did see made me very happy, during a very hard time.” His eyes grew darker, no stars to be seen. “Those were very sad years, Nyx, and very dangerous.”

“When she ruled the land,” Nyx said quietly. They did not mention the Witch’s name, not ever, as though doing so could summon her ghost. Nyx rather thought that her ghost lived among them, anyway, that it sometimes haunted the house at night, when he would feel Papa’s darkness seeping under his door, or when he would hear Mama’s muffled crying from the floor above.

He’d tried to find books in the Library about it, had asked all his tutors if they knew how to banish ghosts from a place forever. But no one did.

“Yes, Nyx. She ruled Prythian at that time. Many bad things were happening, wicked things.” His papa’s handsome face looked even sharper than usual, from the clench of his jaw to the way his teeth set on edge. Nyx couldn’t help but shiver a little. He was safe, always safe with his papa, but he knew Papa could be fierce against others, against enemies who would harm their family. And the thought that there were enemies, that there were those out there who wished them harm — that put him on edge, too.

“But one day, your mama did come,” Papa went on, his lips curving into a soft smile, the tension easing from him. “The night I finally met her — it was one of the happiest moments of my life.” His grin grew a bit wicked. “I found her at a festival. Some faeries were giving her a hard time, and I chased them away.”

“You rescued her?” Nyx looked up at him, wide-eyed. “And then you got married?”

His papa laughed gently. “Not just then. Many other things had to happen first.”

“Like what?” Nyx twisted, sprawling out on his back. He took the hand that his papa had rested on him and began fiddling with each finger, poking the rough calluses, tracing the veins, finding the places where they became the inky black lines of the tattoos that ran up Papa’s arms. It was several moments before he realized that his papa hadn’t answered.  “Like what, Papa?”

Papa breathed in deeply, then blew the breath out. “Well, first your mama freed us all from Under the Mountain.”

Nyx’s eyes blinked rapidly, and an icy fear clawed into his heart at the thought of it. Under the Mountain. It sounded terrible, to be crushed under miles of stone and dust. And Papa, who was so strong and powerful, who protected him, had been trapped. Nyx almost couldn’t bear to think of it.

How mighty and wicked must the Witch have been? How cunning, if she could defeat even clever Papa? What would she have done to a weak little youngling like Nyx, if she’d gotten her talons into him?

And Mama had beaten her. Mama, who painted pretty pictures and gave him hugs and kisses, Mama had beaten that wicked witch. It made him feel comforted, and also a little afraid, to think that she was that powerful. “Mama is brave,” he said reverently.

“So she is,” Papa agreed. “Brave, and fierce, and loyal. Willing to do anything to save the ones she loves.”

“Is that why you fell in love with her?”

Papa’s smile was radiant, though Nyx thought he still seemed sad. “I fell in love with her for that, and so much more.”

“More,” Nyx whispered, wide eyed. There was more?

“Your mama used to be human, you know,” Papa said. “Humans live short lives, full of suffering and pain. They don’t heal like we can. They grow old, and they die, and if they live a long enough time, everyone they know dies, too.”

“But — that’s not fair,” Nyx protested.

“It isn’t,” Papa agreed. “And it isn’t fair that some humans had plenty, while your mama’s family suffered with almost nothing.”

Nyx’s chin wobbled. “Suffered?”

“I’m afraid so,” Papa said gravely, cupping Nyx’s chin, steadying him. “Your mama had a tough time, before she came to Prythian. She took care of her own papa, and Aunt Nesta and Aunt Elain, when she was but a child herself. Knowing she could be hurt, or killed. Do you see how special she is, Nyx?”

“She didn’t care that she could die?” Nyx knew what it meant to die, to close your eyes and never open them, and go far away somewhere no one could follow, maybe even forever. The idea of Mama dying was far too terrible to even imagine.

“She knew she would die,” Papa explained. “She was surrounded by death, so she knew how precious life really is. She felt things with her human heart, far more deeply than most faeries feel. And she understood that sometimes —“ He broke off suddenly, then cleared his throat. “Sometimes you have to do things that you’d rather not, become something you’d rather not, to save the ones you really love.”

Nyx didn’t know quite what that meant. “What kinds of things?”

“Hard things.” Papa said slowly. “Bad things.”

Nyx scrunched his eyebrows. “Like being mean?”

“You… could say that,” Papa hedged.

Nyx frowned. “But surely not you, Papa.”

Papa blinked many times before answering, and when he spoke again, his voice was strained. “Yes, me. Sometimes I was mean. Very mean. I didn’t know if your mama would understand, but she did.”

Nyx’s lower lip quivered. “But why, Papa?”

Papa sighed heavily. “It was a choice I made. It was the only way to protect the people I loved, and Velaris, too.” Nyx must have looked confused, for he went on, “Someday, Nyx, you might have to make tough choices too. You might have to make decisions, do things that others might not like. Mean things, terrible things. That’s what it means, to be a High Lord. We do things not because we want to, but because we know they have to be done.”

Nyx shivered. “Then I don’t want to be a High Lord.” He blinked rapidly, not wanting to cry in front of his papa. “I don’t want to do bad things.”

His papa kissed his forehead. “You have such a beautiful heart. I hope that never changes.” He pulled back, looking into Nyx’s eyes, almost like he was pleading. “Maybe you’ll never have to face the choices I did. Maybe life will be kinder to you. I desperately hope so. But Mama and I want you to be strong, so that you’ll be able to handle anything, no matter what.”

Nyx nodded firmly. “I’ll be strong, Papa,” he promised.

Papa patted his head. “Of course you will be.” His gaze strayed towards the wall, where a portrait of their family was hanging, of a baby Nyx held by Papa and Mama, and the spirits of Starfall streaming by, shimmering in many colors. Nyx could almost feel the tickling of the star-spirits dusting his cheek, like they were giving kisses, but in the painting, it was Papa bending down to kiss Mama’s smooth cheek, and Mama had painted herself glowing with happiness.

Papa must be good, if Mama thinks so. If he can make her happy like that.

“When you grow up, Nyx, and you fall in love,” his papa said softly, “find someone like your Mama. Someone who will accept you for yourself, no matter what. Who won’t flinch away from your power, or your past. Someone who loves with their whole heart.”

Nyx just stared up at him, not knowing how to answer, not being able to imagine that he would ever find any other person in the whole realm or beyond it as wonderful as his mama.

“My, haven’t we gotten so serious.” Papa poked the tip of Nyx’s nose with a long finger, and Nyx giggled at the tickling sensation. “Do you want to hear the rest of the story?”

“Course,” Nyx cried eagerly. “Tell me, tell me.” He scrambled to sit up, and Papa’s broad hands came to his sides, lifting him, setting him upright. Nyx pushed up to his knees on Papa’s legs, wobbling a little as he tried to balance.

Papa held his hands, steadying him. “Not on your knees, Nyx,” he said, kindly but firmly. “Remember? It’s very important. Never bend the knee, never surrender. Not for anyone except your crown, or your mate.”

Nyx shrugged and plopped back down, hard, into Papa’s lap, making the male yelp in surprise, then start laughing. Then he tickled Nyx under his armpits, making Nyx burst out laughing too.

“So what happened after Mama freed everyone?” Nyx asked. “That’s when you married her?”

“Well,” his papa chuckled, “not just yet.”

“But why? Didn’t you love her?”

“Of course I did, Nixie. But it’s not that simple,” his papa explained. “She didn’t know me very well yet.” He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “You can ask her about that part of it. It’s really her story to tell, what life was like for her when she first became faerie.”

“Oh,” Nyx said, a little disappointed.

“But the important thing is, we did get together. We helped each other, and grew to love each other very much,” Papa said brightly. “Mama joined our family, our inner circle, and so did her sisters. We became one big family — your family, Nyx.”

“My family,” Nyx repeated, smiling up at his Papa.

“And as long as we love and support each other,” Papa said, pulling Nyx in closer, “we can get through anything.”

* * * *

Loud, insistent knocking jolted Nyx awake. He stared at the darkened room for long moments, trying to place where he was, but the thumping inside his head continued, making it difficult to think.

“Nyx,” Sibyl’s voice called, echoing down the corridor. “Come out.”

Hell no. “Later,” he croaked out.

“It is later. Two o’clock in the afternoon, if you want to know.”

“I don’t.” He rolled over, cupping his face in his hands, the room continuing to spin around him long after he’d gone still again. How much did I have to drink last night?

“Nyx —“

“I’m sleeping,” he snapped, tugging the sheets over his head, muffling the sound of Sibyl’s foot impatiently tapping on the marble floors. Drat this palace — everything was hard, from the marble tiling to the gold encrusted accents, to the harsh light that slatted in through the shuttered windows. Nyx hated it here.

He imagined Sibyl shrugging her pale shoulders. “All right then.”

Whew. He didn’t think he’d get rid of her that easily —

“If you won’t come out, then I’m coming in.”

By the fucking Cauldron. “No, Sibs —“ he squawked.

The door creaked open, all the wards shimmering as golden threads and peeling back — drat my stupid cousin and her stupid spell-cleaving abilities — and then Sibyl was pressing it closed again, rethreading the wards with a flick of her fingers before stalking towards the bed, glaring determinedly at him. “Nyx —“

“Leave me alone,” he groaned, rolling over.

Sibyl skidded to a halt near the bed, sniffing delicately. “You stink like booze, and — Did you take faebane, Nyx?”

Nyx clasped his pounding forehead with one of his hands. “So what if I did.”

“So what if I did,” she growled, stalking to the window and throwing the shutters open, flooding the room with garish, unrelenting Day Court sunlight. Nyx groaned and threw an arm over his face, trying to block it out. “So what. It’s dangerous, that’s what. Suppressing your magic on purpose? Anyone could have done anything to you while you couldn’t fight back.”

“All right, Mom,” Nyx grumbled, though he knew she was right. It was stupid, but that had been the whole point. He’d needed to do something destructive and stupid, and seeing as there was no one to fight, and none of his own possessions to break, he’d settled on breaking himself, instead.

Sibyl plopped down onto the mattress, jostling him unpleasantly. “You're wallowing.”

Why deny it? “Wouldn’t you be?”

Her slender fingers tugged at the coverlet, but Nyx gripped it tightly, keeping himself covered. “I don’t know. Maybe?” she said, then sighed, relenting. “Probably.”

Nyx poked his head out from the covers just enough to get a glimpse of her frowning down at him, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the sorry state he was in. Fine — he had earned that. “Probably?”

Sibyl threw up her hands. “Okay, yes. I’d be upset too. Devastated, even. And I would be wallowing. Or drowning my sorrows. But not with faebane, Nyx. You wouldn’t stand for that, would you?”

Nyx slid out from the coverlet a bit more. The thought of his baby cousin dosing herself with magic-suppressing poison, and what some unscrupulous male might do to her if he got his hands on her, was not pleasant. “I’d go storming down to that club and throw you over my shoulder and drag you back here,” he said vehemently, then rubbed his temples at the loud ringing of his own voice in his ears.

“My point exactly,” Sibyl huffed. “And since I can’t do that to you, and Uncle Cass and Uncle Az aren’t here, I’d have to get Daddy to do it. Or Grandfather.”

Nyx narrowed his eyes at her. “You wouldn’t.” The indignity of being dragged out of some seedy dance hall by the High Lord himself — or his heir, even — was too humiliating to contemplate. He’d never be able to show his face in this court again. And wasn’t that why he’d wanted to get drunk, in the first place?

“I would. And I will, if you pull this again,” Sibyl said. She scooted closer to him on the bed, tugging the covers down far enough that his entire face was exposed. “Gods, you look terrible.”

“Thanks,” he said sarcastically, though he knew she was right. “Just call me Dark and Brooding.”

Sibyl snickered, then stood up, striding over to his closet and rummaging through it. “Do you have anything but black? It’s a hundred degrees outside.” She tossed a clean shirt onto the bed, followed by a pair of pants. “How do you stand it?”

Nyx held up a hand, managing to conjure a thin sheen of frost on his fingertips despite the faebane still lingering in his system. “Winter Court magic.”

“Lucky.” Sibyl strode back towards the center of the room, looking around, frowning thoughtfully. “Where do you keep undergarments?”

“I don’t,” Nyx said.

“Ew.” She stalked for the door, tossing out over her shoulder, “You have ten minutes, Nyx. Then I’m dragging you out of here.”

“Twenty,” he called after her. “I need a shower.”

“Yes. Yes, you do. Several showers, to be honest.” Sibyl turned back towards him, her gaze softening. “Get yourself unstinky, then we’re getting cupcakes.”

Who could argue with cupcakes? “What I really need is coffee,” Nyx admitted.

“Then you’d better hurry,” Sibyl said sweetly, then unraveled the wards and stepped out.

Nyx sighed heavily, then swung around so that his feet touched the floor. The marble was cool to the touch, despite the heat of the day, and he managed to stumble to his feet and make it to the bathing chamber before his stomach began to heave. Stupid faebane.

Sibyl was right, as she usually was — not that he was going to tell her that. But he’d been a fool to indulge, alone, putting himself at that much risk, in a strange city where faeries hated him. Or hated his father, which amounted to the same thing.

It’s just a few old crows who never leave the libraries, he tried to reassure himself. Most people have no idea who you are.

And that was true, as far as it went. Nyx had been enjoying a reprieve from Velaris, from being recognized as the heir all the time, had liked going out to dance halls where he could pick up a girl one night and not have his uncles teasing him about it by the next night. Most folks barely gave him a second look, unless they were checking out his unusual wings, and if anyone did recognize his face, they had the good sense not to pester him about it.

So one old scholar had freaked out on him. He’d been defended by everyone who mattered — Sibyl, Uncle Lucien, the High Lord himself. Why did he care what a senile stranger thought?

Child, father, it makes no difference. The damage wrought to our city and folk will take centuries to repair.

Nyx grimaced, and swiped the bile from his chin with the back of his hand, before shoving up from the toilet and flushing it far too zealously, then fumbling for the water faucet so he could fill the tub. He did care, and it was pointless to try to talk himself out of it. His honor had been tarnished, even if in error, and he hated the thought of anyone going about thinking so ill of him, whether it posed any danger or not.

Nyx stepped gingerly into the tub, taking extra care not to slip and slam his head against the porcelain, for it was pounding and aching enough already. He sank into the water, infusing a little extra heat into it to soothe away the lingering soreness in his muscles. He’d hightailed it from the symposium the moment the concluding benediction was given, taking off into the air with such haste that he’d actually worried that he might have pulled a muscle in his back. He’d spent the next hour flying circles over Rhodes, until he worried that he was probably scaring the folk down below into thinking the Deceiver was coming back to sack their city again.

The Deceiver. That was what they called his father.

He who ruined this great city, who served at the Witch’s pleasure, reveling in our misery.

The thought of that had horrified him so much that he’d gone careening straight down to the nightclub, picked up enough faebane to put a whole horde of Hybern’s beasts to sleep, and then ordered as many drinks as he had the cash for.

His villainy will be a stain upon the family forever.

Nyx almost vaulted up from the tub, feeling like he might be sick again.

It couldn’t be true, that his father had committed horrors. It just couldn’t be… and yet, no one had denied it.

Nyx’s mind couldn’t process the implications - and he suspected that even the strongest coffee wouldn’t help. Not with this. The idea that his father would revel in misery, in torture and depravity, simply had to be wrong. But many folks seemed to believe it.

Sometimes I was mean. Very mean.

What had his father meant by that, exactly? Nyx hadn’t asked.

He’d been curious, but not that curious, and he’d sensed that his father was uncomfortable discussing it… so he’d let it be. There had never been a reason to ask, after that. And no one else had brought it up, either.

Did his mother know? It had sure sounded like it. Did that mean she was wicked, too?

Nyx hastily washed himself off, then threw on the clothes that Sibyl had pulled out for him. The black of the shirt didn’t match the black pants, but he didn’t have the energy to care — he just got himself dressed, and his hair somewhat combed, and decided it had to be good enough. No point in dressing to impress when I look like a villain.

Nyx looked up from the washbasin, really looked at his own face in the glass. He had his mother’s steely blue eyes, but the rest of him was his father — the same forehead and angular cheekbones, the same straight nose and chin, the same lips that females might call sensuous. He could almost hear his father’s chuckle at that, his quips about Nyx inheriting his shocking good looks, how Nyx might someday be the most handsome High Lord —

Nyx’s fist flew towards the glass, and his reflection shattered into a thousand bloody pieces.

He stumbled back, shaking out his hand, cursing violently at the blood splattering the washbasin and his own hand and face, then reached for the faucet with trembling fingers. He hastily washed himself off, healed the cuts on his hand as best as he could with his still-weakened magic, and wiped up the sink and the tiled wall behind it.

But as he turned and left, seeking his cousin, and coffee and cupcakes, to soothe his sorrows, he left the shards of mirror-glass where they had fallen, imagining that a thousand broken reflections of himself stared accusingly after him.

Chapter Text

“So, do you want to talk about it?” Sibyl asked, grasping the carafe of coffee in her slender fingers and topping off Nyx’s cup. Either she’s trying to be kind, or I’ve still got to sober up. 

He took a bracing gulp of coffee, ignoring the sting of burning on his tongue, then added a vigorous bite of his cupcake before answering, hoping the combination would give him the energy to collect his thoughts, face this head-on. “I don’t really want to talk about it,” he admitted. “But — that’s sort of how this happened, isn’t it. Nobody wants to talk about it, so it never gets talked about, and then I find out like this.”

He sighed heavily, rustling in his wings, then tucking them back in carefully behind him. He’d learned from hard experience that overexposure to Day Court sunlight could mean a painful, crackling sunburn on the sensitive membranes. Besides, he didn’t need to cause a panic on the streets of Rhodes if people spotted him and mistook him for his father.

Not that it had ever happened before. Except that once.

But it had happened, and in a humiliatingly public fashion. Nyx was not eager to repeat the experience.

His cousin took a delicate bite of her own strawberry cupcake, then wiped the crumbs with her napkin. “I learned all about the sack of Rhodes, and the occupation, in my history lessons. That armies came here, burned the libraries, slaughtered the pegasi, rampaged and murdered, and that we defended ourselves bravely. If they mentioned Uncle Rhys, I don’t remember it. I don’t doubt he was here, that he did things — but he wasn’t the most important part of it.”

Nyx nodded, silently grateful to hear her say Uncle Rhys. Like she still claimed his father as part of her family. And while the thought of his father playing any role in the destruction of this city, in these people’s lives, made him sick to his stomach, it was some small comfort that it wasn’t all his fault.

“But Under the Mountain,” Sibyl went on, looking down at the table, tracing the rim of her cup with her fingertip, “that was another matter.” She looked back up at him, wincing sympathetically. “I think you’d better ask my father about it. He was there. He’ll know — how to explain it.”

Nyx forced his hands to stay steady around his cup of coffee. “That bad, huh?”

Sibyl’s hand rested on his arm. “Oh, Nixie.”

She was being far too kind to him, far too careful. It almost made him angry.

He shoved another bite of the cupcake in his mouth, and chewed without really tasting it, rather than answering. And Sibyl, who had known him forever and was used to his moods, did the same.

Nyx washed down all that chocolate and sugar with another mouthful of bitter coffee. “History lessons would be a good start. Do you still have the books your tutors used?”

His history books had devoted a sentence or two to the destruction of Prythian’s cities during the Witch’s reign — clearly they had not been written by scholars at any of the affected courts. What else might he learn, reading someone else’s history?

Sibyl nodded. “They’re in the palace library. Do you want to head over, get started? My father’s hosting some delegation or other, but he can join us when he’s finished.”

She patted his arm and rose gracefully from the table, her red hair radiating the light of the sun outwards like a curtain of brilliant flame. The passersby on the sidewalks and in the nearby businesses all turned to gape at it, at her, then bowed respectfully.

It made Nyx want to crawl under the table.

Sibyl inclined her head to them all, used to the stares and fawning attention, then reached out a steady hand to him. Nyx hesitated before taking it, wondering if it was a good idea for them to be seen together, if it would cause problems for Sibyl with her people.

Then he yelped when she pinched the skin between his thumb and pointer fingers. “Don’t make it weird,” she hissed to him, yanking him up from the table.

Nyx barked a laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Sibs.”

They strode from the cafe, heading back towards the palace, Sibyl occasionally pausing to acknowledge some called-out greeting or to wave to someone she knew. Nyx was content to walk alongside her, relieved that she was getting all the attention, his heart unclenching a little to see that most businesses looked bustling, that construction crews were actively doing repairs, that people looked well-dressed and plump and smiling. Whatever had happened to Rhodes before, the city was recovering.

“Hang on,” Sibyl said, as they turned the corner onto the main square and approached a jewelry store. “I’ve got to pick up Mama’s Solstice present.”

Nyx eyed the tiny shop warily through the windows. There was no way he and his bulky wings were going to fit in those narrow aisles. “I’ll wait out here,” he said.

“Sure?” Sibyl frowned at him in concern.

“Unless this is a hint? Did I forget your birthday?” he quipped, and she smacked his shoulder, making him chuckle. “Go on, Sibs. It’s fine.” He settled down on the bench outside the shop, then waved his hand at her. “I’m fine.”

Sibyl raised a skeptical eyebrow at that, then disappeared into the shop.

Nyx shifted awkwardly, trying to arrange his wings, settling for bracing his arms on his thighs and hunching forward. It made him look brooding, which was accurate enough, but at least he felt less raw, less furious. There was something about being outdoors, about the purifying sunlight, that could still charm and distract him, like some instinctual part of him hated being in confined spaces and felt less trapped, less hopeless, when he was in open air.

I’m fine, he’d told Sibyl. It almost felt true.

He idly wondered if the history books were a good idea, if he shouldn’t just fly off to go hike in the mountains, or catch the sunset on one of the nearby beaches. Then he could go dancing — maybe lay off the faebane this time — but it would feel good to move his body, to get some flattering attention. What was the rush, to dig up the skeletons in his family’s closet? He’d have his whole life to deal with that. Why couldn’t he take one more night to just be young and stupid?

You’re fooling yourself if you think you can ignore this.

Nyx flexed his still-aching hand, then interlaced his fingers behind his head, trying to stretch out, get more comfortable. But he couldn’t be comfortable — not really. Not even if he was stretched out on the most luxurious pillows. The questions about his father, about the sack of Rhodes, Under the Mountain, crawled under his skin like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

His mind kept replaying happier times — Starfalls and Solstices, camping trips in the mountains, simple family dinners and books at bedtime. The day he’d landed his first real blow against his father while sparring in the training ring, the delight on his father’s face at being tossed on his ass. The pride in his father’s eyes when Nyx wielded his magic. The late nights they’d soared over Velaris together, spreading their wings and making loops in the air, then landed, laughing, on the lawn of the River House, sprawling out in the grass from happy exhaustion.

Was all that real?

Nyx’s mind swirled with confusion. He’d been a youngling, trusting in the adults who cared for him. He’d had no reason to question it. He hadn’t imagined the last twenty three years, hadn’t been that mistaken in the people who surrounded him. His parents had always loved and protected him. It hadn’t been perfect — they’d had their share of misunderstandings and disagreements, slammed doors and shouting matches, especially as he’d gotten older. But they loved him, and he loved them, even when they pissed each other off.

As long as we love and support each other, we can get through anything.

Nyx felt like he was splintering, splitting in two. The Nyx who was loyal to his family, who loved his parents and felt grateful to them, who would defend them against all attackers no matter what had happened in the past, and the Nyx who recoiled at injustice and cruelty, who reviled anyone who did evil or supported a tyrant. He’d thought his own parents had been like that, for hadn’t they stood up to the King of Hybern, organized all Prythian to repel the invasion? Hadn’t his father sacrificed his very life for it? Weren’t his parents the best of the best, the saviors, the dreamers?

Was it all a lie? Had he just been gullible, or willfully blind?

Despite the heat, Nyx was grateful for the daytime, for the sun beating down upon his shoulders and wings. He didn’t think he could handle a night sky right now, or look wonderingly up at the stars. It felt suddenly wrong to adore them, to revel in their beauty, or feel his own dark shadows rising up to dance among them. That was his father’s power, and it was inside him. Did that make him a murderer, too?

You are good, Nyx. Anyone worth anything will see that.

Easy for Uncle Lucien to say. He’d been raised at the wrong court, by a father who wasn’t his father, who despised and reviled him and drove him to exile. Uncle Lucien had escaped his sham of a family, had wandered and sought a home when he’d never really had one, only to find that his real father was virtuous and kind.

Not Nyx — his father loved him, as did his whole family. If he left, he’d be abandoning happiness and comfort, safety, joyful memories. There was no secret father out there who wasn’t a Deceiver, no new court to welcome him. He’d be cut adrift, closed off from his mother and uncles and aunts and cousins, and the new sibling he’d wanted for all his life.

Maybe the new babe will become the heir instead of me. The thought was almost comforting.

He couldn’t just go — he had to face this, face them. Get his father’s point of view, get real answers. But what if the answers were as bad as he feared?

Nyx was wrested from his thoughts by the sound of high-pitched sobbing.

He whirled around — carefully, so as not to get his wings stuck — to see that it was a youngling, a little frightened creature, dressed richly in a velvet gown, very out of place for the heat of the Day Court. “All right?” he called out softly.

“Oh!” The little one exclaimed, looking up at him in alarm. “I thought you were a statue.”

Nyx’s lips quirked into a grin. He’d been called a bat often enough, but statue was a new one. “Here, I’ll pose,” he said, seeing that the youngling was trembling with fright.

“Not like that,” the youngling said crossly, arms folded. “You should be perched upright. And your tongue sticking out. Like the others, on the bell towers.”

A gargoyle? Nyx suddenly realized that being called a statue had not been a compliment. “Maybe it’s my day off,” he joked. “Maybe the bells hurt my ears.”

The youngling’s eyes widened a little. “They hurt mine too.”

“Well,” Nyx said, sitting up a little straighter, “are you hurt? You were crying.”

The little face crumpled again, fresh tears spilling out of two wide piercing green eyes. “I’m lost. I can’t find my mommy or daddy.”

“Oh, dear.” Nyx scooted over, patting the empty space on the bench next to him. The youngling frowned at him suspiciously, not budging from the sidewalk. Figures. He tried not to take it personally. Maybe she was just taught to be suspicious of strangers. Sensible, in a big city like this. “What do they look like?”

“Like me,” the youngling said impatiently, as though it should have been obvious. “But taller.”

“Yes,” said Nyx sagely, struggling to keep a straight face. “Yes, that makes sense.” He scanned the street and sidewalks around them. “You got separated?”

Fresh tears slipped down the youngling’s sorrowful little face. “I didn’t mean to. I just wanted ice cream, and Daddy said later, and I let go of his hand to look in the window, and Mommy said hurry Kore, and I didn’t, and now — now —“ The youngling broke off, sobbing harder.

“Kore, is it? Don’t worry, I can help you,” he said gently, grateful that the coffee had fully kicked in, driving out the last of his fatigue, along with the faebane-laced alcohol that had been muddling his daemati senses. “If you tell me the name of your mother or father, I can summon them to you. They can’t have gone far.”

Kore’s eyes grew very wide, and she swiped at her face until Nyx finally dug into his pocket, retrieving a scrap of a handkerchief that he tossed to her. “Daddy says I shouldn’t give out names. Names have power,” she said worriedly, swiping the cloth across her face and then twisting it nervously between her fingers.

“Well, Daddy’s right,” Nyx said. “But I’ll give you my name, if that makes you feel better.” When Kore just blinked at him, unconvinced, he gestured towards the jewelry store. “Or you can go in there, get my cousin Sibyl. She’ll help you.”

“You’re cousins with the Princess?” Kore asked in a hushed tone.

Nyx tilted his head, indicating the door. “She’s just in there, picking up a present. Then we’re heading to the palace. You can wait there while we find your parents. Or…” He tapped his temple with a finger. “I can call them.”

Kore took a hasty step back. “You’re a demony,” she hissed accusingly.

“Daemati. Yes,” Nyx said.

Kore’s little face scrunched up worriedly. “Daddy says you’re wicked.”

Nyx’s stomach clenched. That belief was common enough, and not without merit, and yet to hear it from the mouth of this little pipsqueak — it didn’t sit right, especially not when he thought about what his father might have been doing to spread that perception. Still, he tried to be patient. “Daddy’s never met me,” he said. When she still balked, he slid from the bench, kneeling in front of her so that they were at eye level. “I’m Nyx, by the way.” And he held out his hand, to see if she would shake it.

She did, gingerly, grasping one of his fingers and giving it a wiggle before quickly letting go again. “Can you really call my parents?”

“I sure can. I do need a name, though,” Nyx said. “Or I’ll be summoning everyone in this city.”

Kore took a deep breath, then nodded. “Mommy's name is Ceres,” she said quietly.

Nyx bowed his head, then focused his power, seeking the minds of all the faeries on the nearby streets. He figured a little girl like Kore couldn’t have wandered very far without her parents realizing her absence, and they would likely be frantically searching for her at this very moment. Ceres? Ceres, I’ve found your daughter.

The door to the jewelry store opened, and Sibyl strode out, but Nyx registered her only distantly, as well as the gathering crowd of faeries that were watching him on the sidewalk. Ceres, your Kore is waiting, he called out.

Suddenly a great wailing cry exploded around the corner, and a disheveled blond female in a rich green gown plowed through the gathered spectators to fling herself at Kore, embracing the little girl up in a flurry of arms and tulle. “Oh, daughter!” she wailed, “we were so worried!”

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” Kore said, flinging her own skinny arms around her mother’s neck, grabbing fistfuls of her mother’s long blond hair that that hung loose down her back.

The female whirled around, glimpsing Nyx for the first time. “What did you do?” she barked at him, hoisting Kore awkwardly into her arms.

Nyx blinked. “I called for you? Your daughter was lost.”

“Did you steal her,” the female cried.

Nyx reared back as though she’d slapped him. Steal a youngling? What did she take him for?

Did father do that, too? His head was suddenly pounding.

Sibyl stepped forward, ready to jump in, but then Kore wriggled in her mother’s arms, her legs dangling lower and lower until her mother was forced to put her down, and she came to stand beside him. “No one stole me,” she said solemnly. “I thought he was a statue.”

“A statue,” her mother glowered, looking Nyx up and down, as though she were critiquing a particularly ugly piece of artwork.

“A gargoyle,” Nyx said, gesturing up to the bell tower.

Sibyl started laughing, and mercifully, the crowd joined her.

Nyx rose from the sidewalk, suddenly registering that he was on his knees, and everyone took a step back as he drew up to his full impressive height, the aggrieved mother included. “Nyx Archeron, my lady,” he said gallantly, inclining his head respectfully to her. “And may I present my cousin, the lady Sibyl, the Sun Princess of Rhodes —“

“We’ve met,” Sibyl said brightly, stepping next to him and curling her hands around his arm, as though they were at a formal ball or diplomatic function. “I hope the accommodations are to your satisfaction, Lady Ceres—“

Then there was a roar, and the crowd scattered as another blond faerie stormed towards them, his sternly handsome face contorted with fury.

“Daddy!” Kore squealed, and ran towards him, giggling with delight when the male scooped her up and swung her around. “I made a friend!”

But the glare Nyx was getting from Kore’s father was more murderous than friendly. “That male is not your friend, sweetheart. What have I told you about those wicked creatures?”

Lady Ceres was next to them now, whispering something in her husband’s ear, and his eyes — which were indeed the same piercing green as his daughter’s — widened.

Sibyl’s hands tightened around Nyx’s arm as she said, in a voice that shook only slightly, “I believe some introductions are in order —“

“I know who he is,” Kore’s father growled, eyes narrowing on Nyx. “Everyone in Prythian does.”

How could they? Nyx wondered. He didn’t even know who he was, anymore.

But as Nyx looked on the blond male with the piercing green eyes, and the regal emerald colored suit and circlet of silver adorning his hair, and the rich thrum of power that called to Nyx’s own Spring Court magic, he realized that he needed no introductions, either.

Don’t let him fluster you. Remember what he did to Mother.

“If it’s ice cream you want,” he said to Kore, ignoring the High Lord of Spring entirely, “you should try Eleusinia’s, on the side-street near the palace. She has every flavor you can think of.”

“Even chocolate?” Kore cried out eagerly, utterly indifferent to her father’s warning.

“Five kinds of chocolate,” Nyx said, with a conspiratorial wink.

“That’s my favorite! Let’s go, Daddy,” Kore exclaimed, turning to her father, pressing her hands into his cheeks. Tamlin looked at her with an adoring, gentle expression that Nyx recognized as fatherly, and his heart clenched to think of it — Tamlin with a wife and a daughter.

Nyx knew all about Tamlin and his excesses, how he’d had the habit of shredding carpets and wallpaper, ruining walls and furnishings. How he’d explode with rage, frightening his family and underlings, and how he desperately needed control so badly that he’d kidnapped Nyx’s mother, invited Hybern’s armies into Prythian. Was that in Sibyl’s history books, too? Did his wife know that before she bore his daughter?

Nyx discreetly eyed the Lady of Spring, scanning for bruises, for claw marks or bites, or the magical glamours that would cover such evidence of abuse, but her skin was smooth and unblemished, as was her daughter’s.

“Tell your father I will contact him soon,” Tamlin said, and for a moment Nyx froze, wondering if he meant his father, or Sibyl’s.

But Sibyl smoothly answered. “He’ll look forward to it, as always, High Lord.”

Lady Ceres laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder as they turned to walk away. “You can put her down now, darling. She’s old enough to walk —“

“Evidently not,” Tamlin snapped. “Since you lost her. I knew we should have brought the sentries —“

“—and alerted the whole city to her presence? Surely not, my love,” the lady said smoothly. “She got help, and we found her. It turned out all right. ”

“No. It didn’t,” Tamlin said through a mouthful of clenched teeth. “Of all the people, it had to be him —“

“Why not? He was nice,” Kore said brightly, twisting around in her father’s arms to wave at Nyx. “Bye, demony friend!”

Sibyl pressed her lips tightly together, growing red in the face as she fought to keep from laughing.

But Nyx gave Kore a sweeping bow, feeling lighter than he had all day.

Chapter Text

“Sorry. That’s your new name now, forever,” Sibyl chortled, sliding onto the sofa next to Nyx. “Gargoyle.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nyx rolled his eyes at his Uncle Lucien, whose golden eye rolled and clicked at him in return. “Just don’t say it in front of Enyo. She’ll cause a diplomatic incident.” His spitfire cousin was very sensitive about the rights and dignity of Illyrians, and would not appreciate being called a gargoyle by any High Fae, much less Tamlin’s daughter.

“That was a diplomatic incident. Which you both handled beautifully, by the way,” Uncle Lucien said, pressing a goblet of wine into his hand.

“Thanks,” Nyx said, frowning as Sibyl grabbed the goblet from him, toppling half of the wine into her own empty cup, then presenting it back to him as though it was his Solstice present. “Spoilsport.”

“You were hung over a few hours ago. Go slow,” she said sternly, then took a dainty, dignified sip from her cup as though to demonstrate how it was done.

“I’m not getting in the middle of this one,” Uncle Lucien said, grinning towards his daughter in fond amusement. “I’ve learned not to argue with Archeron females.”

“I haven’t,” Nyx said tartly, and speared a small amount of his power towards his cousin’s goblet, freezing the wine in mid-slosh.

Sibyl’s eyes narrowed. A moment later, the alcohol in Nyx’s goblet ignited, flaring briefly with orange flames and then settling down into a rolling boil. Nyx huffed a sigh and put it down. Drat Sibyl and her fancy fire.

“You’re only giving him ideas, you know,” Uncle Lucien gently admonished his daughter. “I happen to know for a fact that Nyx is due for a fire wielding lesson.”

Nyx felt like there would never be enough time in his schedule for all the lessons he needed — all the different kinds of magic he had to juggle. He leaned on some far more than others, which he knew put him at a disadvantage. Ice had always come easy to him, maybe from living in the dark, cold north of Prythian, while fire he’d always somewhat avoided. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to compare himself to Sibyl, who had much naturally stronger firepower. Or maybe it just felt out of control, too wild and dangerous.

He knew what his father would say to that. All the more reason to study it.

But his parents hadn’t particularly pushed him towards wielding fire, either.

“I really am sorry,” Uncle Lucien was saying, sliding into his usual armchair. “Here I thought I was being clever, having the Spring Court delegation over to the palace first thing in the morning, when someone is usually sleeping off their nighttime adventures.”

Nyx raised his goblet to that, and took a large swig of his wine, making Sibyl’s brow furrow. Then he nearly spit it out, having forgotten that the wine was now warm, and quickly rectified that with a thin coating of frost on the outside of the goblet, so it would cool off by slow degrees and not shatter the glass. “It’s not your fault we bumped into each other in the city center.”

“Honestly? I didn’t think Tam would step foot outside the palace,” Uncle Lucien said. “He’s not one for crowds, or big built up spaces. But even after all these centuries of knowing him, he still manages to surprise me. Sometimes even in a good way.”

“You’ve known Tamlin that long?” Nyx said, straightening a little. He strained to recall the details of the story — how his mother and uncle had ended up at the Spring Court together. And had barely escaped with their lives.

Uncle Lucien took another long sip of wine before answering. “Indeed I have. I lived there for a long time before your mother came to Prythian.” Nyx must have looked horrified, for his uncle added softly, “It wasn’t all terrible. We were close friends once.”

Nyx struggled to picture that — his cultured, smooth-talking uncle palling around with the beastly High Lord of Spring? Not just serving him out of necessity, but being friends? “How did that happen?” he blurted incredulously.

Uncle Lucien leaned forward, all mirth gone. “He saved my life, Nyx.”

Sibyl elbowed Nyx, almost making the wine slosh right out of his glass. “Don’t tell me you don’t know the story.”

“Maybe?” Nyx was embarrassed to admit defeat. “Not really. We… don’t talk about Tamlin very often.”

Why would they? Tamlin was an abusive bastard who’d manipulated his mother into leaving her family, her home, her realm, to expose herself to horrible dangers in Prythian. She could have been ripped apart by any number of monsters, and she was mortal, slow healing and so very breakable. But Tamlin had stolen her anyway, foolishly thinking that he could sequester her in his mansion and make her fall in love with him.

And worse — he had been right. 

Nyx would never understand what his mother saw in Tamlin, why she developed such a fierce love that she’d gone bursting into Amarantha’s wicked court to save him. From all descriptions, the male was dull and cloddish, a brute clad in fine velvet. Maybe he was handsome, in the same bland way that many High Fae were, but surely that kind of devotion had to be based on something more?

But if Tamlin had ever earned his mother’s love, he had surely failed to keep it. Nyx had heard that part of the story in full.

Uncle Lucien’s golden eye clicked rapidly. “We can talk about my sordid history some other time. You probably have more pressing questions.”

“I do,” Nyx said. “Not that your sordid history is unimportant, just — you don’t have to relive all that on my account.“

Uncle Lucien leaned back, crossing an ankle over a knee. “As your Aunt Elain would say, Sunlight is the best disinfectant.”

Nyx chuckled. Even after more than two decades of living in Prythian, Aunt Elain still clung to many aspects of her human life and culture. Infection was not something that any faerie had to worry about. And yet, he took the meaning well enough.

Sibyl braced a hand on his shoulder and pushed herself up to stand, tipping the rest of the contents of her wine glass into her mouth. “I promised Damo I would stop by her office. Now seems like as good a time as any.”

Uncle Lucien’s lips quirked up into a wry smile. “Is my storytelling so dull that you’re forsaking us for geometry?”

Sibyl laughed. “The opposite, actually. If I don’t leave now, I’m going to get sucked in, and forget all about it. Then I’ll get a reputation for being flighty. Like someone else I could mention.” She poked the tip of Nyx’s nose.

Nyx swiped her finger away, complaining, “I am not flighty.”

“Just overextended,” Uncle Lucien agreed.

“See? Someone gets it.” Nyx raised his goblet in a mock toast.

Sibyl ignored him and strode to her father, pecking his cheek in farewell before sweeping out of the room, calling out over her shoulder, “Bye, demony friend!”

Nyx slumped a little further down on the sofa. “She is never letting that go, is she.”

Uncle Lucien grinned. “Not ever, I’m afraid.” He reached for the carafe of wine, offering to top off Nyx’s goblet, and Nyx gratefully accepted. “You are overextended, you know. You’re taking on quite a lot, between your magic lessons and the long hours at the library.” Mercifully, he did not mention Nyx’s nights out on the town. Uncle Lucien had been his age once, too. He understood.

“I just feel better when I’m doing something,” Nyx said.

Uncle Lucien nodded. “Just like your mother.” He regarded Nyx frankly, his mechanical eye whirring. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather talk this over with her?”

Nyx blew out a long breath. He’d considered it, but almost immediately decided against the idea. “I don’t want to cause drama in the family. Not now, not with — everything.” Not when his mother was finally pregnant, when his father would be on edge until the delivery. His uncle was quiet as Nyx struggled to gather his thoughts. “But even without the pregnancy complicating everything, I don’t know what kind of answers I’d get from her. She’s not really one for talking things over.”

“That’s an Archeron trait. One I’m glad you and your cousins didn’t inherit,” Uncle Lucien said. “Your mother, and her sisters, tiptoe around topics. Yes, even Aunt Nesta,” he quickly added, seeing Nyx’s skeptical reaction. “She says plenty, but it’s almost all misdirection.”

No wonder she and Enyo fight all the time. His cousin was certainly not shy about saying exactly what she thought, no matter how anyone else might feel about it. “But why? Isn’t that exhausting?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. For them, and their partners,” Uncle Lucien said, a grimace swiftly passing over his features. “Your father is lucky to have daemati powers. Sometimes I still have no idea what Aunt Elain is thinking. Not that I’m complaining,” he added hastily.

Nyx shrugged at that. “I won’t mention it if you do.”

Uncle Lucien looked relieved, but shifted in his chair, swirling the wine around in his goblet before answering. “I’m under no illusions about how fortunate I am, that I’ve been accepted into your family. I don’t take that lightly.”

Nyx felt like the air had suddenly grown thin, like he couldn’t breathe deeply enough. “Are they going to be mad at you? For talking to me about this? For telling me the truth?”

He shoved to his feet, beginning to pace, pulling back abruptly on his power when he realized that he was leaving icy footprints on the marble tiles. Don’t freak out. Don’t overreact.

“Nyx… your parents love you very much. It’s not that they wouldn’t want you to know the truth,” his uncle said pleadingly. “And truth is subjective. You know that.”

Nyx knew. He’d sat through many a symposium in which all the scholars waxed poetic about truth, and justice, and beauty, and many such things. It always made his brain hurt.

“My parents had twenty three years to tell me their version of the truth. I want to hear yours,” he told his uncle firmly. “Don’t hold back. And don’t try to make my father into some kind of hero, for my sake. I need to know why people despise him. I need to know what they’re seeing when they look at me like I’m made of poison.”

His uncle nodded. “I won’t paint you a pretty picture, that’s for certain. I’ll give you the full truth, as I know it. You’re owed that much.” But he was frowning thoughtfully. “I hope no one has looked at you like you’re poison.”

“Only the scholars last night,” Nyx said, feeling queasy at the memory. “And Tamlin.”

“They should all know better,” his uncle said vehemently. “Epicurus I can excuse a little. He’s the most ancient being I have ever met other than Amren, so old that his vision is clouded, in more ways than one. But the others should have reacted better. And Tamlin — he of all people should know better than to judge anyone based solely on parentage. His own father committed many acts that Tam was ashamed of.”

Nyx swallowed hard. Tamlin’s father had been an unrepentant murderer, ambushing Nyx’s own innocent grandmother and aunt, brutally slaughtering them. And he had held many human slaves, possibly including some of Nyx’s own ancestors.

“But he and my parents hate each other. It’s only natural,” Nyx said, flopping back onto the sofa. He wouldn’t get his hopes up that he could win Tamlin over — not that he even wanted to. The male was eminently unworthy of such efforts.

“Your mother is forgiving. Sometimes to a fault,” Uncle Lucien said. “It’s your father and Tamlin who keep the grudge going. They’re both stubborn as hell.”

Nyx was startled at the thought that his father might have anything in common with the High Lord he so despised. But — he’d said he wanted the truth, hadn’t he? “Why did my mother love Tamlin?” he asked.

Uncle Lucien sighed and shifted in his seat, seeming to measure out his words carefully. “When I first met your mother, she was fearful, angry and bitter. With very good reasons. Her family was abandoned by all their friends, their community and leadership. She had all the responsibility, and none of the resources.”

Nyx cringed to think of it. “But she was so young.”

“She still is,” his uncle said gently. “But yes. I think it explains the attraction to Tamlin, the connection she thought she had with him. He was also the youngest of his siblings, who ended up being tasked to provide and to rule, when that wasn’t supposed to be his position. Maybe she thought they were kindred spirits, burdened by responsibilities they didn’t want, but facing them bravely. I know it sounds strange,” he added, seeing Nyx’s frown. “Because she likes ruling now, and having power. But at the time, she was exhausted, and grateful to Tamlin for easing her path. He stepped in to provide for her family, gave her a comfortable home and free time to just be a person, have interests and past-times and a chance to feel joy, instead of scrambling just to survive.”

“You make him sound like her father,” Nyx said, wrinkling his nose.

His uncle barked a nervous laugh. “Cauldron forbid.”

Nyx plopped his empty goblet down on the side table, waving the offered refill away. “It sounds nice enough.” Far nicer than it sounded when his mother retold it. But Uncle Lucien had been Tamlin's friend -- maybe he just saw things in a more flattering light? “I just don’t see how that was enough to be willing to die for him.”

“I have wondered that myself. What drove her to that level of devotion, when they had only known each other for such a short time.” Uncle Lucien’s mechanical eye clicked, then focused on the floor between them - on the melting puddles that Nyx’s icy footsteps had left behind. He raised a hand, and all the water evaporated into steam, leaving the floors dry. “I will always regret that she went through so much pain. Perhaps if things had been allowed to play out naturally, if Tam had not been frightened into sending her away prematurely, she would not have ended up Under the Mountain at all. I told Tam to give it a few more days, but he would not listen to me, no more than he does now.”

“He was frightened into sending her away?” Nyx asked, wrinkling his forehead. He didn’t recall that part of the story, if he’d ever heard it.

His uncle blew out a long breath. “Your father paid a visit to the manor, and scared the hell out of all three of us. But Tamlin the most, I think.” He went silent, wincing at the memory. “I tried to hide your mother behind me, but Rhys saw through the glamour.”

“Why would you have to hide her?” Nyx asked.

The mechanical eye clicked again. “We did not want Amarantha to find out that there was a human girl at the manor, that the curse might actually be broken.”

“But —“ It didn’t make sense. “Father wouldn’t have told her.” When his uncle didn’t answer, Nyx pressed onwards, feeling increasingly frantic. “Father wouldn’t have betrayed the secret.”

“I don’t know about that, Nyx. The facts don't line up, one way or the other. Not long after that incident,” his uncle said solemnly, “Amarantha’s hordes invaded a manor across the Wall. They killed and burned, and took one human girl back alive — Clare Beddor, the girl whose name your mother gave, instead of her own. Despite making us grovel and beg, he did tell Amarantha of a human girl’s presence.”

Nyx was shocked. “But wouldn’t that put innocent humans in danger?”

“It was foolish, from any perspective. If the name had been made up, the soldiers could have been turned loose on the whole village, going from house to house, family to family, looking for a girl who couldn't be found, taking it out on everyone they did find along the way. They might have even ended up at your family's estate, killing your mother and her sisters.” His uncle shuddered. “I don't think your father would have intentionally betrayed Feyre, not with the mating bond staying his hand. Perhaps his thinking was muddled. Or perhaps he thought he was sacrificing an innocent girl to make Amarantha think she’d captured the human, ensuring her gaze would not fall on your mother.”

Nyx swallowed hard. The thought of it was sitting uneasily in his stomach. “Did Clare suffer very much?”

His uncle’s hand shook as he drank some wine. “Yes.”

The clipped answer, the lack of offered detail, spoke volumes.

Nyx felt like he might be sick, but forced himself to swallow again. And again, when the nausea still threatened to overwhelm him. His father had done that — condemned an innocent girl to die. Had he known that would happen? “Surely that wasn’t the first human Amarantha tortured,” he said.

Uncle Lucien’s normally golden brown skin had gone several shades paler. “Amarantha hated humans. I did not personally witness it, but I am sure she tortured many.”

My mother included. Nyx forcefully shoved that out of his mind.

Then his focus snagged on a detail from earlier in the conversation. “What did you mean by grovel?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” his uncle said tightly. “We got down on the floor, begging your father to keep your mother’s presence a secret.”

Try as he might, Nyx couldn’t picture it. Proud, stubborn Tamlin, groveling on the floor… “Mother too?”

“Not your mother. She was — recovering.”

“Recovering?” A poisonous feeling was taking hold in Nyx’s heart, a seething anger with teeth and claws. “What did he do to her?”

His uncle still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “He used his daemati powers. I don’t know exactly what he did, but she was scared and in pain —“

Suddenly Nyx couldn’t stand it anymore. “Show me,” he demanded. “Show me the memory.”

“Nyx, I’m not sure that’s a good idea—“

Nyx vaulted up from the sofa, fists clenched, teeth set. “Show me.”

Uncle Lucien blinked several times, the mechanical eye clicking softly.

“Please,” Nyx added, forcing his tone to become gentler. “I need to see it for myself.”

Uncle Lucien sighed, then relented.

Nyx closed his eyes, seeking his uncle’s mind. He had a mental shield like a network of shimmering wards, interlaced with the occasional fiery strand, and Nyx took a moment to appreciate the ingeniousness of it, the clever combination. Then the mental wards peeled back for Nyx, and he was suddenly at a breakfast table in what had to be the Spring Court manor, lounging with his mother and the High Lord of Spring.

Nyx nearly gasped aloud to see his mother in the memory, for it was her kind beautiful face looking back at him, but something was off, like she wasn’t quite herself.

She was human, his uncle’s voice reminded him.

Yes — that was the difference. Her features were a bit more roughly formed, her eyes still the same steely blue but lacking the power that now sparkled out from them. When she turned her head, Nyx could see that her ears were round, more like an Illyrian’s than a High Fae’s. And although she was sturdy enough, like she’d had plenty of time outdoors and good food and sleep, she looked frail, insubstantial. Mortal.

Nyx shivered.

This was how she went Under the Mountain?

He stared at his mother, his human mother. How terrified she must have been — how ridiculously brave. He wanted to weep at the thought of it.

If this is too much, we can try again later, Uncle Lucien suggested.

No, I — I need to see it, Nyx insisted.

Voices buzzed — his uncle and the High Lord discussing a recent tragedy at the Winter Court. The blight, it took out two dozen of their younglings. Two dozen, all gone, his uncle was saying solemnly.

What is the “blight”?

What we called Amarantha, his uncle explained. We were cursed not to speak of her directly.

Nyx pondered that. Amarantha had been remarkably clever and cunning, tricking all the High Lords to begin with, then continuing to ensnare them and pit them against one another for decades afterwards. He marveled that she’d been goaded into making such a strategic error as to bargain with a human, rather than simply kill her outright, or give her the same awful fate that she’d given poor Clare.

His uncle was continuing to give his news at the breakfast table. My contact says other courts are being hit hard—though the Night Court, of course, manages to remain unscathed.

Night Court. It sounded like a vicious slur, said like that.

Nyx almost asked his uncle about it, what his past history had been with the Night Court, but suddenly the breakfast was being abandoned, and his uncle was grabbing and unsheathing his sword. The High Lord growled, ordering his uncle to hide his mother by the window, and Uncle Lucien leaped into action, grabbing Nyx’s startled mother and shoving her behind him. Even as a spectator to a long-ago memory, Nyx’s hackles rose. It galled him to watch his mother be threatened and not be able to do something about it.

And then there was his father. It could be no one else. He was far paler, and his face sharper and hungrier, than Nyx was used to, but otherwise there he was — the same black brocaded tunic, fitted pants and boots, looking so much the same as Nyx had ever seen. And even in the memory, his father’s darkness radiated powerfully through the room, calling to his own darkness in a way that made Nyx feel guilty, even though he knew that was irrational.

He watched in mounting horror as his father swaggered and postured, exchanging insults with Tamlin and his uncle.

What do you know about anything? You’re just Amarantha’s whore, his uncle shot back. Distantly, Nyx could feel that his uncle was cringing with embarrassment, as though he was just as rattled by the insult as Nyx was.

But Nyx’s father took it in stride. Her whore I might be, but not without my reasons.

Whore? Nyx thought he must be losing it. Whore, deceiver — how many other nicknames had his father picked up? Were any of them true? How had his uncle come by such a disgusting notion?

Nyx’s heart withered further as the scene unfolded, as his father bragged about spiking a severed head in Tamlin’s garden, as he snarled in Uncle Lucien’s face, and then his heart seemed to stop beating altogether as his father suddenly realized that there was a glamour on his mother, and his uncle brandished a sword to defend her.

You draw blood from me, Lucien, and you’ll learn how quickly Amarantha’s whore can make the entire Autumn Court bleed. Especially its darling Lady.

Stop it, Nyx whispered to his father’s image. That was Sibyl’s grandmother he was threatening — she wouldn’t even know what hit her —

I knew you liked to stoop low with your lovers, Lucien, but I never thought you’d actually dabble with mortal trash.

Mortal trash — mortal trash.

Stop it, Father, Nyx pleaded.

But his father kept talking, kept fucking talking, all while advancing and advancing, until a flicker of power had his uncle frozen in place, then brushed aside, only able to watch as Nyx’s mother straightened awkwardly, then jerked and writhed as though she were being controlled like a puppet.

Which was exactly what was happening.

No, Nyx cried out, as if that would do anything. Leave her alone —

His mother’s eyes were wide with terror, her limbs splayed out so grotesquely that Nyx thought she might dislocate joints. She was shuddering, her eyes filling with tears, her lungs heaving irregularly, like she was struggling to get air in.

I’d forgotten that human minds are as easy to shatter as eggshells, his father said, and ran a finger across the base of her throat. 

Gods, don’t touch her, you fucking bastard —

Look at how delightful she is—look how she’s trying not to cry out in terror. It would be quick, I promise.

Nyx’s knees forcefully hit the floor, his hands splaying out on the cool marble tiles. He threatened to kill her. To shatter her mind. He felt like his own mind had been shattered — or maybe his heart.

She has the most delicious thoughts about you, Tamlin. She’s wondered about the feeling of your fingers on her thighs—between them, too —

Nyx was torn from the memory, his dark power flinging itself outwards into all corners of the room, and he howled wordlessly as the full horror of it sank in. To see his mother violated like that, her private desires ripped from her mind and tossed about like that so garishly — to see how she contorted in agony as her life was threatened — and that was his father, by the fucking Cauldron —

He pounded the marble, hands barking in pain. Good. He hoped he would break bones, break the floor, break apart everything, for if his father could treat his mother this way, then everything was already broken.

A bright golden light sliced through the thick oppressive darkness, and his uncle came towards him, his hands braced on Nyx’s shoulders. “Breathe, Nyx,” he commanded, and there was enough power in the words that Nyx’s lungs obeyed, even as his mind protested that he did not want to breathe, that breathing felt wrong when his mind was drowning.

“You — tried to warn me,” he gasped out. “I didn’t imagine — didn’t think it could be that bad —“ I didn’t think my father could act like that. Not towards his mate. Gods, it was worse than shameful.

Nyx coughed forcefully, the back of his throat burning with bile, and then his uncle was hauling him up, setting him back down on the sofa, pressing a glass of water into his hands. Nyx tipped it back, chugging it until he almost choked, the water splashing on his jaw and neck. Distantly, he registered that there was talking — attendants, perhaps, and a soft, sweet voice that he thought he recognized, and then Uncle Lucien was back perched on the sofa with him, and his Aunt Elain was on his other side.

“Hello, Nixie,” she said gently, sliding an arm around his back. It was so comforting, so motherly, that Nyx instantly calmed, taking greedy, shuddering gulps of air.

It was just a memory. Mother is safe.

But was she? He felt torn. He knew in his bones that his father would never hurt her.

But he had hurt her. Nyx had watched it.

He'd hurt her. He'd hurt her, and she had been mortal. She'd had no powers, no ability to fight back, probably didn't even understand what was happening.

It hadn't been self-defense. There had been no Amarantha there to supervise, to order him to do it, no crowd to convince. He'd just fucking done it, and had gloated about it. Like he fucking enjoyed it.

Nyx pitched forward, vomiting on the floor.

His aunt gave a startled gasp, but tightened her arm around him, while his uncle smoothly grabbed all of Nyx’s hair and tugged it back and out of the way, as though he’d practiced the gesture many times over.

There was a quiet murmur behind them. “No, thank you. Just more water, please,” his uncle said smoothly. Oh gods, who else saw that?

“Sorry,” Nyx muttered, flushing with embarrassment.

“Stop that,” his uncle scolded him. “Of all the people who should be apologizing, you are the last.”

A fresh glass of water was pressed into his hands, and he drank it all down, mainly to get the sour taste out of his mouth and throat.

“Darling, I think you’d better tell me everything,” his aunt was saying. Her words were kind enough, but there was a disapproving edge to her tone that Nyx did not like at all.

Nyx quickly said, “Don’t blame Uncle Lucien. I made him show me his memory of my mother and father at the Spring Court.” His uncle opened his mouth, ready to protest at that characterization, but Nyx plowed ahead. “I needed to see it.”

His aunt’s lips were pressed tightly together, as though she were refraining from comment. Nyx wondered if she’d scold his uncle later, out of earshot.

I’m under no illusions about how fortunate I am, that I’ve been accepted into your family.

He suddenly wondered exactly what his uncle had meant by that, and whether even after all this time, he worried that that acceptance could be revoked.

He’s going to be in trouble, after I pressured him into reliving that memory.

As awful as it had been to see it happen, his uncle had been there. Had tried to defend his mother, had watched it happen in real time. And he hadn’t known it would turn out all right — didn’t have the benefit of hindsight, of knowing that the High Lord who was torturing her would actually become her mate and husband.

“I can’t believe you did that,” he blurted out, addressing his uncle. “Put yourself up against my father, even as he threatened your family, your mother. You must have known you couldn’t win, and yet you tried anyway.”

It was a long moment before anyone spoke. But it was Aunt Elain who said, almost contritely, “Your uncle did a lot more than just that.”

“Another time,” Uncle Lucien said quickly, before Nyx could even think of what question to ask. “I think we’ve had enough memory for one day.”

Nyx couldn’t help but agree.

Chapter Text

Nyx landed on the balcony at the House of Wind, pulling in his wings and striding towards the open doorway. Strains of music floated out to him, mixed with iridescent heart-shaped bubbles and the thick smell of baked sugar and the sour tang of alcohol, and despite his heavy heart, and his pounding headache, he couldn’t help but smile at it. Parties at the House could get wild, especially as the night got going and the revelers were inspired to summon more and more outrageous things, until the House had finally had enough and vanished it all, signaling that the night was over.

Nyx caught a glimpse of his young cousin Aneirin first, hovering by the drinks table, silent and serious as always, then followed his gaze to where Aneirin’s twin sister was perched on a table, belting out the words to the song with more enthusiasm than accuracy, the crowd of friends swaying and singing along with her. Catrin was always the life of the party, enjoying herself with a verve that Nyx admired, though it meant that he rarely got to have in-depth conversations with her.

His cousin Enyo was somewhere within, probably clustered around the wine with her own group of friends, all fellow Valkyries in training. He had to talk to her, had to smooth things over, but he was dreading it. And there was no way it was happening in front of an audience. Nyx had learned from experience that pissing off Enyo meant pissing off her entire crew, and he didn’t fancy being ganged up on by a whole squad of warrior females. Especially not tonight, not after the uproar he’d just had. His heart couldn’t take it.

It had been Uncle Lucien’s idea for him to head home to Velaris, to let everything settle down in his mind, to process it slowly. Velaris was a shimmering jewel, a city of music and dreams and starlight, the best that the Night Court had to offer, and it would do Nyx good to get back in touch with that.

Your father did what he did to hide Velaris, to defend it, Uncle Lucien had reminded him. Before you judge him, you should spend some time there, remind yourself what it was all for. You might weigh things differently then.

Nyx didn’t think anything could fully take away the horror of seeing his mother contorted in agony, while his father purred threats and vile innuendos to humiliate her, but as he’d flown over the mountains, as the glittering valley of the city came into view, a sort of odd calm had come over him, a feeling of being home that he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

Mama forgave him. Mama loves him.

It was confusing as hell.

Nyx knew he had to ask her to explain, to risk that awkward conversation. But not just now — not tonight. Tonight was meant to be fun, to get his mind off his troubles, to just enjoy his home and family.

A golden peacock strutted right past Nyx, cawing loudly as it disappeared into the cool Velaris air, shedding its long graceful feathers as it went so that the partygoers could snatch them up and tuck them into their own clothes and hair. Catrin had a whole collar full of them, and even Aneirin had one tucked in between his wings.

“That kind of night, huh?” Nyx shouted to his cousin, over the din of the music and the loud laughing and carousing.

“Always,” Aneirin said, extending a hand for Nyx to shake, then surprising him by pulling him in for a hug. “You’ve been missed, Nyx."

“I know,” Nyx sighed, gesturing to the balcony so that they could stroll out together, talk in private. “How’s training going?”

“It’s going,” Aneirin said, bracing his arms on the balcony ledge. Nyx couldn’t believe how much more muscular his cousin looked, after only a few months of not seeing him, and thought that his jaw had gotten more square, his cheekbones higher. Gods, if he doesn’t look just like Uncle Az. If Uncle Az had had red hair, that is. “Devlon’s a piece of shit, but his lieutenants are all right, mostly. We’ve been doing primarily aerial drills, now that the weather’s warmer. It’s a bitch to scrape ice off your wings.”

Nyx nodded, silently thanking the Mother that he’d put his foot down about not training in Illyria. He respected Aneirin for it, all the more so because Uncle Az had not been enthusiastic about the idea, but the more he heard his cousin’s stories, the more convinced he was that he would have drowned there.

“You should visit,” Aneirin said, inclining his head a little towards Nyx, even as he kept his gaze steady out over Velaris. His cousin was rarely in the city these days, Nyx suspected, and would want to appreciate it fully when he did get the chance. “Let the troops see what you’re made of.”

What am I made of? Nyx wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Sometime,” he said noncommittally.

“Sometime soon. Uncle Cass says you should. He hears what they all say. The heir is a lightweight,” Aneirin mimicked, grimacing. “We know you’re not, but you know how they are. They’ve got to see proof of it.”

“Five hundred years’ worth of proof wasn’t enough for them to respect our fathers,” Nyx said sourly.

Aneirin shrugged. “Don’t I know it. Some of the old bastards have got their heads so far up their asses that they could shit out their own brains. Doesn’t matter that I’m the son of two Carynthian warriors. I’m called every name they’ve got — half-breed, fire-dick, nymph-spawn.”

“That’s shitty, Rin,” Nyx said sympathetically.

“Not as shitty as how they feel after I’m done with them,” his cousin snorted, clenching and then relaxing a fist. Underneath his shirt, a bright blue light gleamed.

“Rin! You’ve got siphons?” Nyx squawked, yanking at his cousin’s arm.

“Two, so far. Cat got hers first, but don’t tell anyone,” Aneirin chuckled, sliding his sleeve upwards so that he could show off the full splendor of it. He tilted it this way and that, letting the cobalt light shine on the darkened balcony. Nyx nearly jumped to see that a tangle of grasses and flowers had sprung up around their feet while they were talking, and that several of the partygoers had laid down on it, and were intertwining with each other like they were frolicking in an open field on Calanmai. He quickly averted his eyes from them, yanking on Aneirin’s arm until his cousin did the same.

It was easy to forget when he was so big and strong, when he already looked like a fully fledged Illyrian warrior and could hold his own against them, but Aneirin was only fourteen, still young and impressionable. Living with older cousins, and among hardened warriors, exposed Aneirin and Catrin to a side of life that Nyx had been sheltered from, and he wondered which would turn out to be for the better.

“You been home yet?” Aneirin asked him.

Nyx sighed. “Not yet. I — this was sort of a last minute thing.”

A pang of guilt seethed through his gut, that he hadn’t immediately gone home to his parents. But he wasn’t sure he could face them right now. There was no way he could act like everything was fine — they would see immediately that something was wrong. His mother would worry, and there would be questions, and Nyx wouldn’t be able to lie to them, no matter how tight his mental shields were. They always knew when he was holding back.

But it didn’t work in reverse, as he was now realizing.

“Don’t bother,” Aneirin said. “They’re hosting a gathering.” He made it sound about as appealing as shoveling excrement. “For the High Lord of Autumn, and a special guest.”

Special guest? “Who did Uncle Eris bring? Is he engaged?”

“Uncle?” Aneirin wrinkled his nose. “That insufferable bastard doesn’t deserve the title. After what he did to Aunt Mor, he should’ve been killed long ago.”

Nyx knew that story well, and shuddered at the thought of it. His poor aunt, violently abused by her own family, who should have loved and protected her, then dumped in the woods like garbage for the haughty then-heir of Autumn to find.

But the whole thing sat wrong with Nyx, in a way that it never had before. Uncle Eris couldn’t have been much older than Aneirin, still practically a youngling, subject to the whims of his own cruel father, hardly in a position to render aid without consequences. He hadn’t even been the one to hurt her. Yes, he had been needlessly insulting, and cold and callous, but all he’d really done was leave their aunt unmolested for friendlier help to find. It wasn’t great, but why did that deserve five centuries’ worth of ire?

What his father had done was far worse, in Nyx’s estimation - a High Lord, hundreds of years old, violently threatening and assaulting a powerless mortal of only nineteen.

Was Aunt Mor’s life and wellbeing worth so much more than his mother’s? Or was it simply more convenient for his uncles and cousins to despise Eris as an enemy?

Or do they just not know it happened?

Nyx had to wonder. He couldn’t imagine his Uncle Cassian, or Uncle Az or Aunt Mor, reacting with anything but disgust to the memory he’d seen. They all loved his mother as family, and had pledged to serve her as their High Lady. Surely they’d be furious, as Nyx had been.

“What’s that face?” his cousin asked, the siphons at his wrists glowing a little brighter. “You look like you’ve taken poison.”

Maybe I have.

Or maybe the lie by omission had been the poison, and the memory he’d seen the bitter antidote to it.

“Just thinking,” he said lamely, knowing full well that was no answer.

“Well, don’t. You’re wanted inside,” Aneirin said good-naturedly, punching Nyx’s arm. “Cat hasn’t seen you in probably months, and Enyo —“

“No. Not tonight,” Nyx groaned. He gripped his cousin’s arm. “Not with them all here —“

“Nixieeeee!” Catrin cried out, bursting through the door, a flock of silvery birds scattering past her as she did so. She flung her arms around him, and Nyx chuckled indulgently, lifting her up and swinging her around. “Where the fuck have you been?” She pulled back, pressing her hands to his cheeks. “What’s the sour face for?”

“Nothing,” Nyx assured her, setting her down on her feet. “Let me see those siphons, Cat!”

Catrin scowled towards her brother. “Rin already told you? Way to spoil the surprise, asshole.” Aneirin held up his hands in surrender, going quiet and stoic as he always did when his more boisterous, outgoing twin was around.

But Cat was grinning broadly, tugging up her own sleeves to reveal beautiful royal purple siphons, a color Nyx had never seen before. “Just two so far. But Pa thinks I’ll have more by the time I’m sixteen,” she said brightly.

“We’re in deep shit, aren’t we,” Aneirin could be heard muttering to some of the other males gathered around them.

“Why, yes, you fucking will be,” Catrin said sweetly, and they all laughed heartily, and she looped her arm through Nyx’s to lead him away. “Sooo, cousin! Was Rhodes just too boring for words? You had to come back to find some decent fun, didn’t you?”

“Not exactly,” Nyx said, though he had no desire to get into it. “Not boring, just — complicated.”

“Ah,” said Catrin sagely, “girl trouble?”

“What? No,” Nyx said, a little too quickly.

“Ah-huh. Well, we haven’t missed you at all,” Catrin declared, dragging him towards the drinks table. Nyx winced as he stepped in a puddle of something he desperately hoped was just a spilled drink, though with the various miniature pegasi and other House-made creatures roaming around, he couldn’t be certain. Someone flung a necklace of rubies and diamonds around his neck as he passed, while a pretty female he recognized from a certain night at Rita’s glared at him for a few long moments before making a big show of grabbing the nearest male to her and kissing him soundly. “Uncle Rhysie says you haven’t even written, bad Nixie.”

Nyx winced. “I’ve been very busy, Cat. The usual stuff. Research, magic lessons. There’s not much to say.”

That was patently untrue, but how could he explain it? There was far too much to say, and no safe way for him to say it. There was certainly nothing he would risk writing down in a letter.

He accepted the sparkly fruity drink she pressed into his hand, relieved when he found that it was more sugary than alcoholic. The crowd looked like mostly the twins’ friends tonight, and although he knew they would all be safe crashing in various guest bedrooms in the House, he still didn’t love the idea of younglings their age drinking quite so much.

They’re going to do it anyway, at least if they’re in the House they can’t get into trouble, had been Aunt Gwyn’s argument.

They’ll be together in the House, males and females. Plenty of trouble can come from that, Uncle Az had pointed out. But in the end, he couldn’t say no, not when faced with his daughter’s pouting. Could anyone refuse Catrin anything? Nyx rather doubted it.

“Well! Lucky you, all the grown ups are busy,” Catrin declared, knocking back a bright orange concoction that made her sparkling teal eyes briefly flare golden. Nyx didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted that he apparently didn’t count as a grown-up. “Some official delegation, or whatever.” Then she elbowed him, grinning slyly. “Daphne’s here tonight.”

Nyx blinked, having no recollection of who Daphne was, but then Cat nudged her cup in the direction of the female he’d half-recognized, sloshing the remaining liquid out of it. Nyx smoothly dodged before it splattered on him. “Oh, um, we’re not anything,” he mumbled.

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Catrin taunted him in an irritating sing-song. “Wanna go talk to her?”

“No, Cat, not really —“

Catrin pouted at him. “That was bad form, Nixie, leaving her without saying goodbye. You’re gonna get a reputation as a rake, if you keep pulling shit like that.” She tugged on him, her button nose wrinkling when he didn’t budge. “Spoilsport.”

“I’m not here for the girls. I wanted to see you,” he said, feeling foolish at having to shout it quite so loudly. “I wanted to hear about Valkyrie training.”

Catrin snatched a little cake from a huge towering display and shoved it at him. He obligingly took a bite, though his stomach was still too unsettled to eat very much rich dessert, and he quickly set it down. She leaned in his ear, half-whispering, half-hollering, “Nixie, this is a party. I don’t want to talk about work, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he agreed, mussing her curly coppery hair indulgently. Everyone else in her family was a workaholic, driven and focused, her twin included, but bubbly Catrin took every opportunity she could to let loose. He couldn’t fault her for it.

But before he could drum up a suitable non-work topic of conversation, a scuffle near the far end of the room caught Nyx’s attention, and he turned from Catrin just in time to see a chair being flung forcefully towards the wall, shattering in a hailstorm of splinters and planks.

“Hey!” Nyx barked, stalking towards the disturbance, fire flaring at his fingertips. Anyone in his way quickly darted out of it, and his ears buzzed with their whispers about who he was, how he had all the powers of Prythian. “House, full lights, please.”

The House obeyed, and everyone groaned, some covering their eyes, as the darkened room with the festive flashing fae lights brightened garishly. Nyx wondered what else they’d been taking, besides the House’s weak alcohol, that would make them so sensitive to the light, but didn’t have time to ponder it too deeply before he intercepted the fighters, hastily extinguishing the flames on his hands before grabbing the aggressor by their sleek leather armor.

The chair-thrower whirled around, fist already flying towards him, and Nyx cursed and blocked it, rumbling the House and its occupants with a bit of his power to scare off anyone else who might have been tempted to join in the brawl. His hand, already aching from his fit of temper at the palace, barked in pain from where he absorbed the blow.

“Go on,” the puncher goaded him. “Hit me back. Know you want to.”

Nyx gritted his teeth, forcing himself to take a step back. “Hello, Enyo.”

His cousin glared back at him, swiping a bit of blood from her lip with the back of her hand, flexing and then clenching her fists, still in her fighting stance.

Behind her, sprawled out on the floor near the wall, was an unconscious male, one of Aneirin’s Illyrian buddies from the looks of him. Nyx could very well guess what had happened — he’d either insulted Enyo, or propositioned her, which amounted to the same thing.

“Well? Let’s do this,” Enyo snapped, angling her head, inviting him to return her punches. She was clearly spoiling for a fight, apparently not having had enough of a challenge with the downed Illyrian. Nyx glanced discreetly at her wrists — still no siphons. He didn’t know whether that was a relief, or not.

“We are not fucking doing this. Not now. Not ever,” Nyx said firmly, misting the ruined chair into a glittering cloud of dust. Sometimes Enyo needed a little reminding of who she was dealing with, and apparently now was one of those times. Her Valkyrie friends were hovering nearby, and he resisted the urge to bare his teeth at them.

“Show’s over, folks. You know where the guest rooms are,” he added, more loudly, addressing the entire gathering. This was greeted with a chorus of boos and hisses, but the House obligingly winnowed away the drinks, the sweets, the pegasi and the peacocks, and the kids had no choice but to start dispersing. Whoever lingered too long would get the worst guest rooms, the ones with no private bathrooms, or even have to camp out in a hallway.

I’d better talk to Uncle Az about how raucous these parties are getting.

But first, he had to deal with the snarling Illyrian glaring daggers at him. At least she wasn’t pointing an actual dagger — not this time, anyway.

“Outside,” he said tightly, indicating the balcony, and Enyo stalked out ahead of him, pointedly rustling her wings as she went. That garnered a few chuckles from some of the Illyrian males in the crowd, but they quickly went silent after Enyo stomped on one male’s boots, and then scattered when Enyo’s Valkyrie friends glared at them.

“Good luck,” Aneirin whispered to him, before melting back into the crowd.

Luck would have been avoiding Enyo entirely. But Nyx just nodded, then patted the wall of the House in silent thanks for its help, before stepping through the door into the bracing wind of the evening.

Enyo lunged for him, slamming him into the nearest wall, which scraped unpleasantly against his wings. “What the fuck did you come back for?” she hissed.

Nyx repelled her backwards with a blast of air, which caught her outstretched wings and almost sent her sprawling. “Who was that male?” he asked.

“Fuck off, Nyx. I don’t need your protection,” Enyo snapped, righting herself in a practiced maneuver. Whatever the Illyrians might joke about the Valkyries, their methods got good results, whether the females had wings or not. Those males were wise to make themselves scarce.

“You don’t need protection. Others might,” Nyx said reasonably. “We should mention it to Uncle Az —“

“You don’t even live here anymore, what do you care,” Enyo said disdainfully, stalking towards the balcony, deliberately turning her back to him. You’re not a threat, the gesture said.

Well, she was right in that much. Nyx wouldn’t attack her while her back was turned, wouldn’t give her a brawl anytime no matter how much she provoked him. It was one of the things that annoyed her. That, and literally everything else he said, did, and thought. Even his very presence was sometimes enough to get Enyo pissed off.

“Velaris is still my home,” he said. “And I don’t appreciate unscrupulous males spreading their bullshit around.” He took a few steps towards her, knowing full well that she would take off into the skies if he encroached on her personal space. “Who was he?”

Enyo was facing away from him, but he imagined her sprouting a wry grin. “Rin’s commanding officer.”

Nyx burst out laughing. “Fucking hell, En.”

“Well? He was nasty,” she shrugged, turning her head just enough for him to see that she was indeed grinning triumphantly. “Thought he could come to my home and talk shit about my family.”

Nyx suppressed the impulse to laugh. “You’re constantly talking shit about the family. It’s practically a hobby.”

Enyo’s hazel eyes narrowed on him. She was a true mix of both of her parents, combining her father’s Illyrian wings and coloring with her mother’s tall, willowy build and regal posture, not to mention the sneering attitude. “I tell the truth, to those who need to hear it. I do not go about spouting bullshit in public.”

Nyx had to acknowledge this. Enyo would say anything to anyone’s face — it was a trait he admired in her, though he wished it weren’t directed at him quite so often.

They eyed each other warily, as if they were both waiting for the other to land the next verbal blow. Finally, Nyx said, “I really wasn’t expecting to do this tonight.”

“Oh? When would have been a better time? Next Solstice?”

“Come on, En. We didn’t exactly part company on the best terms,” Nyx said pleadingly.

“And whose fault was that?” she retorted.

“Mine. And yours, too,” Nyx said. “We were both jerks, okay?”

Enyo’s lip curled. “Speak for yourself.”

“Okay, fine. I shouldn’t have said that shit about our mothers.” Nyx cringed, just to think of how stupid he’d been, dragging ancient history from the human realm into his argument with Enyo.

“Right. How your mother did everything and my mother did nothing,” Enyo spat, clearly still bothered by the comment. “Which is not true, and anyway, you weren’t there.”

“You’re right. It was shitty,” Nyx said. “I was just repeating what little I knew. Which was not very much,” he added, seeing that Enyo was about to chime in and say so. “A lot of stuff happened before we were born, En, and it’s not all what I thought it was.”

Enyo blinked. “What the hell does that mean?” She took a tentative step towards him, wings snapping shut behind her. “What’s not what you thought?”

“Gods. A lot of things,” Nyx stammered.

“Like?” Enyo barked.

“Like my mother’s life in Prythian, before Under the Mountain. Like what my father was doing during the occupation,” Nyx said. Warning bells clanged through his mind, cautioning him to tread carefully, that Enyo was liable to blurt out what he’d said during her next argument.

To his surprise, his cousin began to laugh. “You idiot. You believed all that they told you, and never thought to question it. Just like everyone in this gods-damned city. Our glorious High Lord. Our wise High Lady.” She mimicked the reverent compliments in a squeaky, snickering tone that put Nyx on edge. “I know everyone in Velaris thinks your parents shit ice cream, but they’re just people, Nyx. They fuck up, too.”

“I know that. I knew that,” Nyx said defensively.

“Look where we are,” Enyo cried, flinging her arms out. “Miles above the city.”

“Okay—?”

“And ten thousand steps down to the street,” Enyo said. “Do you know how far that is? How long it takes?” When Nyx just nodded, flummoxed as to what this had to do with anything, Enyo took another step forward, her voice dropping an octave. “You have wings, Nyx. So does your mother. My mother doesn’t.”

Nyx felt like the floor had become air, that he was hovering on the edge of a deep chasm, that Enyo’s next words might plunge him down into it, and that no amount of beating his wings would catch him.

“Do you know why this House is my mother’s?” Enyo hissed, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s because they trapped her in it.”

Nyx’s knees wobbled. “What?”

“My mother,” Enyo gritted out, each word landing like a blow, “struggled after the War. She went through hell, Nyx, that’s all I can tell you. The rest of it is hers to share if she wishes. It’s enough to say that she was suffering terribly. But instead of getting her to see a healer, or offering her a place in the Library, our family imprisoned her up in this tower. And threatened her with exile to the human realm if she didn’t cooperate.” She laughed mirthlessly. “They said it was to help her. To protect her from her own destructive behavior. And they worked on her, and worked on her, until she actually began to believe it.”

“But —“ Nyx grasped uselessly at words. How could such a thing be possible?

He’d heard the story of how his mother had felt trapped at the Spring Court, how evil Tamlin had locked her up, supposedly to protect her from following him into a dangerous situation. His father had been forced to shatter all of Tamlin’s wards so that Aunt Mor could march in, fight the sentries, and then carry his mother to freedom.

“And then she dared to disobey, and your father threatened her life,” Enyo said venomously, “and my father stole her away from here, and marched her through the mountains as punishment until she collapsed.” She flared her wings wide, then tucked them back in. “Mother’s got no wings. She was trapped in the mountains, alone with him, with no one for miles. She had to do as he said, make him happy, because she had no way back without him. No way to even get food or shelter.”

“Uncle Cass? No. He wouldn’t —“ Nyx stammered. He didn’t bother arguing that his father wouldn’t threaten a female. He knew that wasn’t true. But Uncle Cass — he’d thought Uncle Cass was different.

“Oh, he would. He did,” Enyo said bitterly. “Because your father was angry, see. Because you,” and here she glared into Nyx’s eyes, her face flushing with anger, “were a problem that no one could solve, and they wanted to keep that a secret. My mother told the fucking truth, and she was punished. Beaten down until she stopped fighting. She stopped even seeing it as punishment. Bought the lie that it was to help her, rather than to tame and dominate her.”

Nyx held out his hands placatingly. “Enyo, I’m so sorry —“

“She gave up her power, Nyx,” Enyo shouted. “Gave up her fire. She could have ruled realms, could have been High Queen if she’d wanted. She gave it away because you died, and you killed your mother.”

Nyx began to tremble with fury and revulsion. He knew what she meant, about killing his mother, but every part of him rebelled at the turn of phrase. How dare she? He would have never wanted his mother to suffer on his account, much less die because of him. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right. It isn’t,” she said bitterly. “My mother could have defended herself, could have put them all in their places. Made damn sure no one could ever harm her, or anyone she cared about.” Like her daughter, she didn’t have to add. “But she humbled herself, made herself almost powerless, so that you and your perfect parents could survive and keep ruling over us.”

Nyx thought he might be sick again. He’d known, deep inside, that Enyo resented him, that her mother had sacrificed for him and his parents that was far too costly a gift to ever repay. But he hadn’t known about the history between their parents, and that sat heavily, uneasily on his heart.

“How do you know all this,” he finally managed to ask.

If Enyo was surprised at his lack of argument, she didn’t let on. “My mother has friends in the Library, and among the Valkyries. Friends who saw things, heard things, maybe not meant for their ears.”

“Like Aunt Gwyn?”

“Aunt Gwyn. Uncle Azzie. A few others,” Enyo said. “Even my father has let a few things slip, when he thinks I’m not paying attention or won’t put all the pieces together.”

“But no one did anything? No one complained?”

Enyo’s shoulders slumped a little — a rare sight, to see her anything but righteously angry. Now, with all her piece finally said, she just seemed tired. “If they did complain, your father overruled them —“

“Stop saying that,” Nyx said irritably. “Like this is on me, just because he’s my father.” He ran his hands through his hair, trying to calm himself, collect his thoughts. “I’m not to blame for my father’s actions, any more than you are for yours. Neither of us was there, Enyo. Neither of us had a say in what happened.”

Enyo was quiet for a moment — another rarity.

“I didn’t know anything about your mother’s struggles,” Nyx said quietly. “I didn’t know she had a history with my father. It’s not something my own parents ever would have mentioned.”

“Of course not. You grew up worshipping them, like we all did,” Enyo said. “Who would have dared tell you anything different? Who wants to be punished, like my mother was?” She gave him a wicked smile. “If they think they’re going to lock me up like they did my mother, they’re going to have to clip my wings first.”

“Cauldron forbid,” Nyx burst out. He took a lurching step towards his cousin, feeling like the balcony was spinning around him — like all of Velaris was spinning, and the whole world with it.

“Do you know why I don’t have siphons, Nyx?” his cousin asked softly, and he shook his head wordlessly. He felt like if he opened his mouth, a torrent of awfulness would come out of it — curses and threats and pleas to the Cauldron that were too terrible to be answered. “It’s because I don’t have any killing power.”

“But,” Nyx said, shocked, “Uncle Cass has seven. And you’re his daughter.”

“Oh, yes. But I’m also my mother’s daughter, and she made a bargain with the Cauldron. What powers she had were taken, except for the little that the Mother left her.” Enyo’s face was cold and grave. “I have her power, which is to say, almost nothing at all.”

Nyx opened his mouth, and shut it again.

“No one knows, except us,” Enyo said, her lower lip trembling slightly. “I think my father suspects. Yours too, though neither of them have discussed it with me directly. But it’s only a matter of time before someone finds out for certain. And once that happens, everyone will know that I’m weak and vulnerable, and my value will drop away towards nothing.”

“No, Enyo,” Nyx said warmly, grabbing for her hands, “your value is not based on how much power you were born with.”

He wanted to tell her that his mother had defeated the Witch herself with nothing but a mortal’s meager strength and stamina — but he couldn’t bear to think of his mother as mortal, trapped Under the Mountain. Had Uncle Lucien been right — had that really all been unnecessary? Would she have broken the curse on Tamlin, if his father hadn’t visited the manor and sabotaged the process?

If she had, then I wouldn’t be here. She would have lived and died a mortal, probably never come to the Night Court at all. It would have changed everything — maybe not wholly for the better.

Nyx shoved that whole mess out of his mind. He would have to corner Uncle Lucien again soon, get more answers, especially about what had actually happened Under the Mountain. Maybe find others who had been there as well, see what they knew and saw.

But all of that would have to wait. Right now, he had more pressing matters to deal with.

“You are a Valkyrie,” he told Enyo firmly, “and that has nothing to do with raw power. It’s skill. It’s training, and discipline. You’ve worked your whole life for it. Hell, you used to tease me about being a scaredy cat librarian while you were out here, all of six years old, throwing daggers like an expert.”

Enyo cracked a smile at that. “And nothing’s changed since then.”

“A few things,” Nyx said. Though he was no scaredy cat, he did spend plenty of time in libraries. And he was far more adept with wielding magic than with weapons-based combat. “But not the important things. Not the fact that you’re still a warrior. You knocked out an Illyrian commander back in there. You didn’t need killing power to do it.”

Enyo blinked, as though considering this, but her jaw was still set stubbornly. “That is easy for you to say, when you inherited more magic than you know what to do with.”

“I know,” Nyx said. The characterization was more true than he wanted to admit. “It’s unfair, En. All of it is.”

Enyo’s fingers relaxed in his, almost but not quite holding on.

“I’m learning things,” he said quietly. “About my parents, our whole family. Things I never expected. I think you’re right, Enyo — I was taught a lovely story about what great heroes my parents are. But away from here, among people who aren’t ruled by them, it’s a very different set of facts.” He sighed heavily. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

Enyo whooshed out a breath. “Then you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Nyx couldn’t disagree with that.

“Sure you wouldn’t want to come back with me to Rhodes?” he asked. “I’m sure Sibyl would love to see you.”

Enyo shook her head. “Tell her she’s got to put up with you alone for a little while longer. Maybe after the Blood Rite?”

“The —“ Nyx stumbled over the words. “You're doing the Blood Rite?”

“No, stupid,” Enyo laughed. “We’re policing the Blood Rite, to make sure no one smuggles in weapons, like the year my mother did it.”

Nyx whooshed out a relieved breath. He hated the Blood Rite, couldn’t understand why it was necessary, and dreaded the day that any of his family or friends might be called to submit themselves to it.

That would be a reason to become High Lord — to abolish the damn practice once and for all. But as angry as Nyx was with his father, the thought of him dying was still too painful to contemplate.

“Well, if you change your mind, you’re always welcome at the palace,” Nyx said. “Who knows, maybe Helion can look at your magic — see if there’s anything that can be done.”

“It’s hopeless,” Enyo said forlornly. “But thank you.” She stepped back. “Are you staying here at the House?”

Nyx laughed. “The House is stuffed with drunk kids, and I’ve got fire magic lessons in the morning. I think I’d better head back to the Day Court.”

Enyo nodded. “Then you’d better get the hell out of here, before one of your parents senses you’re in the city. I can remind Rin and Cat not to mention it.”

“Thanks, En.” He stepped back, flaring his wings, preparing to fly upwards until he was past the House’s wards and could winnow. “And thanks for telling me the truth. About your mother, and my parents, and all of it.”

Enyo shrugged. “Most people really don’t want to hear it.”

Nyx flashed her a smile. “Good thing we’re not most people.”

Then he shot up into the sky, laughing with delight as she took off beside him, calling, “Race you to the mountains!”

And kept laughing, even when he lost miserably.

Chapter Text

No matter how hard Nyx tried, he couldn’t get his fire to cooperate.

Circle, sphere, spiral, star. The stupid exercises had sounded so simple when they were explained, but he should have been more alert to the mischievous gleam in Uncle Lucien’s eye. Like he knew he was about to torture Nyx with an impossible task, and relished the thought of it.

It was the star that always defeated Nyx’s patience. He could coax the tendrils of flame into rings, make them spin and twirl and dance, even fill out like bubbles if he really focused, but the star required that the flames stay put, and form a definite shape that hung in midair. But as soon as his formations stopped swirling, they collapsed into nothing but sparks and heat.

You inherited more magic than you know what to do with.

Enyo can have these stupid flames. If only he knew how to give them away.

Like what all the High Lords had done for his mother, when she’d lain broken and dead on the throne room floor. And for his father, limp and lifeless on the fields of the final battle.

It was an awful thought, a terrifying thought, that he could have lost both of his parents, that but for the goodwill of the other High Lords, they would have been long cold in their graves, and Nyx never born. And Aunt Nesta, the sacrifices she’d made — Nyx wanted to shrivel whenever he thought of her giving up her power.

She gave it away because you died, and you killed your mother.

Nyx knew he shouldn’t take that seriously. He hadn’t asked to be born, especially not with wings, especially not in a way that would wound his mother. Though he was grateful beyond measure that his life had been spared, he never would have wanted his aunt to be powerless, to have nothing to pass on to her own daughter.

And Aunt Nesta’s sacrifice had not been for him anyway, not really, but for his mother’s sake. She had never met him, didn’t know who he would turn out to be, if he would be worthy of such a mighty gift.

Am I worthy? The question was far too heavy to answer.

He huffed in defeat, slapping his ash-coated hands together, then drawing on his Summer Court power to let a little cool water dribble on them. It flowed much more freely than his fire did, and Nyx ran through the same exercises — circle, sphere, spiral, star — hoping that he’d have more success with his water power. But try as he might, the star still eluded him.

“Nyx?”

He whirled around at the sound of his name, splashing his jacket and thighs as he did so.

“Oh, sorry, I’ve distracted you,” his aunt said hastily, stepping back from the edge of the training ring.

“I was distracted anyway,” he said honestly, then waved a hand at his clothes, drying himself off. At least that aspect of his firepower came easily. “How are you, Aunt Lainey?”

His aunt smiled warmly, setting down the bundle of picked flowers she’d been carrying, wiping her own hands on her apron. Her fingernails were caked with fresh garden dirt, her curly golden brown hair tugged back with a wide bandana, and Nyx couldn’t help but smile back at her. “Haven’t heard that nickname in a while.”

Nyx felt a little sheepish. Hanging around his younger cousins, especially Rin and Cat, always brought out the youngling in him. “Sorry —“

“I like it. I always have.” His aunt held out her hands to him, and Nyx grinned as he sent gentle jets of water towards her wiggling fingers, helping her to clean them off. “Is your uncle here? He slipped out early, and I haven’t seen him yet today.”

“I’m expecting him soon,” Nyx said, squinting up at the sky, suddenly noticing how high the sun was already. It was far later in the morning than he’d realized. Uncle Lucien was late, which was a rarity.

“Then I’ll wait with you. You don’t mind, do you?” his aunt asked kindly.

Nyx was not thrilled at the thought of having an audience, but he knew what his father would say to that — you’ll always have an audience on the battlefield, better get used to it. So he shrugged amiably, trying to sound casual. “I’m flattered that you trust me not to blast you.”

Aunt Elain let out a sparkling laugh, and settled onto the nearby bench. “You sound just like Lucien.”

Nyx thought he would never quite achieve his uncle’s easy good humor, but he decided he didn’t mind the comparison.

He tried to refocus, circle sphere spiral star, but he was brimming with so many questions, so many thoughts swirling more rapidly than his tendrils of fire, that it was almost impossible to shape his fire into anything at all. “I saw Enyo last night,” he finally said, when his star formation fizzled out yet again into an amorphous blob.

His aunt nodded, propping her elbows on her knees, resting her head in her hands as she watched him. “How is she doing?”

Nyx considered how to answer. “She’s become quite an accomplished fighter. I saw her take down an Illyrian warrior with one blow.”

Aunt Elain’s smile tightened, as though that displeased her. “That should make Nesta happy.”

The answer sounded strange to Nyx’s ears. How different this aunt was from her sisters, from the rest of their Night Court family. Nyx had grown up around warrior females, who took up swords and daggers just as avidly as the males. His own mother was an accomplished fighter, and there was Aunt Nesta and Aunt Gwyn and their Valkyries, and of course Aunt Mor, who’d been fighting on battlefields centuries before he was born. Amren, too, had been ruthless, bloodthirsty, in the defense of her city and her realm. Being battle-ready, being a fighter, was a way of life, a point of pride, a way of blowing off steam and managing tough emotions.

But not for Aunt Lainey — though she, too, had fought. She had struck the critical blow in the war, taken down the King of Hybern, had not hesitated to kill when necessary. Yet she had never again touched a weapon of war, had not handled anything sharper than a knife at dinner. And she had not trained in tactics, or sword-craft, or arrows.She had gone back to her gardens, her quiet life, determined to have peace and beauty instead.

Aunt Elain loved her sisters, and her nieces and nephews, and doted on them as far as she was able. She’d cherished them especially as infants, when they were tender and fragile and needed a soft pair of arms to rest in, and the idyllic quiet and fragrance of a well-tended garden could soothe their crying jags. She’d taken them all as toddlers into the soil beds, letting them dig and rip weeds to their hearts’ content, perhaps waiting to see whether any of them would take to the earth and its rhythms, forsake the call of the mountains, of fighting, for a different kind of magic.

Nyx, alone out of all the cousins, had been drawn to his aunt’s gardens. He had no natural sway over flowers, no connection to their cycles of growth and decay. It was the peace that he loved, the feeling of being held by a far greater power than any faerie could wield. 

But enjoying peace was one thing — and avoiding problems was another.

“We talked about Aunt Nesta, actually,” Nyx said carefully. His fire flared hotter, flashing white and then blue, and he quickly tamped it down back to a cool, pleasant orange. This was why he avoided fire, for it betrayed his emotions, could too easily get out of control. “About things that happened — after the War.”

His aunt stiffened, pulling herself up to sit very straight, looking at him with a nervous expression. “Oh — that’s complicated.”

He waited, hoping she would say more. But she didn’t. She kept looking at him anxiously, her soft brown eyes darting back and forth, from his face to his wobbling flames and back again.

Your mother, and her sisters, tiptoe around topics. That’s an Archeron trait, one I’m glad you and your cousins didn’t inherit.

“Please, Aunt Lainey,” he said gently, easing off the flames until they were merely tickling and dancing at his fingertips, “I’m confused. Lost, really. I don’t care what the truth is” — a flaming lie, if ever one had been uttered — “but I just need to know it.”

His aunt sighed, primly crossing one leg over the other. “I suppose this was always going to happen. That you all would get older, start asking questions.”

Weren’t you the same, at my age? he didn’t ask her. Perhaps she hadn’t been.

Instead, he just shrugged, “Enyo thinks she has the answers.”

“She’s always thought so. Even as a youngling,” his aunt said, with obvious distaste.

Nyx kept his mouth firmly shut, resisting the urge to defend his cousin. She could be off-putting, abrasive, unnecessarily rude and vicious, and tended to make enemies where she should have had allies. He sometimes struggled to see past her prickly exterior, and he knew her better than most people did. Only her fellow Valkyries seemed to truly understand her.

“What did happen, after the War with Hybern?” Nyx asked, firing up his circle again, letting the flames swirl around and around, as though he could make a fiery mirror or portal to the past that way. “When Aunt Nesta moved to the House, especially.”

Aunt Elain’s gaze dropped to her fingers, and she scraped at the rims of each fingernail, at any last vestiges of soil to be found there. But at length, she answered. “Being in the city was doing my sister no favors. Too many pubs serving too many drinks, and too many males lurking around to take advantage afterwards.”

Nyx’s flames sputtered, but he quickly smoothed them out. Stay in control, no matter what you hear.

“Did they hurt her,” he gritted out. He would find them and make them pay. He didn’t care if it was twenty three years later.

Aunt Elain scrunched her nose. “I don’t think so. She never mentioned it.”

Nyx whooshed out a long breath. That was a relief, anyway.

“But she was spiraling downwards,” Aunt Elain went on. “There were — concerns.” Nyx waved his hand, indicating that he didn’t need the details. “So it was decided that living in the House would help her, be a fresh start. Removing her from the places that were feeding into the problem, and giving her a purpose with training and work. It was a struggle, for a while, but the intervention got results. She’s been healthy ever since.”

“And powerless,” Nyx blurted, a fireball bursting out from his hand and then plummeting to the earth near the far corner of the training ring, into the row of hedges. He hastily flung out his other powers before it could singe anything, splashing icy water against the vegetation. Stupid. Careless, he scolded himself.

His aunt blanched. “Oh!”

“Sorry.” And he was — but he also wasn’t.

Why wasn’t Aunt Elain angrier, or at least indignant, at how her sister had been treated? She made it sound logical, even virtuous, like they had been helping. Perhaps they’d really believed it. Enyo had made it sound like her mother was coerced, isolated and controlled until she accepted the terms of her imprisonment — how could any of them find that acceptable, much less participate in it? Nyx couldn’t imagine his family, who loved freedom, who’d rescued his mother from her own gilded cage, threatening Aunt Nesta with exile to the human realm if she didn’t agree to be put in the House of Wind, when she would be stranded there and totally dependent on them. But he supposed almost anything could be justified, given the right incentives.

My mother told the fucking truth, and she was punished. Beaten down until she stopped fighting. She stopped even seeing it as punishment.

Did Aunt Elain know about the march through the mountains? Did she see that as part of the intervention, too?

Perhaps it had all turned out all right, in the end, but at what cost?

He wiped his hands on his pants, grimacing as he left a layer of gray ash behind, and strode over to Aunt Elain, plopping down next to her on the bench. “I’m still getting the hang of my fire.”

Aunt Elain nodded. “Having powers is quite a burden.”

A burden Enyo would have gladly accepted. “In a world where many people are powerful, it’s good to be able to defend yourself,” he said, looking carefully at his aunt, wondering what she could have meant. Did she mean her own Seer powers? “But yes, they can control you if you don’t control them.”

“Maybe Nesta was lucky,” his aunt said. “To be rid of all that. Her powers seethed in her. I think a lot of her — behaviors — were to tamp them down. Those eerie flames were cold and devouring, ripped as they were right from the Cauldron. She was never happy, or comfortable, until she gave them up.”

But her daughter got nothing. Nyx checked himself before he could press the point. That was not his secret to reveal.

“Did she ever train in her powers?” he asked. “Could she have mastered them, in time?”

Aunt Elain shrugged. “That I don’t know. She and I were estranged during that time.” She sighed heavily, idly playing with a curl of her hair. “I should have done more to try to help her. Should have suggested alternatives. I just didn’t know how. I had no idea what life as a faerie was supposed to be like. All I ever knew of it was kidnapping and conquest.”

No wonder she retreated to her gardens. Nyx’s stomach felt hollow. “You were not very much older than a youngling.”

His aunt smiled, curling her warm hand around his. “I was just the age that you are now, during the War and its recovery.” 

Nyx couldn’t imagine it. How would he cope with being violently ripped from his home, from his family and the life he’d only started to live, to be thrown into a whole different body, with new powers that he didn’t understand, among people he’d been taught all his life to hate and fear, who were so much older and experienced? How would he even begin to handle it, and not be hopelessly intimidated and frightened?

His mother and aunts had been young, so very young, should have been leading carefree lives like Nyx and his cousins, not scrambling to survive, or fighting wars.

Or bearing babes.

If he had followed in his mother’s footsteps, he would already have a wife, and a toddler of his own. I barely even know who I am, can barely wrangle my own magic. What business would I have, trying to be a father?

“It was a hard time, but it turned out all right,” Aunt Elain said, patting his shoulder. “I’m glad that you, and Sibyl, get to grow up in more peaceful times.”

He nodded, his heart full, and pushed up from the bench, feeling like he needed to move or he might burst out crying, and began cycling through his exercises again. “Do you ever wish it had turned out differently?”

Aunt Elain’s eyebrows rose, and Nyx’s fire-spiral fizzled out into wisps of smoke. He wasn’t even sure why he’d asked, much less what he’d meant by the question.

But Aunt Elain was thoughtfully gazing out past the training ring, into the wide expanse of gardens and fields that encompassed the palace grounds. “I wouldn’t wish to change the outcome. Perhaps some of the steps along the way.” Then she turned back to him, smiling wistfully. “I would have loved for you to have met your grandfather.”

Nyx knew which grandfather she meant. “Uncle Lucien’s told me about him.”

His aunt’s smile widened. “Oh, that’s lovely. Sometimes I forget that they spent time together.” She pulled the bandana from her hair, letting the curls catch the sunlight as they bounced loose around her face. “It’s a comforting thought, that neither of them was alone.”

“And you were?” Nyx asked, then bit his tongue, scolding himself for asking such a personal question.

Thankfully, she didn’t seem to mind it. “I was. And I wasn’t. I had my sisters, though we each experienced the War in quite different ways. And I thought I — well, anyway.” She broke off suddenly, a bright embarrassed flush spreading across her pale cheeks.

Nyx carefully concentrated on forming the shapes with his tendrils of flame, not daring to ask any further questions. He’d clearly pried too deeply already.

Luckily, he was saved from having to make a reply, for his uncle chose that moment to appear, striding out to the training ring with a broad smile on his face. “Ah, there you two are. Hope you’re having a better morning than I am.” He approached Aunt Elain first, and Nyx hastily averted his eyes from the very passionate greeting that the two of them shared.

Finally, Aunt Elain was slipping from the training ring, flowers bundled back in her arms, and Uncle Lucien was striding towards Nyx, glowing like he always did when his mate got a hold of him.

Nyx waved a fond goodbye to his aunt, who was now blushing for an entirely different reason, then turned back to his uncle. “Did you forget that we had training?”

Uncle Lucien’s eye clicked at him. “Not at all. Believe me, I would have far preferred your company to the mess I was just dealing with.” He swept all his hair back, bundling it into a neat bun. Fire and long hair were a dangerous combination, especially amongst the less practiced. “Well? Shall we get started?”

Nyx obliged, forming the flames carefully, but couldn’t resist asking, “What mess was that?”

“Pull back on the heat, it’s getting too smoky,” Uncle Lucien said. Nyx furrowed his brows at the swirling sphere of fire, tugging on the magic to try to control the temperature. His fire always flared far hotter when his uncle was around, as though it was being coaxed forth by the presence of another fire wielder. “The mess, dear Nyx, was your uncle Eris, and his interesting new alliance.”

Nyx said, “I heard he had a special guest?”

“Special is an understatement,” Uncle Lucien said gravely. “Time and again, I have underestimated my brother. We all have. Eris spent long centuries under my father’s boot, scheming to take power, all of his ambitions bent in that direction. But now that he has the throne of Autumn, his attention is free to wander elsewhere.” He shook his head. “Your parents were extremely displeased, as was Helion when I told him —“

“Why? Who is it?” Nyx burst out, unable to take the suspense any longer.

Uncle Lucien said, “Eris has gone behind all our backs, forsaking all Prythian, and made a marriage alliance with the Crown Princess of Hybern.”

“Hybern?” Nyx squawked, flames flaring brightly at his fingertips.

“Yes, Hybern.” His uncle’s mechanical eye buzzed unpleasantly. “Their royal dynasty was decimated in the War, and for the last two decades, the rule of that cursed island has bounced among various lesser princes and upstarts. I have tried my best to keep track of it, with little success.”

“How chaotic. It sounds more like a human kingdom than a fae realm. Doesn’t the magic of the land choose a successor?” Nyx asked.

Uncle Lucien shook his head. “The old King’s wickedness ran very deep. The very stones of that island are poisoned with faebane, as is almost all the food that grows there. He hoarded good soil and crops, allowing only those loyal to him to access it. Ensured that any rivals could not develop magic of their own.”

“He poisoned his own people?” Nyx gasped.

“Rendered them as powerless as any mortal. Ironic, given their hatred of humans. Or perhaps that explains the resentment,” Uncle Lucien said. “In any case, the war upended everything. The King and his bloodline are all deceased, as are all his favored courtiers. The remaining families vie for power, and seek to regain their lost magic. This is where Eris seeks to take advantage.”

Nyx was feeling faintly dizzy, just thinking about it. “It sounds about as much fun as kicking a hornet’s nest.”

Uncle Lucien laughed. “So it will be. Your father is livid.” He gestured to Nyx in challenge. “Do you know why?”

Nyx knew this was as much a part of his lessons as the fire-shapes, possibly even more important. Mastering the political alliances, diplomatic maneuvering and statecraft, was essential for any heir to a court of Prythian. “It will utterly alter the balance of power between the courts,” Nyx said, after mulling it over for a few moments. “Eris could take the throne of Hybern, either for himself or his heirs. And in the meantime, he has far less need of other alliances.”

“That’s for a start,” his uncle said, seemingly pleased with the answer. “And?”

Nyx frowned, spinning a small circle of flame around in mid-air as he tried to grasp all the implications. “And if Hybern does regain its magic, they would be a threat in the future?”

“Possibly. And think about your father’s personal position,” Uncle Lucien said, coming up behind Nyx, outstretching his own hand to inject a bit of sizzling blue fire into Nyx’s spinning circle. “Rhys has long been the High Lord with the largest territory, military, and share of magic. No one can seriously rival him, especially now with Feyre by his side. It’s been an incentive for the other courts to seek their friendship, and overlook any — past grievances.”

Oh.

Nyx coaxed both sets of flames, his own and his uncle’s, into a single shimmering sphere, admiring how the colors mixed and danced together. “Well, the Night and Day Courts have always been allies, at least.”

“Indeed. Our two families will not be parted, whatever happens with Eris and his Hybern princess,” Uncle Lucien said. “Dawn will stay neutral, as it always does. It’s Tamlin I’m worried about, and Kallias. They might well throw in with Eris, use this opportunity to avenge wrongs done during Amarantha’s occupation. And where the other seasonal courts go, Summer must follow, or risk being surrounded by enemies on all sides.”

Uncle Lucien flicked his hands, and Nyx nearly gasped aloud as the flames contorted, stretching out into a beautiful seven-pointed star, rotating and shimmering.

“How did you do that?” Nyx breathed, staring and staring at it. “My stars always fizzle when I try to hold them.”

“Movement. Always keep things moving,” Uncle Lucien said. “Fire doesn’t want to be held still. It wants to burn.” He chuckled ruefully. “No one knows that better than Eris.”

Nyx watched the flames move and dance, nearly yelping again when they all puffed away into a cloud of glittering ash.

“But enough of that headache. How was Velaris?” his uncle asked, casually banding an arm around Nyx’s back and guiding him from the training ring.

“Velaris was interesting,” Nyx said. “I had to break up a party at the House.”

“So a typical Thursday night,” Uncle Lucien quipped.

“Pretty much,” Nyx said. They stepped onto the veranda, where Aunt Elain had left them a pitcher of iced water and a pile of fresh baked muffins, and he swiped one from the plate, devouring it in two bites, and reached for another. “I found out some things about the House, and Aunt Nesta.”

His uncle slid into a chair, snagging his own muffin. “So that’s what your aunt meant.”

“Hmm?”

“She warned me you’ve been asking questions again.” Nyx must have looked alarmed, for his uncle went on quickly. “Don’t be concerned. You’ve every right to know these things. It’s just a change for some folks, that’s all.”

“You said it yourself. Always keep things moving,” Nyx pointed out.

His uncle’s face brightened into a broad grin. “Clever Nyx. There’s hope for you yet.”

“Maybe.” Nyx coaxed the ice water out of the pitcher, threading it into his cup in a swirling rivulet, then did the same for his uncle’s cup. He bit his lip as he sought to cut off the flow without drenching the muffins and the table, then sighed with relief when the remaining liquid fell back into the pitcher with only a tiny splash. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course. Always,” his uncle said.

“What did you mean last night, about being accepted into the family?” His uncle raised his eyebrows, the jagged scars on his face stretching out with the movement. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

Uncle Lucien’s mechanical eye clicked a few times, then shuttered.

“I’m sorry if this is too personal —“

“No. No, it isn’t,” his uncle said. “It’s good that you’re asking. Relations between the courts of Prythian are often influenced by personal matters, as we were just discussing with Eris.” He breathed in a long breath, as though bracing himself. “You know your father and I were once enemies.”

“I saw that very clearly, in your memory,” Nyx said, wincing at the mere thought of it.

“Yes. Well, that continued, during Under the Mountain and also afterwards. And when your mother left the Spring Court to join her mate, I — “ Uncle Lucien broke off, then began again. “I’m not proud of this, Nyx, but I tried to interfere. I followed them into Illyria, and tried to get her to leave with me. To go back to Tamlin. And then I went with Tamlin to Hybern, to force the issue and get her back.”

Nyx blinked at this. “Why?”

Uncle Lucien shook his head. “I’ve asked myself that many times. How I so completely misjudged the situation. My only defense, if I have one, is that I mistrusted your father’s daemati powers. I know firsthand how he can seize hold of someone’s mind, and I thought that perhaps —“

“Wait, wait,” Nyx interrupted. “Did Father seize your mind?”

“Once, at Amarantha’s command,” his uncle replied, grimacing. “To torture your mother’s name out of me. Your mother saved my life that day by volunteering it willingly.”

“Oh gods,” Nyx whispered. He would have died. Father would have killed him. He couldn’t bear to dwell on that. ”How many others suffered that fate?”

“I cannot begin to tell you,” his uncle said solemnly. “I was only Under the Mountain a few months, and news did not reach us of every incident.”

Nyx suddenly wished he hadn’t eaten with quite so much gusto. “You had every right to distrust my father.”

“My mistake was in distrusting your mother, when she clearly told me her wishes to stay,” Uncle Lucien said.

“But she’s forgiven you, clearly,” Nyx said.

“Yes, she has. Your mother is remarkably forgiving,” Uncle Lucien said. “But your father, and his circle, are another matter. My presence at Hybern Castle was a grievous error, though I was as surprised as anyone to see your aunts there, and I was held still while they were put in the Cauldron.” He closed his eyes briefly, mastering his revulsion at the memory. “It’s not surprising that they wouldn’t like me, even if I weren’t also half-brothers with Eris.”

“But you’re Aunt Elain’s mate,” Nyx protested. “Whatever their history with you, keeping you from her would have hurt her terribly.”

Uncle Lucien looked chagrined. “Only if she wanted the bond. Which, at first, she didn’t.”

Nyx’s eyes widened in surprise. “But — you two are so happy!”

His uncle’s face relaxed into a beaming smile. “Yes. Now we are. That is not how it started. Your aunt despised me for breaking up her betrothal to the human lord she was in love with, and found the whole concept of a bond to be repulsive.”

Nyx couldn’t imagine it. The mating bond was the most sacred and deep magical connection, forged by the Cauldron. And though he knew that sometimes bonds were rejected, and that bonded relationships weren’t always joyful, it still seemed ridiculous to try to resist it.

Uncle Lucien lowered his voice to a whisper. “There is one other thing that even your aunt won’t admit — that none of them will talk about. But I pledged to give you the truth, as I know it. This you must promise to speak of to no one, not even Sibyl.” When Nyx nodded breathlessly, he went on, “I think they disliked me because of the mating bond. Because they would have liked to see Elain with Azriel.”

“Uncle Az?”

“Shh,” Uncle Lucien admonished. “It’s just a suspicion. Before Aunt Gwyn came along, your Uncle Az was the odd brother out, so to speak. Your parents were happily mated, and Cass and Nesta were paired off also. I do believe that he and Elain liked each other, ever since he helped to save her during the War. Maybe even before that. I remember being insanely jealous when he would be the one to fly her places.”

“Oh gods,” Nyx said. “That’s awkward.”

“Awkward as hell,” his uncle agreed. “Your aunt was very uncomfortable with the whole situation, which is why I spent so much time abroad in those years. Even so, I felt a lot more through the bond than your aunt probably realized. But the solstice before we got together, right before you were born, I believe something happened between them that broke things off permanently. And around the same time, I noticed that everyone except your father got a lot more hostile — like I was the obstacle to their loved ones’ happiness. It was such a relief to discover that Helion was my father, to leave the Night Court to come here. No offense.”

“None taken.” Nyx took a very long sip of his water.

“Anyway, it all changed after Uncle Az and Aunt Gwyn got together,” Uncle Lucien went on. “Maybe he saw me as some sort of rival, until he found his own mate. After that, when it was clear that Aunt Elain was unhappy, languishing at the Night Court with nothing to do, suddenly it seemed to everyone like a good idea for her come visit me here. Like all was forgiven, now that there was a use for me.”

Nyx wrinkled his forehead. “So you were the consolation prize.”

“Well,” Uncle Lucien sighed, “it does sound cringeworthy, when you put it like that. But I wasn’t going to let my pride get in the way, not when my mate was finally willing to give me a chance.”

“I guess it all worked out then,” Nyx said, though the whole thing gave him a headache.

“Indeed it did. I would not trade my mate or my daughter for the world,” Uncle Lucien said. “And as strained as my dealings with your family have been, rest assured my own family is far more dysfunctional. Ask Sibyl’s grandmother, if you don’t believe me.”

“I do believe you,” Nyx said quickly. He would not dare ask Sibyl’s sweet grandmother to dredge up all the horrible memories of how she and her children were abused at Beron Vanserra’s hands. “It’s just — it’s not how I imagined things, when I was younger.”

“People are messy, Nyx,” Uncle Lucien said. “They have blind spots. They disappoint you, and you’ll disappoint them in turn. If there’s one fault I find with the Night Court, it’s that they hold onto grudges, while forgiving themselves for far more grievous offenses. We live too long, and suffer too much, to be so self-righteous.”

“This is why you’re the diplomat,” Nyx laughed, but then he grew serious again. “After all that happened between you and my father, you still forgave him.”

Uncle Lucien sighed heavily. “What would have been the other option? I could have hoarded my grievances like treasures, weighed down to the point where I could no longer move. Some of what he’s done I can’t forgive, because I’m not the one he acted against. It’s not my place to grant absolution for those things — only those affected, or their families, can decide if he’s earned their forgiveness.”

“I wasn’t there for any of it. But it does affect me, if I’m to be judged by his actions,” Nyx said quietly. “I want to know more about Under the Mountain.”

His uncle regarded him seriously. “I’ll keep nothing from you. But no more sharing memories.”

“Then it’s worse than what you’ve already shown me?" Nyx's heart quailed at the mere thought of it.

His uncle nodded, standing up gracefully. “Before we delve into that, I’ve got to go deal with the chaos my brother is causing. Give me a few days to get it all sorted?”

Nyx agreed readily.“Good luck.”

Once his uncle was gone, he headed back out to the training ring, running through the motions again. Circle, sphere, spiral, star. His forms were bright and clear, until he got to the star again.

The only way to make it solid was to keep it moving — to let it flow. He’d been treating the fire-forms too much like his ice, he realized, trying to make definite shapes, to freeze things neatly into place. It was a relief to realize that he didn’t have to control it that much, that he could give the power a path to follow, and then let it go.

Nyx stepped back to behold his very first fire-star blazing in the air above him, and smiled.

Chapter Text

“No way. A snowball fight?” Sibyl chortled, hoisting her stack of books from the table. “Who started that tradition?”

Nyx shrugged. “No idea, but it’s freaking cold in the mountains. I wish it had been a sleep-late-and-drink-hot-chocolate fight instead. I would win that every time.”

He flicked a finger at his own books, allowing himself a small smile of satisfaction as magic zipped out from his fingertips, sending the pile into what everyone called a pocket realm, as though that was supposed to mean something. For all Nyx knew, he was banishing the books to someone else’s bed-table, and he only hoped they would enjoy Solar Court Teachings for All Ages and The False Monarchy of Demons more than he would.

Drat Helion and his recommended reading.

He’d mentioned it so casually at their last lesson, how he dipped into the classics to refresh his knowledge every so often, and then had given them all a smirking look, like no mere magic student would actually tackle such difficult material. Nyx couldn’t possibly pass up that kind of challenge.

Sibyl raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. “Snow always looks like so much fun. Like walking on clouds, or pillows.”

“You could take my place,” Nyx offered, following her away from the table and towards the grand arch that led out from the Great Library into the courtyard.

Sibyl barked a laugh. “Don’t think your uncles would appreciate that.”

“Probably not,” Nyx conceded.

In actuality, the snowball fight had been a males-only tradition at the Night Court for as long as it had existed. That inconvenient fact had provoked many a huffed sigh from Catrin and eye-rolls from Enyo, for they were expected to stay behind with the females, while Nyx and Aneirin were heavily encouraged to attend.

“It’s only because you would win every year,” Uncle Cassian had joked to his daughter, which had not improved Enyo’s mood at all.

The real reason, of course, was the second part of the tradition, the unclothed steam in the birchin after they had all declared defeat or victory. All complaints from the female cousins quickly ceased after Aunt Gwyn finally took them aside and explained it, though their underlying resentment at being left out never wavered. “Stupid males and their stupid naked bodies,” had been Catrin’s pronouncement.

Nyx would never forget the first time he’d been taken along, how excited his father and uncles had been to initiate him into the family tradition, and how they’d tried to play it off casually when he’d hated being wet and cold in the biting wind, and had cried stinging, freezing tears when a snowball had pinged the back of his head and ached like anything, and icy water had dripped down his back into his leathers. He’d tried to put on a brave face, pretending that the tears were not tears, but only some snow that had gotten in his eyes, but he knew that hadn’t fooled anyone. Nyx couldn’t help but feel that he’d failed them somehow, that it was important not only that he participate but that he loved it. He wouldn’t be quite one of them, wouldn’t quite belong, if he didn’t.

Uncle Az perhaps had been most disappointed of all, though he was the best at hiding it. As a youngling, his uncle had been locked up, never feeling snow on his skin or the sun on his face, never getting the chance to frolic and play with other younglings, and especially not run or jump or fly — and the fact that Nyx could do all of those things whenever he felt like it, and simply chose not to, probably galled him.

Then, finally, Aneirin had been old enough to join them. Nyx had been relieved, even a little excited, had thought he and his cousin could play in the snow while the older males fought it out, or at least team up to get some advantage. But little Aneirin’s very first act upon landing had been to scoop up the roundest, most densely packed snowball in creation and wallop Nyx right in the face with it.

And Nyx, because he was now old enough to understand what was expected of him, and because being bested so easily by his much younger cousin was not an option, did not cry or protest at being blindsided before the fight even started, but gamely scooped up a half-hearted handful of powder and flung it back at him.

Now, having fully come into his powers, Nyx could dominate the snowball fight every single year, could sharpen icicles into weapons and scatter even the most lovingly shaped snow projectile into glittering frost in the air. He felt the snow calling out to him, practically begging to be shaped and wielded. But it felt wrong to use magic, like it would be cheating, so he allowed himself only brief flashes of it, just enough to make the experience bearable.

Sibyl kept up a steady stream of chatter as they strolled from the library and through the courtyard out into the market square, then turned back towards the palace, and Nyx was content to walk beside her and listen. It was a reprieve from his own churning thoughts, a nice reminder that not everyone in Prythian obsessed constantly about the Night Court and its royal family. He couldn’t remember half the people or places from Sibyl’s gossip, whether she was dishing about the sons and daughters of the courtly families or the corps of scholars in Helion’s employ. Prythian was a wide world, and Nyx felt like he’d barely seen any of it, while Sibyl often accompanied Uncle Lucien when he traveled for diplomatic visits.

“—and then Boreas said, More of your conversation would infect my brain,” Sibyl chortled, a faint flush rising to her cheeks in a way that had Nyx instantly on alert. He never saw Sibyl flustered for any reason, especially not over a male.

“Who’s Boreas again?” he asked, far too casually.

“You have not been listening at all, have you,” Sibyl said accusingly, giving him a long disdainful look. “Boreas? The heir of Winter?” When Nyx still looked at her blankly, she elbowed him. “Snap out of it, Nixie. You’ve got to know who people are. You’ll cause a diplomatic nightmare if you don’t.”

“And who is Boreas to you?” he dared ask, earning another elbow to the ribs for his trouble. It was all the answer he needed. “Now I get the fascination with snow.” Sibyl gave him a vulgar gesture that made him laugh heartily. “Now who’s being a diplomatic nightmare.”

“Just for that, I’m introducing you as my cousin, the gargoyle,” Sibyl huffed, though she was laughing too.

They strolled into the palace together, nodding to Helion’s courtiers and scholars gathered in the various drawing rooms and gardens within the palace. Every room seemed to be bustling with activity, with servants scurrying about hanging up decorations for Solstice, or preparing guest suites for visiting dignitaries, which apparently required moving vast numbers of alabaster statues and gold-encrusted furniture. As they passed through the crowds, Nyx tried not to tense up, tried not to expect trouble, and was relieved to find that no one seemed particularly disturbed by his presence. Sibyl, again, got all of their attention, and he was more than happy to leave her to it.

“So are you coming with us or not?” Sibyl asked, as they turned towards the corridor to Helion’s private wing of the palace.

“Maybe?” Nyx had been startled to receive an invitation to visit the human realm with his uncle and cousin, had put off even thinking about going. “I’ve never met Queen Vassa or Jurian. Or any human, actually.” Not that either of Uncle Lucien’s friends were regular humans — Jurian had been resurrected in the Cauldron, and Queen Vassa had a glorious firebird form that Nyx had seen only in paintings.

“It’s the home of your ancestors. Half of them, anyway,” Sibyl said. “Aren’t you curious?”

“Of course,” he said, though it had never actually occurred to him to be curious, not until now. His mother was faerie, as were her sisters. Only Aunt Elain seemed to retain any connection to human culture, while his mother seemed quite relieved to have left that painful part of her life behind. “When are you leaving?”

"Right after Solstice. Daddy plans to make a few stops along the way, but you could meet us if you’re busy —“

Suddenly Nyx’s daemati senses buzzed with warning. “Wait,” he said to Sibyl, holding out a hand. “The room is shielded.” He speared his thoughts towards Helion’s inner chambers, easing around the sound barrier, slipping into the mind of Helion’s advisor Phoebus, who was lingering behind the High Lord and pretending not to listen.

“—trusted you to guide him,” Helion’s guest was saying flatly. “They very much hope their trust was not misplaced.”

Nyx could feel the advisor tense at the implied insult, even as Helion smoothly replied, “My dear Azriel, of course Nyx is well cared for.”

Nyx bristled, then momentarily lost his focus as Sibyl tugged on his arm. “Sorry. Just — here,” he muttered, then reached out for her mental shield, inviting her to eavesdrop along with him.

“Nyx, what’s —“ Sibyl gasped out, then widened her eyes, and tapped her own temple in sudden understanding. I hope you don’t do this often, her voice said in his mind, both amused and accusatory.

I really don’t. But they’re talking about me, it’s only natural I’d want to hear it, he replied, trying not to sound defensive. Daemati were distrusted for this exact reason, among many others, and although his cousins weren’t above giving him shit for having so many different powers, this was one they never, ever teased him about.

Fine. I admit, I’m curious, Sibyl answered. Just, if you’re going to do that to me, warn me first, all right?

Of course. I’ll knock, Nyx promised, pantomiming knocking on his own head.

“What has prompted these concerns?” Helion was asking, leaning forward, propping his head on his hands. His muscular arms gleamed in the fae lights — really, it was pointless to have any light source in a room when the High Lord of Day was in it — and Nyx tried to ignore the way the advisor was ogling him. Whatever Helion’s proclivities were, or how they might have changed since he was officially mated, were absolutely none of his grand-nephew’s business. “I saw the boy myself during his last magic lesson, only this morning. He looks very well, and is progressing nicely with his spell-work.”

Nyx flushed a little at the easy praise. In truth, his level of magic was little better than the average Day Court youngling’s, certainly nothing to speak of compared to Sibyl’s. But any little bit of skill was an advantage, and he enjoyed the challenge, anyway.

Nyx and Sibyl wandered over to the inner courtyard, sliding onto one of the ornate benches that were interspersed among the hanging gardens. Without having to discuss or plan anything, she passed him one of the books she’d been carrying and cracked open the other to the exact middle, making a show of running her finger along the page as though she were reading it. Nyx almost smirked at it, at the paltry attempt at deception, and flipped absently through the book she’d handed him.

“That is good, then,” Uncle Azriel said, and though his flat, cold demeanor was putting Helion’s poor advisor on edge, Nyx knew his uncle’s mannerisms well enough, and saw the sincerity in it. “He was in Velaris two nights ago, but did not make it home, and has not tried to reach us before or since. His parents were worried.”

Dummy, Sibyl scolded him.

Nyx rolled his eyes, wondering which cousin had blabbed to the adults in the family. Not Enyo, for certain. And Aneirin surely would be back in Illyria, training with his legion. 

Catrin, then. Figures.

As much as Uncle Az could refuse her nothing, perhaps it was true in reverse as well. Perhaps she’s already part of his spy network? How much of her carefree persona was an act, after all?

“Young males,” Helion shrugged, smiling indulgently as he added, “Perhaps his purpose in the city was not one he would wish his mother to hear of.”

“That would have been traceable,” Uncle Azriel said matter of factly.

Seriously? Sibyl’s voice squawked.

This is exactly why I had to come here, Nyx replied, feeling like he might die of embarrassment. It was far too easy for them to poke around in my affairs.

Still is, obviously, his cousin answered. Gods, what busybodies.

Helion seemed to share her sentiment. “Surely the vaunted spymaster has more important business than to monitor the lad’s nights out on the town?” he asked, with a knowing gleam in his deep eyes. “Were you never young, Azriel?”

Uncle Az’s expression never wavered. “It is not that. He can do as he likes. We just wish to check up on him, ensure his well-being, that’s all.”

Helion waved a broad hand, his golden rings flashing in the light. “He’s around here someplace, I expect. Will you not take refreshments? I can have Phoebus find him.”

The advisor, whose thoughts had been wandering up until now, straightened at the sound of his own name. But Uncle Azriel only said, “That will not be necessary.”

If the conversation continued, or the topic changed, Nyx did not stick around to hear it. He hastily withdrew from Phoebus’s mind, more than a little abashed at the violation he’d committed, and how he’d roped his innocent cousin into it.

Sibyl pulled her book out of his hands. “Give me that, you’ll ruin it.”

“What? Oh, sorry,” he stammered, noting in alarm that frost was spreading out from his fingers, spiderwebbing across the cover.

“I’m just glad that wasn’t fire,” Sibyl said, brushing the ice crystals away and tucking the book back under her arm. “I was going to head back to my rooms, get some reading done before the symposium tonight. Want to hide out for a while?”

Yes, Nyx desperately wanted to answer. But he shook his head. “I can’t avoid this forever. Uncle Az is here, I might as well talk to him.”

“Well, give a yell, and I’ll run interference,” Sibyl said, tapping her temple again.

Nyx flashed her a grateful smile. “You’re the best, Sibs.”

Then the door to Helion’s study opened, and Uncle Azriel strode out from it, looking not at all surprised to see Nyx sitting nearby. He was shadowless, for a change, but Nyx couldn’t begin to guess what other sources his uncle might have here at the palace, or what instincts his uncle had as a spymaster and interrogator that had come into play.

Nyx rose from the bench, trying not to look nervous. “Hi, Uncle Az.”

“Nyx,” his uncle said, clapping scarred hands on his shoulders in greeting. “How are you doing?”

“I’m good,” Nyx said. “Busy.” He shifted on his feet, feeling like he owed more of an explanation, but where to even begin? “Lots of studying.” And he summoned his pile of books into his hands, as though to prove it.

His uncle barely looked at the books, but studied Nyx with an uncomfortable intently. Was this how he started all his interrogations? How many of his prisoners spilled their guts, just from that look alone?

Don’t be nervous, you’ve done nothing wrong.

Sibyl stepped forward, smiling brightly. “Uncle Azzie! It’s been a long time.”

Uncle Azriel turned to her, a hint of a smile crossing his lips. “Hello, Sibyl.”

“Didn’t know you were visiting,” Sibyl said, the perfect picture of pleased surprise. Perhaps she’s more skilled at this than I realized. He really needed to stop underestimating his cousins. “How long are you here for?”

“Just a brief visit,” Uncle Azriel said. “In and out, really.”

“Aw,” Sibyl pouted. “Are you at least staying for dinner?”

“Not this time, I’m afraid.” A pause, then, “How is your mother?”

“Oh, she’s great,” Sibyl said. She gestured to the columns and ceiling, at all the various vines and flowering plants growing vibrantly among them. “This is all her work, of course.”

Their uncle nodded, glancing appreciatively around the elegant hall, where every flower and petal perfectly positioned for maximum enjoyment. “Of course.”

“And Aunt Gwyn?” Sibyl asked. “How’s she doing?”

Uncle Azriel’s features relaxed into a smile — the first real smile Nyx had seen. “She’s wonderful.”

Nyx felt relieved, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. Perhaps it was the suspicion that Uncle Lucien had let slip, in their last conversation…

“Come on, let’s all get ice cream,” Nyx suggested, banishing his books again, gesturing with far too much eagerness towards the palace exit.

Sibyl tapped the books under her arm. “I’m supposed to present at the symposium tonight.” That was the first Nyx had heard of any such thing, but he chose not to question it. Perhaps she sensed that he needed to talk to his uncle alone. Becoming quite the diplomat already. “If you change your mind, Uncle Azzie, we’d all love to see you. And if not, you should come back soon. Bring Aunt Gwyn and the cousins, too.”

Uncle Azriel nodded, and Sibyl patted Nyx’s shoulder. “You’d better be on time tonight.”

Nyx suppressed the urge to roll his eyes or intone Yes, mother, but just said, “I wouldn’t miss it.”

His cousin smiled, then walked away, her exit watched by a crowd of admirers who kept a respectful distance. A few of them gazed briefly at Nyx and his uncle, and he braced himself, waiting for the scornful or fearful looks, but was relieved when they only glanced over, noting the wings and unusual buttoned-up attire, then went back to their duties or conversations.

“So what really brings you to Rhodes?” Nyx asked casually, falling into step with his uncle.

“You,” Uncle Azriel said simply. Direct, to the point. Nyx appreciated the honesty, even as he resented that he was being checked up on, like a naughty youngling. “You should write, Nyx. Or visit. Or just —“ He waved a hand near his temple, pantomiming the use of daemati powers. “You’re in a foreign court, and you’ve been away months now. Your parents can’t help but worry sometimes.”

Nyx tried to play it cool, but he couldn’t help his shoulders slumping a little. “I know.” He really did, too. As preoccupied as they would be with their duties, ruling a far-flung and difficult territory, and preparing for the birth of his sibling, his parents had always found time for him. Sometimes too much time, if he was being honest.

The sun was still high in the sky when they descended the palace steps and turned towards Eleusinia’s, despite it being nearly Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year. The streets were bustling with activity, the same merry frenzy that had Helion’s palace in its grip, and Nyx smiled to himself to see it. “Did you know this city was sacked during the occupation?” he asked his uncle. “You’d never know it now.”

Uncle Azriel nodded. “I could not leave Velaris then, but word did get to us.” He sighed, his forehead scrunching, as close to wearing his emotions on his sleeve as he ever got. “Many regrettable things happened during those long years.”

“So I’m learning,” Nyx said.

His uncle eyed him carefully, saying nothing as they entered the small ice cream shop and placed their orders. Nyx declined his usual swirled sundae to order their decadent five-flavors-of-chocolate combination, and when Eleusinia herself came out to scoop the ice cream and add extra hot fudge without him having to ask for it, he couldn’t resist asking, “Any distinguished visitors recently?”

The older faerie beamed at him. “That was kind of you, to send the High Lord and his entourage our way,” she said warmly, passing him a perfectly formed tower of ice cream flavors that had been spelled not to melt instantly in the heat of the Day Court. “The little princess was very enthusiastic.” Her silvery eyes flashed a bright green, in perfect imitation of both Tamlin and little Kore. Nyx had long gotten used to Eleusinia’s color-shifting abilities, but it had startled him greatly the first time she’d done it. It really was a beautiful green, though — the type of color his mother would spend hours trying to capture in one of her paintings.

Then Eleusinia turned towards his uncle, her eyes flashing hazel as she took in his sternly handsome face, as though she was memorizing his coloring. “Welcome to Rhodes,” she said respectfully. Of course it would be obvious that he’s not from here.

Nyx made quick introductions, inwardly cursing his lack of manners. His uncle inclined his head respectfully, and then they were back out on the sidewalk, silently enjoying their cold treats, threading through the crowds of passersby until they were in a public park where there were fewer potential eavesdroppers.

Only then did his uncle turn back to him. “The High Lord? The princess? Surely she didn’t mean Helion and Sibyl.”

“Definitely not. They’re regulars,” Nyx said, not at all surprised that his uncle picked up on everything. “No, I ran into Tamlin on the street a few days ago, and his wife and daughter.” His uncle’s siphons flared a little brighter, then sputtered out again. “It was fine,” Nyx quickly assured him.

“So it’s true then. Tamlin is married,” Uncle Azriel said, more to himself, gazing out over the park’s rolling hills and ponds as though he could see straight to the Spring Court. Then he looked at Nyx again, concerned. “He did not give you trouble?”

“He was a little rude. Nothing unexpected,” Nyx shrugged. Then he grinned roguishly. “I was a little rude back.”

“Good,” his uncle said, with unusual vehemence. He took a few more bites of his ice cream, then said, “But friendly enough to recommend an ice cream place?”

Nyx shrugged. “That was for the daughter. She’s innocent in everything.” He could feel his uncle’s eyes still on him, and he snapped, a little more harshly than necessary, “Is that so unbelievable?”

“No, not at all. You just seem very certain,” Uncle Azriel said.

“I am certain. First off, she can’t be more than four or five,” Nyx said, knowing he was getting riled up, and deciding that he didn’t care. “A youngling, Uncle. And in any case, she didn’t choose her father.”

His uncle readily conceded the point. “None of us get to choose our fathers.” He glanced down at his own scarred hands, carefully holding his cup of ice cream.

Nyx flushed, remembering all too well his uncle’s tragic history, how his own family had hurt and imprisoned him. And although he’d never heard the tale told outright, he had pieced together that his uncle was the product of a terrible assault, of his father forcing himself on an innocent female. She had suffered for it, and the babe she’d been forced to bear, rather than the disgusting prick being held to any account for it. The whole situation made Nyx want to take off into the air, fly straight to Illyria, and find the bastard and make him pay for all the harm he’d done, and allowed to be done under his roof.

But that was his uncle’s vengeance to take, and not his. He rather wondered why his uncle hadn’t done it already, why the asshole was allowed to still draw breath. Mor’s father too, that piece of shit who spread his vile poison in the Hewn City, turning all the folk to wickedness and debauchery, even while insisting on unmarried females’ purity.

“Speaking of fathers, yours wants to see you. On Solstice, at least, if you can’t come sooner. It’s not a summons,” his uncle said, ”but a suggestion. One that I think you should heed, Nyx.”

“I really should,” Nyx agreed, though his stomach was roiling. He didn’t know how he would look his father in the eyes, how he would even begin to broach the topics that needed discussing. How he could ask the questions that he needed answering, and what he would say and do if the answers disturbed him.

He must have let his distress show, for his uncle said, “What’s troubling you, Nyx? It isn’t like you to visit Velaris and not even stop in to say hello.”

Nyx sighed, even as alarm bells clanged strongly in his mind. This was dangerous, revealing anything to the famed spymaster. His uncle could pick apart his every statement, discern all the half-truths and the omissions, then go home and rile up his parents before Nyx even had a chance to figure out whether he wanted to speak to them. But, whether out of loyalty, or some sense of deep trust that Uncle Azriel could keep secrets, he admitted, “I attended an event recently, and some faeries mistook me for my father. They — reacted badly.”

Uncle Azriel said nothing for long moments, but sat very still. Then he carefully put his cup of ice cream down, and clasped his hands in front of him, interlacing his thick scarred fingers one way, and then the other. “Helion did not mention this,” he finally said.

“Helion spoke up for me. And Uncle Lucien, and Sibyl. They took care of it,” Nyx said, itching to use his daemati senses as he spoke Uncle Lucien’s name, curious as to what reaction might be provoked from it. But Uncle Azriel only gazed on him calmly, listening, so he went on, “It was only a few, folks so ancient that their minds were addled. But it caught me off guard, what they said about Father. I didn’t realize that he had been — active — during the occupation.”

His uncle nodded, his expression grave. Although his shadows were still nowhere in sight, the atmosphere around them seemed to grow darker, heavier. “I have heard stories. Nothing complete.” He reached for Nyx, tentatively, resting a hand on his arm. “We all have regrets from those miserable years, your father included.”

“Surely not you. You defended Velaris,” Nyx said. “What could be more important than that?”

Uncle Azriel’s lips pressed tightly together. “Many things,” he answered.

Nyx waited, but he didn’t continue. “Please, Uncle Az, I can’t rest until I know.”

His uncle sighed, drawing his hands together, steepling his fingers. “Nyx, take it from someone who spends a lot of time gathering information — knowing something is different from knowing what to do about it.” His gaze was kind, but his jaw was clenched, as though he was holding a great deal back that he desperately wanted to say. “We are all free now, and at peace, and happy. Is that not enough?”

“Perhaps it ought to be. But it isn’t,” Nyx said. “I look like my father. I’m judged by his actions. It might not be right, but it’s going to happen. Look how ready you were to judge Tamlin’s daughter, just for being born to him, and raised in his household, knowing nothing else about her. Don’t you think I’ll be treated the same?” He ran his fingers through his hair, struggling to explain. “Mother and Father are war heroes. Liberators of Prythian. I thought I could never live up to that legacy, could never accomplish close to what they have —“

“No one expects that,” his uncle protested.

“Perhaps not, but I did. I, who nearly killed them just by existing,” Nyx said hotly. He knew that he was ranting now, that he was spilling far too much, but he couldn’t stop. “Aunt Nesta sacrificed her power for us. Don’t you think I want to deserve it?”

Uncle Azriel looked at him in surprise. “Nyx — deserve it? Why would that even be a question?”

“I don’t know!” Nyx exploded. “I’m not like the rest of you — I’m always disappointing you all. Don’t bother denying it,” he added, seeing that his uncle was about to object. “I should have been like Enyo. Like the twins. That’s what you were all expecting.”

“We weren’t expecting anything,” his uncle insisted. “We just wanted you, alive and healthy. That’s all.”

“And what if I’d been born with no powers?” Nyx pressed, thinking of Enyo. “Perhaps that would have been better. Then no one would recoil from me, call me the Deceiver.”

Uncle Azriel looked shocked. “The Deceiver?”

“That’s Father’s nickname here, among the common folk. Surely you knew that, with all your information,” Nyx spat. He knew this was unfair, that he was taking out his frustrations on his uncle, who’d done nothing to deserve it. “He sacked this city. He hurt people. He slaughtered. Sibyl read about it in her history books.”

His uncle’s fists clenched, just a little. “This is a rival court. Of course the books would portray his actions in the most unflattering light possible.”

“No. Our courts are allies,” Nyx argued. “In Spring? Yes, I’d expect it. But here? The High Lord is my great-uncle.”

“By marriage,” Uncle Azriel pointed out, as though the fact displeased him.

“It’s been over twenty years. It counts,” Nyx said tightly. “Aunt Elain is part of this court now, however you all might feel about it.”

To Uncle Azriel’s credit, he didn’t react outwardly — centuries of warrior discipline and skill as a spy had taught him well. But Nyx somehow thought that he looked hurt, anyway.

“I want the truth,” Nyx said, more quietly, forcing himself to take deep breaths, to try to settle his racing heart into a steadier rhythm. “All of it. I need to know what I’m dealing with, the legacy that Father has left behind. Not just the parts that make me feel like I could never live up to his example.”

Uncle Azriel was quiet for a bit, long enough that Nyx wondered if he was communicating mind-to-mind with Nyx’s parents, getting instructions on how to proceed. He almost barked at his uncle to stop it, to let him communicate with his parents in his own time, when he had a better handle on things, when he wouldn’t start a horrible fight because of his anger and sorrow. I’m making a terrible mess of things already.

But then his uncle said, “You are so much like your mother. Always pursuing the truth, no matter how unpleasant.”

Nyx whooshed out a breath. “How else am I going to know what the right thing to do is?” He turned more towards his uncle, taking comfort that at least there was no anger in those hazel eyes — confusion, yes, and sorrow, and worry. But no outrage, no fury that Nyx was daring to ask questions. “I’m at a terrible disadvantage, if our enemies know things that I don’t know.”

“You’re right, Nyx. You deserve to know everything,” Uncle Azriel said. “That mistake, of trying to hide and control the flow of information, has led to heartache and distrust in our family before.”

“Like Aunt Nesta,” Nyx breathed, remembering Enyo’s righteous anger on her mother’s behalf. My mother told the fucking truth, and she was punished.

“Like Aunt Nesta,” his uncle agreed, eyeing him appraisingly, perhaps working out where Nyx had come by that information. But then he went on, “Keeping secrets can also keep us safe. It’s a lesson your father learned the hard way, when Tamlin betrayed him.”

“When the Spring Court killed our family,” Nyx said miserably.

“Exactly,” Uncle Azriel said, nodding solemnly. “And when the occupation came, when cities across Prythian were being ransacked, being a secret is what kept Velaris whole.”

Nyx couldn’t imagine it — how frightening a time it must have been. He would never want anything to happen to Velaris, or to his family. “But why hurt other people? Other cities?” he asked plaintively. “Why wasn’t it enough to just keep the secret?”

Uncle Azriel’s eyes were dark, his expression unreadable. “I was not able to infiltrate Under the Mountain, to find that out. I was confined to Velaris for the whole occupation.” He took deep breaths, his wings rustling faintly. “I was desperate to rescue your father. To do anything to help, to make a difference. But I could not leave, no matter how much I wanted to, or I would risk revealing Velaris.”

Nyx stared at him, shocked into silence.

“You talked about us defending Velaris. The truth is, we didn’t,” Uncle Azriel said. “Not really. It was all your father. We would have defended it, just as we did when Hybern attacked. And we would have tried to rescue your father. Kill Amarantha. Do something.” He shuddered. “I spent fifty years trapped in Velaris, not knowing what had become of my poor mother, not being able to raise a weapon against a single enemy, relying on my shadows to bring me news of your father. And what I heard broke my heart, Nyx.” He reached for Nyx’s hand, gripping it in his own rough fingers. “I know what it’s like to do things because you’re ordered to, because the one in power commands it, because you fear what would happen if you didn’t.”

“What things,” Nyx asked, his voice trembling over the question.

“Terrible things,” Uncle Azriel said. “Soul-killing things.” He closed his eyes, as though trying to block out the memories of them. “Things better left in the darkness to rot, to never be spoken of again.” His hand shook, then stilled, like he was forcing strength into it. “Your grandfather Llyr used me as a weapon. He ordered deaths, both of guilty and innocent, and I dealt out the cruelty that he commanded. I played the part he needed me to play, because I didn’t see any other option. What your father did under Amarantha is no different.”

Nyx swallowed hard, but it felt like a permanent lump was forming in his throat. “But I saw a memory from the Spring Court. I saw him threaten to kill my mother.”

His uncle’s grip grew tight, almost painful, then abruptly released. “He must have had reasons.”

“I’m sure he had reasons. But Mother was mortal,” Nyx said plaintively. “He invaded her mind, made her cry out in pain. Amarantha didn’t even know she existed. She couldn’t possibly have ordered him to do it.”

His uncle sighed heavily. “These are questions only your father can answer.” He looked at Nyx, and his face was clouded with such sorrow, such anguish, that Nyx almost regretted even bringing up the subject. “Rhys told us all, when he did return, that he’d had to commit deeds that would shock and infuriate us. Perhaps this sort of thing was what he meant.” Then his eyes brightened a bit as he added, “Your mother did forgive him.”

“She did,” Nyx said, letting that spark of hope flare inside him as well. Perhaps it had not been so very bad, if his mother could move past it.

“Whether he has forgiven himself, that I don’t know,” Uncle Azriel said, looking down at his own hands again.

Nyx rested a hand on his shoulder. “And you? Have you forgiven yourself? For what Grandfather ordered you to do, and all of it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think that’s how it works. It’s not something you can just decide to do.” His head hung a little lower, and Nyx hated to see it. “I hope you will never be in that position. To have to live with regrets like that.”

Nyx sat with him, not knowing what the hell to say. What words could he offer? He’d suffered nothing. No difficult choice had ever been asked of him, no impossible decision in which someone must suffer, and he had to choose the victims among all the innocents. He’d like to think that he would be clever, that he would find some loophole or way around it, that he could save everyone. But what if he couldn’t?

“I can’t pretend to know what it’s like,” he said finally. “But I know you are good, Uncle. I’ve seen that firsthand.”

His uncle still didn’t look at him. “You see what I’ve shown you.”

“And that was all real,” Nyx said, a little more forcefully. “Wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, it was,” Uncle Azriel said. He sat up, tipping his head back, letting the sun play on the sharp angles of his face, which Nyx knew that many a faerie, both male and female, found handsome. “I haven’t lied, Nyx. Not outright, anyway. And what I’ve concealed, from you and your cousins, was for your own protection.” He chuckled ruefully. “You might be my High Lord someday, I’ve got to get out of that habit.”

“Cauldron forbid,” Nyx burst out. “I don’t want anything to happen to my parents, not ever.”

“Neither do I,” his uncle said warmly, “or any of us. We have all taken a vow to protect them.” He shook his head. “In a situation like this, I don’t know how to do that. I won’t lie, Nyx, my first instinct was to go find whoever insulted your father and punch their face in. And whoever showed you that memory, too.”

“No,” Nyx cried out, his heart starting to pound, his body flooding with panic. “Don’t —“

“Relax, Nyx. I’m not going to do it,” his uncle hastily assured him. “That was my first instinct. I’m just being honest.”

“Okay,” Nyx said, even though it definitely wasn’t.

“I couldn’t protect your father from this. Your mother either,” Uncle Azriel said. “And I can’t protect them from the truth of it, now. Whatever happened, happened. And you’re right to be asking questions. Your enemies are sure to try to use all this against you any chance they get.”

“That’s just what Uncle Lucien said. About Eris and his new alliance,” Nyx said thoughtfully. “That the seasonal courts would try to use that to avenge things that happened during the occupation. Do you think that could happen?”

His uncle nodded gravely. “I think it has already started.” He furrowed his brows at Nyx. “I’m surprised you know of that.”

“Uncle Lucien and I discussed it a little. At least our two courts will always be allies,” Nyx said.

Uncle Azriel got an odd look about him that Nyx couldn’t immediately interpret. “Lucien said that, did he?”

“Yes?” Nyx’s mind raced, trying to understand. “Was that not what you were expecting?”

“Maybe not,” Uncle Azriel admitted. “Even after all this time, some habits of thought are hard to break. Old assumptions.” He sighed. “Maybe there are questions I have not been asking, truths I’m not ready for.”

“Then you’re not angry?” Nyx asked.

“No, Nyx. I’m grateful,” his uncle said, rising to stand. "This is what will help us, in the long run. Challenging ourselves to be honest, with ourselves most of all." He smoothly snagged his ice cream from the bench, taking a spoonful. “This is really good ice cream.”

On that, at least, everyone could agree.

If only it were always that easy.

Chapter Text

Sibyl giggled, swatting at the male sitting next to her. “Stop it, Boreas!”

Nyx rolled his eyes and quickly looked away, unwilling to witness any more of his cousin’s flirting. The heir of Winter was handsome, he supposed, in a frigid and uninviting sort of way — with his short spiky frost white hair, pale high cheekbones sharp enough to cut, piercing blue eyes, pouty lips, and his sumptuous blue velvet suit and silver circlet, he looked every inch a High Lord’s son, and carried himself like it, too. The fact that he was among other courtly heirs didn’t seem to dim his self-importance at all, but rather heightened it. And while Nyx found it insufferable, perhaps Sibyl saw it as confidence.

There was a tug on Nyx’s sleeve, and he turned to see the younger Winter sibling shyly smiling up at him, her turquoise eyes wide and questioning. Khione was several years younger than her brother, around Rin and Cat’s age if he had to guess, and she was far more nervous and self-conscious, her pale hand constantly fluttering to tug at the edge of her sparkly diamond gown or the fur-lined cape she had draped around her shoulders, or tuck loose strands of her own silvery hair behind her ears.

When she didn’t immediately say anything, he prompted politely, “Are you enjoying the show?”

A bright pink blush rose to her pale cheeks. “Oh! It is lovely. But —“ She chewed on her lip, as if nervous about asking her question. But then she blurted, “Why do they wear such skimpy attire?”

Nyx had to chuckle at that. The dancers were twisting and twirling acrobatically, gyrating to the rhythm, and their tight revealing outfits did leave a lot on display. “It’s the Day Court style,” he explained. “Takes some getting used to. Plus it wouldn’t do to wear layers of bulky fabric, or they’d trip, I suppose.”

Khione said, “I guess it’s not so different from our ice dancing competitions. Just warmer weather, and all that.”

Boreas leaned across Sibyl — far too close, in Nyx’s estimation — and hissed, “Quiet, Khione, don’t talk during the performance.”

Khione reddened, and sank down in her chair.

Her brother sat back, shaking his head in a way that Nyx thought was condescending, then whispered something in Sibyl’s ear that he did not hear, nor need to. He was sure it was something disparaging about little sisters, or about the Day Court dancers, for Boreas was faintly disdainful of everything at the Day Court, constantly comparing it unfavorably to life back in Winter.

It had started almost immediately, at the supper table. “I suppose this stew is flavorful enough for the Day Court - but you haven’t lived until you’ve tasted our spiced reindeer,” he’d remarked, making a show of taking the daintiest bite and then pointedly putting the spoon back down.

“Very pretty decorations," he’d remarked upon strolling through the palace corridors, sneering down his nose at the marble sculptures. “Imagine how they’d shine if they were made of ice, like ours back home.”

“They’d melt into water,” Nyx had mumbled, more to himself than anyone. He’d resolved to be polite to the Winter Court guests, as diplomacy demanded.

“Not with magic,” had been Boreas’s sneering response, as though Nyx had never heard of the term. And he’d conjured a perfectly round snowball in his palm, as though to demonstrate his mastery over the heat of the Day Court.

But Nyx had grinned, and shaped an icicle with his own Winter Court power, adding little tendrils here and there until it looked like a five-petaled flower. “Oh, like this?”

Boreas had stalked further down the corridor in a huff, and had not spoken to Nyx once since then. Which was just how Nyx preferred it.

Sibyl, for her part, kept shooting Nyx significant looks, as though reminding him to stay civil. It would not do to provoke an incident among the courts, not with so much at stake. They merely had to entertain Boreas and Khione for a few hours while their parents met with Uncle Lucien. It was vitally important to keep the Winter Court’s friendship, to cultivate loyalty between their families, so that Kallias and Vivane would not be tempted to forsake their alliance in favor of Eris and his new Hybern princess.

Nyx, for his part, had been content to follow Sibyl’s lead, recognizing her greater skill as a diplomat, but had been increasingly annoyed as the night had gone on and Boreas’s overbearing flirtations had gotten more blatant. He knew that Sibyl could take care of herself, so he tried to ignore it, as well as the hostile glares that he was getting from Boreas and the Winter Court attendants, who were shadowing them at a distance, as though any distinguished guest would be in danger in Helion’s palace.

The dancers swept offstage with a flourish, and the crowd applauded politely. Nyx followed suit, disappointed that the show was already over and they’d have to find some other past-time to entertain their guests, but then he caught sight of a female in a sparkly bandeau, with sunset-colored skin and wings. At the same moment, she caught sight of him, and broke into a bright smile, waving enthusiastically.

Khione gave him a look he could only describe as icy. “You know her?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

Nyx scrunched his brow, unsure what had provoked this reaction. “A little? I’ve seen her dancing before.” He didn’t say it was at a nightclub, and mercifully, Khione didn’t ask.

Boreas lounged back in his chair, absently swirling a sparkling mix of frost and snowflakes around in the air with one ghost-white hand, remarking, “Do you ever get private performances? In our court…”

Nyx immediately tuned out the bragging, finding it tiresome, and focused on the dancers now dispersing into the crowd, hugging family or receiving flowers, and he saw with some alarm that the winged female was approaching their group. He stood up, intending to intercept her before she got within earshot of Sibyl and the others, but Sibyl was engrossed in Boreas’s talking and didn’t budge, even when he tapped her shoulder.

Nyx was just thinking about winnowing into the aisle when the dancer slid into the aisle in front of him, peering up at him with a saucy smile on her face. “Hey, Dark and Brooding,” she crooned, “long time no see.”

“Hey yourself,” Nyx said, mentally kicking himself for not immediately remembering her name. “What a show. You really were the muse of the dance.” That, thankfully, jogged his memory — that had been her name. “Cori, this is Sibyl, the Sun Princess of Rhodes.”

Cori’s eyes widened, and she curtseyed, though Sibyl quickly waved that away. “The dancing was lovely,” she said kindly.

“And may I present the Winter Court prince and princess,” Nyx went on, gesturing to Boreas and then Khione.

“Oh, how exciting, I didn’t know we had such distinguished guests in the audience,” Cori gushed. She looked back to Nyx, smiling flirtatiously. “You run with quite the crowd.”

“I do,” Nyx agreed, his smile growing painful to keep holding on his face.

Boreas sat up straighter. “We are not a crowd.” He shot a glance towards Nyx, then back towards the dancer, saying, “Did he not tell you, then, what court he hails from?”

Cori shrugged, still smiling innocently at Nyx, but blinked a few times, as though she were trying to work it out. “We didn’t really get into that? We got interrupted.”

Khione made an incredulous noise, while Sibyl merely chuckled softly. But Boreas declared, loud enough for the whole atrium to hear, as though revealing a grand secret, “This is Nyx Archeron, the heir of the Night Court.”

Nyx forced his expression to stay neutral, to avoid wincing in discomfort as heads swiveled from every direction to look towards him. Cori stepped back a little, startled, and he quickly said, “Ah yes, well, I’m just visiting —“

“The heir of the Night Court,” Cori said slowly, seeming to mull it over.

“I am dark and brooding,” Nyx joked, but no one laughed.

He glanced nervously around, but the crowd had continued to disperse, a low hum settling over the room as folks seemed to be taking in Nyx’s presence, though no one was rude enough to actually stare or confront him. And he hoped that at least some of the gossip was reserved for Khione and Boreas.

Sibyl jumped in to rescue him. “Nyx is my cousin,” she said brightly.

“Oh! Well,” Cori said, her head swiveling back to Nyx, a hint of a smile returning to her face. “You don’t look like family.”

Nyx said, “We each take after our fathers. In looks,” he added quickly, then inwardly cringed at that caveat. It was humiliating to feel like he ought to distance himself from his father, when he was here representing his family and court, and the Winter Court heir was so insufferable. It felt disloyal, like a betrayal, when his father had always supported him, and had been worried enough about him to send Uncle Az to check on him. But he didn’t want anyone getting the idea that he condoned sacking the city, either.

“Well! I should really be going,” Cori said nervously, shooting a look towards her fellow dancers, who were now clustered near the stage, watching the exchange. Nyx inclined his head to them, intending to put them at ease, and several younger females tittered excitedly, only to be quickly shushed by their elders, who eyed him with far more suspicion. “It was an honor to dance for you all.”

Nyx opened his mouth to say goodbye, but she was halfway down the aisle before he could get any words out. So he turned back to Sibyl and their guests, plastering an indifferent look over his features.

Sibyl said, with far too much enthusiasm, “We should head out to the gardens. Who wants refreshments?”

“Ooh, me,” Khione said eagerly. Boreas waved a careless hand.

Nyx shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve got an early appointment with Phaedrus. I should probably get in some practice before bed.”

Boreas’s cold eyes turned towards him. “Tired of our company already?”

You’ve been avoiding me all night, you prick. “Not at all,” Nyx said. “Phaedrus is just a very distinguished scholar, and very cranky if you’re late or unpracticed.”

“It’s true,” Sibyl agreed, though she was scrunching her nose at him, clearly displeased. He tapped at her mental shield, and she hissed in his mind, How am I going to get any time with Boreas if his little sister’s tagging along with us? You’ve got to distract her.

Me? Nyx avoided looking at Khione, but he could feel her staring at the back of his head, and a prickling discomfort shivered down his spine. What am I supposed to do with her?

Gods, Nyx, you’re clever, you can think of something. Have a conversation. Ask her questions, Sibyl urged him. They’re not even staying the night. What’s another hour?

Nyx didn’t answer, though he could think of many unpleasantries that could pile up in a whole hour, but instead said aloud, “Well, I suppose it can wait a little while longer.”

“Don’t put yourself out on our account,” Boreas said tightly.

Khione cleared her throat. “What my brother means is,” she said, threading a hand through Nyx’s arm, like he would be escorting her to the dance floor at a formal party, “we’re glad to have you along.”

That was not what he’d meant, and they all knew it, but Nyx wasn’t about to say so. He inclined his head to her, gallantly outstretching his hand to indicate that they might walk together, and as they left the atrium and followed Boreas and Sibyl down the corridor, he tried gamely to come up with questions to ask her, and actually listen to the answers. Khione talked excitedly about the upcoming Solstice, how there would be revels and fireworks and bonfires and sledding, how they decorated evergreens just like at the Night Court, and how people attached sharp blades to their shoes so that they could glide across the frozen ponds — ice skating, she called it.

“That sure would have helped our parents,” Nyx remarked. “One time, my mother and Sibyl’s father were almost chased into your territory, across a frozen lake, when they fled from the Spring Court through Autumn.”

“We’ve heard the story,” Khione said solemnly, blinking up at him through thick white eyelashes. “Very wicked.”

“I’ve never met those uncles. Except for Eris,” Nyx assured her.

“Hmm? Oh, the Autumn sentries,” Khione said. “Yes, I guess that was wicked, also.” She shook her head. “The whole thing was scandalous.”

Nyx felt like he had just stepped onto a frozen lake, like he might go sliding through the corridor, or plunge straight down into the frigid dark waters. Did he want to know what she thought was wicked? What other stories were circulating around the other courts that he didn’t know about?

But he never got the chance to ask, for Boreas tossed out over his shoulder, “So, do you always make a habit of fraternizing with the dancers?”

Sibyl, to her credit, shot Boreas a withering look, but he chose to ignore it, adding, “She was rather lovely, for a lesser faerie, I suppose.”

Nyx bristled. “Excuse me?”

Boreas whirled around, stopping so abruptly that Nyx almost slammed right into him. “Do those famed powers of yours not include accurate hearing?”

Nyx stepped closer, meeting Boreas’s glare with an equally hard, unyielding expression. “Call anyone lesser again. I dare you.”

“Do not,” Sibyl cut in, stepping between them, “take him up on that.” She had her arms folded across her chest like a governess scolding naughty younglings, and she shot Nyx a warning look before turning the full force of her fiery anger on Boreas, who had the good sense to back up a pace. “We are changing the subject.”

“It was just a joke anyway,” Boreas muttered, but Nyx didn’t fail to catch his private smirk as he turned away.

Nyx’s blood began to boil, but he clamped down hard on his reaction. The stupid prick was just trying to get a rise out of him, trying to get him to instigate a fight, and Nyx would not be stupid enough to fall for it.

Lesser faerie. That was what Illyrians were, to High Fae brats like this princeling. Nyx was only one quarter Illyrian, from his beloved long-dead grandmother, but he was half-human by some calculations, which he supposed ranked him even lower. The fact that his mother had been turned faerie didn’t erase all the centuries of human ancestors, and he thought he ought to be proud of it, that only he, Sibyl and Enyo shared that heritage out of all the faeries in Prythian.

He would gladly be a lesser faerie, and half-human, rather than whatever this asshole was.

Khione huffed a sigh in her brother’s direction. “Ignore him,” she told Nyx. “He’s just annoyed we were dragged here. Everyone in Winter looks forward to this time of year. We’re missing the pre-Solstice revels.”

Nyx said, “Indeed, the timing is unfortunate. But we’re glad you are visiting.” A blatant lie, but such niceties were expected, even if their honored guests complained about being dragged here. Still, he couldn’t blame Khione — she was still just a youngling. “Do you often travel with your parents?”

“Not very often,” Khione admitted. “Boreas is constantly in meetings with the governing council, and I’ve got training. My honor guard is marching in the parade tonight.” She pouted a little, clearly sorrowful to be missing it. “There’s always next year, I suppose.”

Nyx scrunched his forehead, struggling to understand why Kallias and Viviane would have felt the need to tear their children away from their duties, and from the pre-Solstice festivities, just to hang around the Day Court palace while their parents were busy. “Uncle Lucien was happy to hear that you all were coming,” he said idly, knowing it probably wouldn’t make much difference to Khione one way or another. “I wonder what they’re talking about now.”

Khione swallowed hard, suddenly looking nervous. “So, what kind of magic are you studying?” she asked in a rush.

“Um, lots of kinds? Phaedrus specializes in spell-casting.” Nyx was startled by the abrupt change in topic, even more so when he saw Boreas throw a glance over his shoulder. Sibyl was walking much further away from him now, obviously no longer eager to hang on his every word after that lesser faerie comment. And stupid Boreas was just talking and talking, not even seeming to notice. Nyx couldn’t be sorry for it, for he couldn’t imagine trying to drum up enthusiasm if Sibyl really did harbor a crush on the stupid male. There were plenty of other Winter Court faeries with his magic and coloring, he thought, if that was what attracted her.

“I’ve studied ward-cleaving too,” he babbled on to Khione, feeling like he ought to be holding up his end of the conversation better, “and ward-making, of course, and conjuring illusions.”

Khione’s eyes widened. “There’s spells for that? How interesting. I would have thought, with your other powers” — and here she waved a pale hand near her ear, indicating his daemati senses — “you wouldn’t need spells for illusions.”

“Oh, I don’t do that,” Nyx assured her quickly.

“Ah-huh. Well,” Khione said, clearly not convinced, “we’ve had lessons in mental shields, since we were little.” Then she looked up at him nervously, as if gauging his reaction.

“That’s good,” Nyx said calmly, though his heart was starting to pound. What the hell is she getting at?

“Well, after what happened,” Khione said, her voice trembling, dropping almost to a whisper, “it’s the first skill every Winter Court youngling learns, even before their own natural magic.”

What happened? He was desperate to ask her, but had the distinct feeling that he would not like the answer.

They had reached the palace gardens, and Sibyl guided them towards the open air seating. Boreas settled onto one of the benches, stretching his body out, leaving just enough room for Sibyl to perch on one side of him, and Khione on the other. He looked up at Nyx, grinning cockily, as though daring him to say something about it.

Nyx inwardly rolled his eyes, heartily exhausted by this charade. He focused his magic, growing a large block of ice, then misting little chunks away from it until he had carved himself a sturdy enough seat, then settled onto it, welcoming the biting cold that spread out through him before dampening the feeling with his warmer magic. He knew it was petty, showing off his ice powers to the Winter Court heirs, but if Boreas was going to play stupid games, Nyx had to show him that he wasn’t a lightweight.

Boreas pressed his lips into a tight line, making his face look even more washed out and ghostly than usual, but Khione gasped, looking delighted, seeming to forget her anxiety about his daemati powers from a few moments ago. Sibyl, meanwhile, was smiling in amusement.

“So, what does the Night Court do for Winter Solstice?” Khione asked.

“Well, it’s similar to your celebrations, though far less grand I’m sure,” Nyx said. “We exchange presents, attend services at the temple. Decorate with evergreens. And we celebrate my mother’s birthday.”

Bringing it up reminded him that he hadn’t yet wrapped her presents — for her birthday, a set of rare pigmented paint that he had infused with a bit of his Day Court magic so that it would glow, so that she could paint stars and other nighttime scenes, and for Solstice a special bookmark that would magnify the words on book pages and letters, to make them easier to read. His mother had been almost too embarrassed to admit to him that she only learned to read when she was Sibyl’s age, but after a perilous experience Under the Mountain in which that lack of skill had almost killed her, she’d finally learned, with his father’s assistance. Nyx had been impressed by her bravery, her willingness to tackle the toughest challenges, and he often reminded himself of it, when he was struggling with difficult tasks.

“I’d forgotten Aunt Feyre was born on the Solstice,” Sibyl commented.

Nyx nodded, a smile springing to his lips when he thought about his mother. “Father says it was meant to be, between them, since she was born on the longest night of the year.”

Boreas scoffed, “Of course he would make it all about nighttime, rather than about the winter season, as it ought to be.”

Nyx wrinkled his forehead. Why was everything an argument? He couldn’t help when his mother’s birthday was. “He meant nothing anything against your court by saying so.”

“Oh, please. Nothing against our court,” Boreas snapped, bracing his forearms on his thighs, glaring at Nyx with pure hatred. “Like he didn’t march into our court, round up twenty-four of our younglings —“

Khione hissed, “Boreas. Don’t.”

“Don’t give me orders. I’ll say what I want. Especially if he’s going to sit there and look at me all innocent,” her brother shot back.

Nyx’s mind reeled.

The blight, it took out two dozen of their younglings. Two dozen, all gone.

What had Uncle Lucien been talking about, in that memory?

Khione was up, hovering over Boreas, frantically tugging at him, her fingers curling into the sumptuous velvet of his jacket, leaving sparkles of frost in their wake. “You were told not to mention it.”

“And it’s bullshit,” Boreas snarled, shoving up to his feet, sending his sister stumbling back several steps. Nyx suppressed the urge to leap up and catch her, sensing that the gesture would not be welcome. “The worst massacre in our history, and I’m not supposed to mention it. It dishonors their memory, to pretend like it never happened —“

“It was Amarantha’s doing. You know that,” Khione argued. “Father says it wasn’t —“

“Father was Under the Mountain. He saw nothing,” Boreas retorted. “I’ve talked to eyewitnesses. Grieving parents who were there, who lost their children.”

Nyx speared a frantic thought towards Sibyl. Do you know what they’re talking about?

Not really, Sibyl admitted. Nyx admired her ability to keep a completely neutral expression, even as the two quarreling siblings shouted at each other right next to her. Distantly, he could feel that the Winter Court attendants were shifting, discomfited by their charges’ misbehavior, but were hesitant to interfere. I’d go get their parents, but this meeting is vital.

The thought of having to fetch Boreas’s parents to come collect him, like a misbehaving toddler, rather amused Nyx, or would have, if he weren’t so worried about what they were arguing about. I can reach out to your father? he offered. Ask him for guidance?

Sibyl gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head. Don’t interrupt the negotiations. We can manage this.

“—had a mission,” Khione was scolding her brother. Icicles were growing from her fingertips, making it look like she had shimmering claws. “And you’re ruining it.” Then she shot a nervous look towards Nyx, which he did not like at all.

Boreas looked at him too, his arrogant face twisting. “I’d say it’s succeeding just fine.” He stepped past Khione and approached Nyx. “Are you not entertained?”

Nyx said dryly, “I preferred the dancers.”

Sibyl burst out laughing, then quickly settled herself into calm composure.

Boreas’s lip curled, but he said nothing, just lifted his chin in silent challenge. After an uncomfortably long moment, in which nothing at all happened, he said, “Well?”

“Well what?” Nyx asked.

“You’re really not going to? Aren’t you tempted?” Boreas said. When Nyx didn’t answer, he tapped his own temple. “Go on. Give it a try. See what happens.”

Nyx said, “Like I’d want to be in your mind? I can’t think of anywhere less pleasant.”

Boreas bared his teeth. “Your father certainly thought the minds of Winter Court children were worth going into, before he shattered them.”

Nyx couldn’t get enough air in. Was that what they were arguing over — whether his father had killed their younglings?

No. No, he wouldn’t kill children.

Sibyl took a step closer to him, silently lending him support, and Nyx thanked the gods for it. The air warmed around both of them, taking the stinging chill away, as his cousin said firmly, “The death of any youngling is a tragedy. But if you are going to level accusations, you can do it elsewhere.”

“Oh, don’t worry. We will,” Boreas said menacingly. “Justice has only been delayed. And my parents are too frightened of certain people, or too blinded by promises of friendship, to pursue it. But I won’t let our people down, even if it takes centuries.”

Khione tugged on her brother’s arm. “Boreas.”

Nyx said tightly, “If you’re trying to provoke me, it won’t be successful.”

“Oh really? Like you Night Court brutes don’t brawl every chance you get,” Boreas said, looking him up and down contemptuously.

“The only one acting like a brute here is you,” Sibyl said, eyeing him with just as much distaste. Can’t believe I liked him, she added to Nyx silently.

I’ve liked stupid people too, Nyx reassured her, though he rather agreed with her sentiment.

“I’m only saying the truth. If that is brutish, then so be it,” Boreas said, wrinkling his nose at Sibyl. “Thought you had more sense than that.”

Nyx growled, “do not insult my cousin.”

“Or what?” Boreas leered at him.

Don’t let him pick a fight with you. Don’t be the aggressor.

Nyx raised his voice, loud enough for the whole courtyard to hear him. “The Sun Princess has treated you with the utmost hospitality. You will treat her with the respect she deserves.”

Every head in the courtyard whipped towards them, and a few of the Day Court faeries began angrily muttering. The Winter Court attendants fidgeted, unsure what to do about it.

Khione tugged on her brother’s sleeve again. “Stop it, Boreas. You’re causing a scene.” 

“Like I care,” Boreas said, but the scrutiny seemed to have unnerved him. He drew himself up stiffly, looking everywhere except Nyx. “Let the people of this court think what they will. If Day chooses to ally with Night, after all that’s happened, they will get exactly as much respect as they deserve.”

“And is that your court’s official diplomatic position?” Nyx asked, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

Boreas opened his mouth to retort, probably make some insult, but Khione elbowed him aside. “He does not speak for our parents. Or the council,” she said. “We wouldn’t have come if we were determined to be enemies.”

“Why did you come? You and Boreas,” Nyx blurted. “You’d clearly rather be at your Solstice celebrations.”

Khione went silent, and Boreas shaped a tendril of ice between his fingers, almost sharp enough to be a dagger, and twirled it around his fingers.

“Come on,” Nyx goaded, turning to him, “let it be full honesty between us. You haven’t held back about anything else.” He regarded the two Winter Court faeries, both of whom looked sullen, dejected. “You’ve been trying to provoke me all evening, so out with it.”

“Do not think to give me orders,” Boreas said, letting his ice-dagger fall into his palm, almost threateningly.

Sibyl raised a finger, and it puddled away, splashing onto his pants and boots. He let out a startled yelp, then glared at her in annoyance.

“This is my court, and you are a guest here,” Sibyl said. “If you’re not going to act like one, you can return home.”

“They’re not here to be guests. They’re here to distract us,” Nyx said, suddenly understanding. “So I don’t” — and he mimicked their stupid pantomiming of his daemati powers — “hear what your parents are saying.”

Khione and Boreas exchanged a look that would have been clear enough to anyone, daemati or not.

“Nyx wouldn’t do that,” Sibyl said hotly, even though he’d done exactly that just a few days ago, when his uncle had visited. An oily guilt spread out through him, even as he silently thanked her for, once again, standing up for him.

Khione, at least, had the decency to look apologetic. “We couldn’t be certain.” She finally met Nyx’s eyes, trying to smile, though it came out more as a grimace. “Forgive us if we’ve caused offense.” Boreas made a noise of protest, and she shushed him. “Stop it. You’ve caused enough trouble.”

Not as much trouble as what’s happening in that meeting.

He almost did reach out then, with his powers. It would be nothing, to slip into the mind of some unsuspecting attendant or courtier, and eavesdrop on the proceedings. But he would not give in to the impulse, would not become what they all feared. Besides, he didn’t need to hear anything, not when Boreas had made it abundantly clear how much the Night Court was hated.

Nyx suddenly felt like he ought to warn his parents, let them know that trouble was brewing, that Winter indeed seemed inclined to end their alliance, or was at least considering it. And that they held his father responsible for the murder of twenty four younglings — gods, it was too terrible to contemplate. How could anyone even think that?

“Those eyewitnesses you spoke of. The grieving families. I want to meet them,” he said.

Boreas’s eyes flashed. “So you can plead your father’s innocence? Or frighten them into silence?”

“So I can listen,” Nyx said, flushing.

Boreas’s lip curled. “What kind of idiot do you take me for?”

“The kind who’s willing to insult me and my family, but not do anything constructive,” Nyx snapped, starting to lose his patience. “You’ve made an accusation, but you won’t prove it.”

“You’ll traumatize them all over again,” Boreas said. “Haven’t they been through enough? Or did you think you could just slip into their memories, and change them?”

“That’s disgusting,” Nyx exclaimed.

“Not as disgusting as what your father did to them,” Boreas shouted.

“Boreas,” his sister said in warning.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Boreas challenged. “Ask your father outright. Maybe he’ll be more honest with you than he was with my parents. He gave all the High Lords a bullshit story about being locked up Under the Mountain, when we all know what he was really doing. He said whatever he had to say to get them all off his case. And they believed him — or they pretended to, because it was wartime and they knew they couldn’t fight both him and Hybern.”

“I will ask him,” Nyx said, though he couldn’t imagine how that would go — Father, why do people think you slaughtered younglings? wasn’t exactly festive Solstice conversation. “But there is no need for anyone to fight, regardless.”

“So you think murderers should go unpunished?” Boreas said angrily.

Murderers. Nyx’s anger sizzled with that characterization. The urge to defend his father, regardless of the truth was, clawed at him.

“No one is saying that,” he gritted out. “Murder, especially of the young and innocent, is an abomination.”

Boreas eyed him suspiciously. “Pretty words, but only time will tell whether you mean them.”

“Can we not?” Khione said plaintively, laying a hand on her brother’s arm.

“I told Father and Mother, I am no diplomat,” Boreas said. “Taking refreshments with the descendants of those who killed so many — how dare they ask that of us?”

“This is tedious, Boreas,” Sibyl said. “Nyx has offered to hear your witnesses, and has borne your provocations. You are simply being insulting.”

“It’s just talk,” Nyx said, wanting to show them all that this was not getting to him, even though it very much was. “I am not afraid of it.” He strode over to the ice chair, which was now melting at a fast clip, and refroze it, settling back down. Reluctantly, Boreas did the same. “I would have the truth, however unpleasant.”

Boreas grudgingly said, “Then you shall have it.” He glanced up at Khione, who gave him a tight nod, then turned back to Nyx. “I will not expose our survivors to further unpleasantness. But there are written records of eyewitness testimonies. If you would like to see those, I can get you a copy.”

Nyx swallowed around the lump in his throat, and nodded. “I would appreciate it.”

Boreas nodded, closing his eyes, as if it had all suddenly become too much for him. Khione slid back onto the bench next to her brother, sliding her hand into his and squeezing it. “You will have to excuse my brother,” she said to Nyx, and looked up at Sibyl, who was standing over all of them like she was supervising. “He takes his responsibilities very seriously, as a council representative. He talks to the citizens far more than the rest of us, knows their concerns and their grievances.”

Nyx struggled to imagine Boreas sitting with the common folk of Winter, patiently listening, but tried to put that aside as Khione continued. “Our parents have been eager to move forward, to put all the unpleasantness behind us. They feel it would be pointless to rehash old grievances.”

Nyx exhaled, feeling a profound sense of relief to hear it. Perhaps Winter would not be so eager to break their ties with the solar courts, after all.

“But your people don’t feel that way?” he asked.

Boreas’s eyes finally opened, and when he looked at Nyx, he seemed more sad than angry. “Many do. Some don’t. Those who were sequestered away, safe from the ravages of the occupation, don’t understand why those more directly affected continue to dwell on it. Like our mother.” Viviane, Nyx recalled, had used all her powers during the years of terror to veil her city from Hybern, just as Velaris had been hidden. “And those Under the Mountain, like Father, saw plenty of horrors, but all of that died with Amarantha. As far as he’s concerned, the trouble is over. But for those whose trouble came at the hands of a certain High Lord —“ He broke off, waving a hand in Nyx’s direction. “So far, our alliance has protected them, but how far can they trust in it?”

“It’s been over two decades,” Sibyl pointed out.

“And Amarantha deceived all the courts of Prythian for twice that long, before she made her move,” Boreas countered.

“Our alliance is not a deception. We value your friendship,” Nyx said. That, at least, he could say with confidence.

“Hmph,” Boreas said noncommittally. But it wasn’t an outright refusal.

Khione said hopefully, “You, at least, seem willing to listen.” She rubbed her brother’s arm, as though trying to cajole him. “It’s more than we expected.”

Nyx did not dare ask what they’d expected. Instead, he said, “We’ve all got to stick together. It’s the only way we’ll stay strong.”

Sibyl slid back onto the bench next to Boreas. “If Amarantha proved anything, it’s that the courts can be far too easily divided. Everyone was so focused on protecting their own interests that they never managed to work together to defeat her.”

Until my mother came along, Nyx thought proudly.

“Protecting your own court is one thing. Harming other courts is another,” Boreas said stubbornly, but then sighed, running a hand through his spiky white hair. “You are right, though. Amarantha still works her curse from beyond the grave. What she did to our folk, to innocents all over Prythian, will take centuries to repair, if it can be repaired at all.”

“We can try,” Nyx said.

We. It felt like a stretch to even say that.

But Boreas nodded, his face relaxing into acceptance. “Yes, we can.”

Chapter Text

Nyx did not open the box on his lap.

He sat in the open air, staring out at the glittering city laid out before him, a night-lit vision of statues and sculpted marble columns, warm breezes and distant music. A city he’d come to love, even though it could never feel like home. If Nyx looked further, past the stately main plaza, the libraries and museums of alabaster marble all lit up with golden lamps, he would see the dance halls and outdoor cafes beckoning to him, lively and carefree, serving up fun and pleasure. There was so much here, calling for him to come experience, come see. He could leave this box aside, and spread his wings and go.

But the box weighed heavily in his hands, despite containing only paper. And the thought of leaving it, ignoring its contents, spread an oppressive, oily guilt through him.

I have to face this.

He took a deep breath, and then another. It was only reading, after all. He could put the papers aside, if he so desired, tuck them back in their box and close the lid firmly on them. The stories were just stories to him, letters and words and sentences. Not experiences, not memories. Those who had written these accounts had lived them, had dealt with the horror and pain firsthand, had had no choice but to experience the tragedy, and had had the courage and strength to recount it, commit it to writing, so that their loved ones would be remembered. He owed it to them to at least bear witness.

Nyx’s hands trembled as he pried the box open, the ornate blue and silver cover hinging backwards to reveal the first glimpse of loops and flourishes of handwriting upon parchment. He scanned the page without touching it, holding his breath, letting his eyes drift over it.

…I tugged a warm hat down over her hair, but she fussed and refused to wear it, said it itched her ears. You will be cold, I told her. I knit that especially for you, you should at least try to wear it. But Nieve stuck her tongue out at me, saying she didn’t care. I told her she was a naughty girl, disrespectful and disobedient. And I scolded her for it as we walked to the market square, even as we passed by the soldiers that were gathering…

Nyx carefully reached in and plucked the paper from the pile, a sense of dread growing as he continued to read. Nieve and her mother had been herded into the crowd of townsfolk, along with most of the others in their village, supposedly to hear a speech by a representative of the High Queen Under the Mountain. Instead, Nieve had been grabbed by a soldier and dragged up onto the platform, to stand among a group of other children, while their parents milled about in the crowd, muttering, calling out protests, despite the soldiers who crowded in around them, who struck anyone who complained too loudly.

My little girl shivered, standing up so high and exposed to the winds, and I thought my friends would scorn me, for not insisting she dress warmly enough, for letting her go in such frigid weather with not even a hat to protect her. But then I realized she shivered not from the cold, but from sight of the male looming over her, the High Queen’s whore…

Nyx’s hands shook. He’d heard that nickname before, in Uncle Lucien’s memory, and the male on the receiving end of it —

He swallowed around the lump in his throat, and struggled to keep reading.

My Nieve was brave, fierce and determined, despite being afraid. The girl next to her was red and crying, sobbing for Mommy and Daddy and her little lost stuffed bear, and Nieve took her shoulder and told her to be still, and kept holding her even as the murderer raised his hands…

Nyx forced himself to read the rest — how the parents had started screaming and wailing when they’d realized what was happening, how the children had looked glassy and pale while their minds were torn asunder, how they’d collapsed on top of one another on the platform. How Nieve’s mother feared that her daughter would be crushed under the others, but that at least it would shield her from the cold.

He put down that paper, and picked up another.

Eirwen had just been on skis for the first time and was so proud of it, even though he bruised his ankle falling down the hillside. He always insisted he could do whatever his older cousins could do, and he was right. He could do anything he tried, and didn’t care if he got hurt doing it. I was thinking to get him his own skis for his birthday, but I thought he wasn’t old enough, or that he’d hurt himself trying to jump, or go too fast. He went to the platform limping, but held his head up like he didn’t care…

That would have been Aneirin, if he’d been born to Winter. Ever the daredevil, ever wanting to push himself, just like their uncles. And he would have held his head up, too, no matter what horror was about to happen.

Hebe dropped her stuffie in our haste to obey the summons, and wailed and stomped her feet until Mother sent me back to go get it. By the time I found it, and turned to catch up, the screaming warned me to stay away. I ran back to the house and hid in the closets, hugging the bear instead of my sister. If I’d only been faster, I could have gone in her place, could have spared her…

Nyx read statement after statement, letting the names of the children settle into his memory. The oldest was Skadi, newly twelve, and her cousin Gerda, only three months younger, as close as a sister. They had died together, hugging each other in their confused terror, and were buried together, for no one could bear to part them. At least they hadn’t been alone.

There was Lofn, who’d learned to knit so that she could make hats and scarves for the war effort, and the fighters wore them proudly, despite the dropped stitches, the occasional holes.

And Baldur and Hodur, new arrivals from the countryside, staying with their uncle and aunt while their parents were Under the Mountain.

Little Hebe, who’d lost her stuffed bear, the youngest one of them all.

And Onna, the mayor’s sweet daughter, who delivered hot soup to the homebound, and Arcturus, who groomed the war-bears and whispered to them in some secret language, and hat-less Nieve, and ski-loving Eirwen…

It was too much. Too many. Their stories were starting to blend together, the magnitude of the loss so great that it threatened to bleed out into numbness.

But Nyx read on anyway, feeling like that courtesy was owed to them, that not one of them should be left unspoken for, not a single story forgotten.

Tomten faced the stranger defiantly, arms around his little brother, who kept looking for me in the crowd, calling Mommy, where’s my Mommy. It pierced my heart that he couldn’t see me, and I kept trying to wave to him, saying I’m here, Arne, I’m here, but he never looked in the right direction, even when Tomten tried to help him, bending down to whisper and point, even as the screaming started… Sometimes I still hear Arne crying for me, wondering where Mommy is, why I don’t go to him…

“Cauldron save you,” Nyx whispered, carefully tucking the page back into the box with the others. “Mother hold you. Pass through the gates…” His voice wobbled. “Fear no evil. Feel no pain.”

And he bowed his head, and wept, at the uselessness of such a prayer.

They had feared evil, and felt pain, and he could only hope that the Mother had been kind to them, had taken them by the hands and led them onwards. What had happened to their little souls, with no loving parents to guide them? He had to think that they were somewhere, safe and happy and tucked in a warm bed, that they woke up and played in wintry meadows, far from the horrors of the occupation and war. Had their spirits gotten any older, in the years that since passed? Or would they stay innocent as children forever?

Nyx knew his tears were useless, wasted, futile, even as he shed them. Tears would bring back no children, soothe no parent’s grief. Tears would not allay the guilt of the surviving sister, or the mother who’d spent her last moments with her daughter scolding and quarreling, not knowing they’d be ripped from each other forever. Tears would not fix the stolen birthdays, the mournful Solstices with gifts that could never be opened, the crisp beautiful mornings, when there should have been laughing and playing outside instead of a mournful, unnatural silence. Tears could do nothing for the grieving families, nothing for the traumatized eyewitnesses, nothing to fix this, nothing at all.

His heart was heavy, more so because all the accounts said the same thing — the High Queen’s murderer was a daemati, a tall man with raven-black hair, a sharp face that was cruel and handsome, belying the monster he truly was. He swaggered and sneered, preened for us all, one account said accusingly, while another added, He shattered the minds of our precious babes, then plucked a piece of lint from his jacket in the face of our pleas and wailings, as though it meant nothing to him.

Nyx’s mind rebelled, refusing to accept it. He’d seen his father do that little gesture many times — usually when dealing with some unpleasant person.

But surely not younglings.

He wouldn’t. He clung to it stubbornly, like a prayer to the Cauldron. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. Not my father.

Nyx slid another page out of the box. This one was written by a faerie not much older than he was, the lone survivor of the massacre, at the time barely a toddler, who’d crouched behind the other children and crawled away from the soldiers, who were focused on managing the restless crowd and not paying attention to him. He’d slipped out of the town square and run for the woods, chased by the screams and sobs ringing out behind him, and huddled in the trees for hours afterwards, shaking with cold, tears freezing on his face, too afraid to call out for anyone. His distraught parents had searched for him among the bodies of the fallen, then pretended that they were relatives of another victim when they realized he’d escaped, not daring to go after him for fear that the soldiers might follow. He’d spend a cold miserable night in the forest, his belly empty, the wind’s harsh whistling whining in his ears, and the wailing and lamenting from the town ringing out at a distance. And all the while the cruel face of the murderer sneered in his mind, a High Fae devil with soulless black eyes —

Nyx’s head jolted up from the paper. Soulless black eyes?

He read the lines again, his heart starting to pound.

He leered at me in my mind, like he knew I had gone, and would come find me soon enough. Can’t escape from me, little coward, you’ll soon join your brethren. I knew not whether it was a real voice in my mind, or just my scared imagination, but I saw him clearer than a vision, his hair black like a raven, his cruel sneering face, and his soulless black eyes.

Nyx leaped up from the bench, grabbing for the box before it tipped and the precious papers scattered onto the ground. He clamped the lid back on it, shoving it tightly over the top with shaking hands, then clasped it under his arm and ran from the balcony, skidding through the corridor and then around the next corner, spearing out his daemati senses, nearly yelping with relief when he sensed the High Lord and his heir in the conference room near the gardens.

Nyx winnowed, remembering only at the last moment that the room would be thickly warded, and flung out his newly mastered ward-cleaving spells with abandon, stumbling into the room and then crashing to his knees, breathing raggedly, exhausted from the effort.

Both Helion and Uncle Lucien jumped up, exclaiming with concern, but all of their solicitous words were lost on Nyx as he struggled to get air in, stammering incoherently while they hoisted him up from the floor, and settled him into a chair, and shoved glasses of increasingly strong drinks at him until he finally accepted a glass of liquid and downed it all in one gulp, not knowing or caring what it was.

He coughed, sputtering, as the alcohol burned down the back of his throat, but it shocked him back into full awareness. “Box,” he gasped out, “the box, where is it?”

“This?” Uncle Lucien smoothly scooped up the box from the floor, and Nyx was relieved to see that it hadn’t opened, or gotten damaged. He held out his hands for it, and his uncle surrendered it, though he was staring at it with curiosity, his metal eye nervously clicking.

Nyx clutched it to his chest, then carefully placed it down on the table before him, suddenly worried he would crush the contents, or unleash uncontrolled power on them. Get it together, this helps no one, he scolded himself sharply.

Uncle Lucien was perched next to him now, hand braced on his shoulder. “We’re here, Nyx. What’s happened?” His eyes flicked back to the box on the table, its mere presence an accusation. “What is that?”

“Eyewitness accounts. Testimonies,” Nyx said, his voice coming out ragged and rough. Another glass was pressed into his hand, and he examined it this time — just water. He gulped it down gratefully, letting the coolness ease down his throat, before attempting to speak again. “From the Winter Court massacre.”

He could feel his uncle tense up beside him, while Helion said, slowly, carefully, “A terrible tragedy.”

Nyx swallowed thickly. “It was.” He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against the urge to just give into the sorrow, as though it were all about him and his reactions. “Boreas sent these, after our meeting.”

“Why?” Helion asked, a bit sharply.

“I requested them,” Nyx said. “I had to read them for myself. To see whether — that is —“ He loosed out a long breath. “I know my father is blamed for it. I needed to see why.”

Uncle Lucien shifted uncomfortably, but it was Helion who spoke up. “That was dealt with at our summit, before the War started. Your father testified to his whereabouts. The matter was settled.” His gaze was kind, but his jaw was tightly set. “Was something said to you, during the Winter Court’s visit? I shall speak to them about it —“

“No,” Nyx blurted, then flushed at having just contradicted the High Lord in his own palace. “I mean, please don’t.”

Helion made a low rumbling sound that set Nyx’s teeth on edge. “There have been too many of these encounters as of late. Too many insults, to both you and your father. Eris’s treachery has emboldened it, perhaps.”

“But we parted on terms of friendship,” Uncle Lucien said, clearly puzzled. “Kallias and Viviane did not seem inclined to join Eris whatsoever.” He turned his eyes towards Nyx, sympathetic, but shrewd, too, like his mind was working it out. “Was it Boreas? He’s a bit of a hot-head. Sibyl mentioned he’d been unpleasant.”

“Yes. But I’m glad he said it,” Nyx replied. “I had no idea people thought my father —“ He broke off, his mouth refusing to form the words mass-murdered children.

Uncle Lucien’s hand tightened on his shoulder, silently encouraging him to continue.

So he turned to his uncle, willing his vocal cords to start working again. “The accounts describe someone like him, with black hair, dressed in a fine suit like he’s often worn.”

“These are eyewitnesses?” his uncle asked.

“Yes. Townsfolk. Parents. Surviving siblings,” Nyx said, his voice wavering as he thought about the poor girl who’d turned back to retrieve her sister’s toy, only to find that her sister had been murdered, and brave Tomten cradling his poor confused brother —

“Forgive me for saying so, but can this be trusted?” Helion asked. “In the heat of moment, it must have been chaotic. Confusing. Perhaps they remembered inaccurately?”

Nyx was shocked at this thought — that the folk would not accurately remember something so important. “The descriptions are very consistent,” he said, “except for one little boy.” He pried the box open carefully, grasping the paper on top of the pile. “His name was Vidar. He escaped, hid in the forest.” And he passed the paper to his uncle, who read it rapidly, his golden eye whirring and buzzing as he did so.

Then Uncle Lucien passed the paper to Helion with trembling fingers, cursing foully under his breath before turning back to Nyx. “Gods, this is horrible.”

“That’s not the worst one, by far. He was spared from witnessing it.” Nyx tapped a finger on his knee. “But what do you think of his description? Soulless black eyes.”

Uncle Lucien bolted upright, nearly dashing his chair on the marble floor. “Cauldron boil me.” He began to pace, tugging at one of his tightly woven braids, then whirled back towards the table. “Yes. Yes, he did have eyes like that. Him and his cursed sister.”

“Who?” Nyx cried.

Uncle Lucien plopped down heavily into the chair. “A Hybern commander. Dagdan, his name was. He came to the Spring Court, him and his twin Brannagh. They killed humans who had the misfortune of encountering our group —“ He broke off, shaking his head at some awful memory, then smiled grimly as he went on,“Feyre and I sent the Bogge to torment them.”

Helion let out a laugh. “Well done.”

“We should have killed them then and there, but we were pretending to be allies so that Tamlin could spy on Hybern’s war preparations,” Uncle Lucien said, “and he was very displeased when he found out how we antagonized them, how it jeopardized his intelligence-gathering.” He swallowed hard, again seeming to wrestle with his recollections, then went on, “For that purpose, they were allowed to remain at the manor, to continue to work their evil. But finally Feyre killed him, and I killed his sister, when they attacked us.” His eyes fixed on Nyx. “Your mother was magnificent. I’d had no idea she could fight like that.”

Nyx had to smile at that, despite hating the thought of anyone attacking his family.

“But if I’d known,” Uncle Lucien said, hands curling into fists, “if I’d known that the piece of shit monster who perpetrated this atrocity was under the same roof with me — at the fucking dinner table, eating and drinking merrily, like he hadn’t slaughtered children — I would not have been able to stop myself.”

“Do not trouble yourself with such regrets. You couldn’t have known,” Helion said placatingly. “No one has known the identity of the perpetrator of this horror, until now.”

“It is only a guess,” Uncle Lucien said. “But he fits the description. Dagdan and Brannagh were both skilled daemati. Perhaps she was even there as well, assisting him from the shadows.”

Nyx felt like he would vomit. He was a daemati too, and the thought of using his powers like that — to shatter a mind, much less the mind of an innocent —

“We should contact Kallias,” Helion said. “Share our suspicions. They deserve to know, even if we can’t be certain.”

Nyx’s hope flared at that. “Then they’ll stop blaming my father.”

Helion’s kind smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Yes, dear boy. I hope so.”

“But —“ Nyx protested, flailing to formulate his thoughts into understandable speech. “But it wasn’t him. This proves it.” His chin wobbled, and he clenched his teeth. “He mimicked my father’s dress and behavior, but he couldn’t fake the eyes.”

“I believe that,” Helion said solemnly, bowing his head, the spiky diadem atop his head catching the light as he did so. “Just as I believed your father’s word, when he swore his innocence. Your father and I have been friends for a long time, Nyx. His actions during the occupation were sometimes shocking” — here he glanced over at Uncle Lucien, who was studiously examining the leaves of paper from the box, pretending not to listen — “but I never thought him capable of something like this.”

Sometimes you have to do things that you’d rather not, become something you’d rather not, to save the ones you really love.

What had his father meant by that, exactly?

“He didn’t do this,” Nyx said, feeling a rush of relief to be able to say it with such certainty. “But most people thought he did.” He looked from Helion to Uncle Lucien. They were both regarding him gravely, waiting for him to go. “They all thought he was the kind of person who could do that — kill innocent younglings.”

Uncle Lucien nervously cleared his throat, but said nothing, while Helion steepled his fingers, his eyes fixed on Nyx. “Many dark things happened during those forty-nine years, Nyx. You cannot imagine the pressure we were all under.” He shifted, gently placing Vidar’s testimony back in the box. “Your father made his choices, as we all did. I always suspected he was playing a part, even when he could not confide in me to confirm it. I did not always agree with his actions, or his methods, but I understand them.”

“I don’t,” Nyx admitted.

“Then you should really talk to him about it,” Helion suggested. “Talk to both of your parents. They are the only ones who can really give you answers.”

Everyone keeps telling me that.

And Nyx knew they were right. Why was he avoiding it? 

Because you don’t want to upset them, especially with Mother pregnant. Or accuse them of something, take the side of their enemies.

Because dredging up the past felt like a betrayal.

Uncle Azriel’s reaction had been more loyal, more steadfast. My first instinct was to go find whoever insulted your father and punch their face in.

Nyx hadn’t done that. Not even close.

If he was going to react appropriately, make decisions, he needed information, no matter what the source of it was. No matter whether it was unpleasant, or unflattering to his father. But he didn’t expect his family to understand that.

Uncle Lucien leaned forward. “You’re going home for the Solstice, I expect?”

Not that this was appropriate holiday talk, but — “Yes, I was planning on it,” Nyx said.

“You should really say something,” his uncle said. “At least start the conversation. Let them know you’ve been hearing things, seeking answers. Maybe leave it open ended, see what they say about it? You never know, Nyx, they might surprise you.”

Nyx inclined his head in agreement, though he wasn’t optimistic.

Helion laid a broad hand on the box. “May I borrow this? I’d like to make copies, for the library archives.”

Nyx thought that was a great idea, but said carefully, “Boreas didn’t mention if they were supposed to stay confidential.”

Helion beamed at him. “What a good, thoughtful heart you have. Of course we will ask first, before releasing the testimonies into general circulation. But at the very least, we can file a copy in our private collections, to safeguard the information, just in case the originals are ever lost.”

Uncle Lucien said, “Either way, this can only help strengthen our friendship with Winter.” He patted Nyx on the shoulder. “You’ve done well. Truly.”

Nyx flushed, embarrassed. What had he done, really?

But Helion agreed, saying, “We made peace with each other, before the War started, and it’s been maintained. But we do not have peace, not really, as long as these unresolved issues linger between us. Having a proper reckoning, finding out the truth and dealing with it, is the only way to be sure we can never be divided again.”

“What if it does divide us?” Nyx asked worriedly.

“Then we were never really united to begin with,” Uncle Lucien said. He carefully replaced the lid on the box. “And it’s better to know that, and deal with it. A lot of things were papered over, so that the war could be won. Perhaps we were all a little too eager to move on. But grieving parents, and other victims, should not have to bear the burden of staying silent, just so the rest of us can go about in ignorance and comfort.”

“Well said,” Helion murmured, giving his son a nod of approval, and Uncle Lucien flushed a little, perhaps still not used to the easy praise.

Nyx stood up, a little unsteadily. “Thank you. Both of you. I’m sorry to have barged in like that.”

Helion turned to him, smiling brilliantly. “Not at all. Your ward-cleaving has come along nicely — it’s good to see someone pays attention during my lessons.” He stood up as well, his powerful muscles gleaming in the light. “You can re-weave all the wards back into place tomorrow.”

Nyx inwardly groaned, but managed to say, “I suppose it’s good practice.” And it was a fitting penance for the sloppy job he’d done, shredding them all, anyway.

Uncle Lucien chuckled. “I’ll help you, or you’ll never get out of here in time for Solstice.”

Nyx shot him a grateful look, then inclined his head in farewell to both Helion and Uncle Lucien, and picked up the box, which felt lighter, less burdensome, than he’d remembered.

All those sweet innocents — he hadn’t been the one to slaughter them, and neither had his father. He couldn’t bring them back, however much he wanted to.

But he’d make damn sure they weren’t forgotten.

Chapter Text

Nyx strode up the steps of the River House, the wards shimmering and parting as the magic recognized him, and stood in the doorway of his home, inhaling its familiar Solstice-tinged scent deeply into his lungs. It smelled of baking chocolate-chip cookies, and pine needles, and wax candles and cinnamon, and he smiled at the many fond memories that were conjured up inside him, as well as the sense that he was home, like no other place ever could be. This was the home he’d grown up in, representing absolute safety and comfort, and he savored it.

There were his mother’s detailed paintings, framed and hung on every available wall surface, interspersed with his clumsier slapdash attempts that he’d made as a youngling, feeling like he could never capture the world as she could, though she praised all his paltry efforts as though they’d been brilliant. These were the same couches he’d once lounged on, or yelled at Enyo and Sibyl to stop jumping on, not that they ever listened, and the shelves of neatly filed books that he’d sneak into his bed at night, foiling his strict lights-out bedtime with his Day Court magic. More distant was the clicking of his father’s celestial model, its many worlds and spheres rotating like one of the Dawn Court’s automatons, and Nyx fondly recalled all the hours he’d spent staring at it, trying to guess how it worked, wondering if those worlds could ever be visited, or if one might even slip from one to another by accident.

The house looked smaller than he remembered — perhaps due to his recent stay at Helion’s palace, or just that he’d gotten taller, and larger, while all the furnishings and rooms had stayed the same size. He hadn’t noticed it happening when he was here all the time, but it was obvious now after an extended absence. The effect made him feel off-kilter, like he was in some parallel world where things were almost the same, almost familiar, but he didn’t quite fit within it.

“Nyx?”

He looked up and broke into a broad smile. “Hello, Nuala.”

His longtime caretaker smiled back at him, her deep brown skin gleaming in the candlelight. She was carrying a bundle of blankets, and Nyx reached out to take them, recognizing them as his own. “You are early,” she said, in her quiet lilting way. “I was just getting your room ready.”

Nyx didn’t bother asking how she’d known when to expect him. She and her sister Cerridwen always seemed to know everything, and used to make a game of never quite answering his childish questions. With their half-shadow wraith heritage, they could slip unnoticed from place to place, almost as unnoticed as Uncle Az’s shadows. Such stealth had made them perfectly suited as babysitters, not that he’d ever given them much to spy upon - but his cousins had provided plenty of challenge, especially Enyo, who was always flying off in a huff when she didn’t get her way.

But if Nuala and Cerridwen found such things tiring, they never complained. Nyx had never had a cross word from either of them — they were unfailingly patient, and far too complimentary. Spoiling him, probably.

“I was just heading up there myself,” he said, inclining his head to indicate that she might go first. “Don’t let me interrupt your preparations. I know it gets crazy around here right before Solstice.”

“It is no trouble,” Nuala said, and probably even meant it.

Nyx followed her down the corridor and up the steps, watching her feet brush each stair without making even the slightest sound. “So, where’s everyone?”

“Your father is paying the Hewn City a visit,” Nuala said, “and your mother is teaching down at the studio.”

“Still?” Nyx asked, not knowing what he’d expected. Why shouldn’t she keep up her work routine, just because she was pregnant? “Aren’t the paint fumes bad for the baby?”

Nuala’s delicate chuckle floated down to him as she kept ascending the stairs. “She painted quite a bit before you were born, and you were not affected.”

“Are we sure about that?” Nyx joked, but an uneasiness spread through him. He had almost not survived at all, and it seemed bad form to joke about it, especially when both Aunt Nesta and Enyo were now powerless as a direct result of it.

The door to his bedroom swung upon by some silent magical command, and Nuala went in, momentarily swallowed up by the darkness. But then the fae lights illuminated, and Nyx stepped in after her, dropping the bedding in a pile and then plopping onto the bed next to it.

Nuala waved a hand, shooing him from the bed, and his ears burned with embarrassment. He was grown, and did not need his bed made for him. He’d told the staff at the Day Court palace not to bother, though that had partly been because he didn’t want servants entering his room too early in the morning, when he was still sleeping off his nighttime revels. And it had felt too private, almost intrusive, to have strangers handling his personal belongings.

But Nuala said, “Indulge me, Nyx. You come home so seldom,” and he found he couldn’t argue with her. Fussing over him in this way was a form of caring, he supposed, and it felt wretched that he was questioning it.

“How’ve things been with you and Cerridwen?” he asked, rustling his wings as he moved out of the way for her, settling onto his favorite chair instead, chuckling when he felt along the armrest to find Tales of Enalius lodged in the seat cushion. It had always been his favorite book, ever since he’d learned to read, and he flipped idly through the dogeared pages, looking for the scrawls and scribbles he’d added over the years.

“We are both well,” Nuala said, moving deftly around the bed, tucking in the sheets. “Busy with the holiday preparations.”

Nyx nodded, though he didn’t quite understand it. There was magic for cleaning, and preparing food, even without a residence being sentient, like the House of Wind. The cottage in the mountains was charmed in that way, so why should the River House be any different?

“You should join us,” he said suddenly, flushing a little to think of his family enjoying dinner, and drinks and exchanging presents, while Nuala and Cerridwen lingered in the kitchen, or cleaned up after them, or whatever they did while other people celebrated.

Nuala dropped the sheet and turned to look at him, her dark brows lifted in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re my family too, and families spend Solstice together, don’t they?” he stammered, reddening. It felt shameful to have to explain why she deserved to sit at the dinner table with them, or mingle with the other family members afterwards. “I don’t understand why you’re always separate.”

Nuala carefully tucked the sheet in, smoothing it out expertly, then primly sat down upon it, though her body seemed to make no imprint on the mattress, or wrinkle the fabric. Like she isn’t there, like she has no impact. It bothered him, somehow.

“It is complicated,” Nuala said slowly, measuring each word out like she was sifting and weighing it. “Our position with your family was negotiated long ago, and we are grateful for it.”

Nyx got the distinct impression that he should not be asking, that he had already strayed over some important boundary, but he couldn’t bear all the secrecy. He’d already learned far more about his family, about his father, than he’d thought that there was to know. What else was there that he didn’t know he should be asking about?

“Negotiated sounds like a business arrangement,” he protested. “But you live here. You’re with us all the time. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

Nuala’s eyes went wide, and then she began to giggle. “Dear Nyx, whatever nonsense are you saying?”

“It is nonsense, probably, but humor me,” Nyx said plaintively. “Aunt Elain told me you used to spend a lot of time together, before she married Uncle Lucien and moved away. That she used to hang out in the kitchen with you.”

Nuala nodded. “Your aunt is one of the best people I’ve ever met, and I know Cerridwen agrees. We are still in touch, but it is not the same. We cannot easily visit the Day Court, with our shadow heritage.” She smiled, a little sadly. “Things change, Nyx. You, too, are missed around here.”

Nyx bit the inside of his lower lip. He had missed home, too, but now he wondered if he had missed too much. How oblivious I’ve been.

“Some things change, but you still serve us,” he mused. “Even when Aunt Elain lived here, and joined you at your work, you didn’t come out and join the family in return.”

Nuala shrugged, smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle in the bedspread. “That was not the arrangement.”

Nyx leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs. “How long have you been with our family?”

“A long time, Nyx. Several centuries,” Nuala said.

“You’ve been a servant for several centuries?” Nyx burst out, feeling the anger rising up in him, and forced himself to breathe deeply, to tamp it back down.

Nuala watched him for long moments, silently considering. Perhaps deciding how much she was willing to reveal, which secrets he was worthy of hearing. “We are not just servants, as you’ve probably suspected,” she said at last.

“I know you work with Uncle Az,” he admitted. “That you’re spies, or something like it. I know I shouldn’t pry any further, it’s probably all secret.” Nuala observed him calmly, not confirming or denying it. “But that still doesn’t mean you should sit in the kitchen while we’re all having dinner.”

Nuala said, “I appreciate the sentiment, Nyx, truly. But I am confident that I speak for both myself and Cerridwen when I say that we are content with things as they are.”

“But why?” he pressed, his voice rising into a near-wail, like being in his childhood bedroom was bringing out the whinier, more impatient part of him. He cleared his throat, then tried again. “I feel like I’m missing something. Something important. You’re in our home, preparing the food we eat, going into our rooms at any time of day or night, watching us children — I mean, obviously my parents trust you with everything.”

“Yes,” Nuala said, getting a faraway look, “yes, they do.” Her eyes focused on him again. “That is not something we take lightly.”

“You’ve probably seen a lot, over the centuries,” Nyx said, “kept many secrets.” Suddenly a thought occurred to him. “Were you… Under the Mountain?”

Nuala stood up abruptly. “I must go check on the roast chicken.”

Nyx frowned, saying quickly, “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”

Nuala sighed heavily, pausing for a moment, then sank back on to the bed. “No, Nyx. Do not apologize. I should have known this day was coming.”

“You don’t owe me answers, if it’s too hard to talk about,” Nyx assured her. Impulsively, he stood up, then sat beside her on the bed, suddenly noticing how slight she was in comparison to him. He remembered being small enough to crawl into her lap, and now she felt small, almost fragile. He knew looks could be deceptive, but he still felt awkward and ungainly in comparison.

Then Cerridwen was before them, as though she’d been summoned by her sister’s distress, or some silent signal he hadn’t detected. Nyx had long since gotten used to both twins’ ability to shift through walls, to appear silently and swiftly without so much as a breeze, but he had never figured out how they communicated telepathically — whether they were like Uncle Az’s shadows made flesh, or part daemati, or some strange mixture. Surely there was much more important work for such talents than braiding hair and washing the dishes?

“I thought I sensed your presence. Welcome back, little one,” Cerridwen said fondly, stepping forward to clasp his cheeks in her cool, dry hands.

Little one. He had to chuckle at that characterization. He had no idea how old the females were — but certainly old enough that his mere twenty-three years would seem quite little indeed, however large he’d grown physically.

“Hello, Ceri,” Nyx said, smiling up at her. He didn’t use her old nickname much anymore, but somehow it felt right to do so now. “It’s good to see you.”

Cerridwen beamed, patting him on the head before reaching for her sister’s hand, and Nyx watched in fascination as their joined hands became shadow, almost transparent. Then they both looked at him, and he lowered his eyes, as though he’d just witnessed something he shouldn’t have.

“You’ve always known what we are, Nyx,” Nuala said gently. “Do not fear it.”

“I don’t,” he said, looking back up at the sisters, hoping he hadn’t offended them.

“Your family has always relied on our shadow-nature,” Cerridwen said, settling herself onto the bed on his other side. “It has come in useful in many situations.”

“And I’m grateful,” Nyx said warmly, before thinking to ask, “Like what, though, exactly?”

Nuala laid a hand on his shoulder, and it felt solid and warm, despite the shadowy nature of it. “Like Under the Mountain. Like you were asking.”

“How did you stand it?” Nyx asked, turning to face her, then shifting to look at Cerridwen. “You must have seen horrors.”

Neither sister responded immediately, but then Cerridwen said, “We saw many things, Nyx.”

“And did things,” Nuala added somberly.

Nyx’s heart jolted at that. What could that mean?

Nyx could feel Cerridwen tense. “Perhaps it is not wise to speak of that.” She addressed Nyx, speaking softly. “This is something for you to discuss with your parents.”

“I will,” Nyx promised. “I always meant to.” He stood, carefully angling his wings so that he didn’t bump into either female, then flopped back into the chair so that he could face both of them. “Just — I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

Both females blinked at him, but said nothing.

“I know it wasn’t your fault, whatever happened,” Nyx said, his throat suddenly feeling hoarse. “Whatever you may have done, I’m sure it was for a good reason.”

Nuala looked down at her hands, while Cerridwen drew an arm around her sister, squeezing gently. Nyx watched them miserably, hating how sorrowful they both seemed, and how neither seemed to be able to look at him. He quashed the temptation to reach out with his daemati senses, knowing full well that he must not pry, though he burned with curiosity. What could they have done that they still felt guilty about?

He wanted to tell them to forget he’d mentioned it, that it was Solstice and they were all meant to be happy. But then Cerridwen spoke up. “You will hear it all. If not from us, then from others. And when you do, I hope you will forgive us.”

Forgive what? he wanted to scream. What the hell happened?

Nuala looked up then, and to Nyx’s horror, there were tears running down her cheeks. “We never even asked her forgiveness.”

Cerridwen tenderly brushed a tear from her sister’s cheek. “It was better to let the matter be. Things were — delicate.”

“Time has passed,” Nuala insisted, swiping at her face. “That excuse no longer applies.”

Nyx didn’t dare ask what they were talking about, or speak up at all, but just watched them with mounting dread as Cerridwen said, “Bringing it up now would only upset her.”

“But if he is asking —” Nuala said urgently, tilting her head in Nyx’s direction.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about, or who,” Nyx interrupted.

“It is unfair of us, to tease you with hints and whispers,” Nuala said mournfully. “But there is a greater picture to consider. A much larger story that is not ours to tell.”

A shiver ran down Nyx’s spine. What really happened Under the Mountain?

Even his Uncle Lucien, who was usually so open and forthcoming, had been tight-lipped on the subject, and adamant about not sharing any of his memories. Nyx had tried to be casual about bringing it up, while they were re-weaving the conference room wards together, but his uncle had seen right through it. “Some things are not meant for your eyes, Nyx,” he’d said gravely. “It would traumatize you, and that would help no one.”

“If I could handle reading about the Winter Court,” Nyx had objected, “then surely —“

“Those were written accounts. Seeing it is different,” Uncle Lucien had insisted, sighing deeply, then weaving all the rest of the wards together in one fluid motion. It was so quick, so effortless, that Nyx knew it was powerful magic, even though it had been so subtle, so quietly accomplished. “There are sights I cannot look on again. I’ve made peace with them, dealt with the memories, but if I relive them now, it’ll undo everything.” He had grasped Nyx’s shoulders then, saying, “Your parents might feel the same. You should be prepared for that.”

So Nyx squared his shoulders, looking forthrightly at Nuala and Cerridwen. They had taken such good care of him all his life, and he felt he ought to return the favor.

“Such stories can be told later,” he said, with a lightness he didn’t feel. “It is Solstice, after all.”

“It is,” Nuala agreed, and they all lapsed again into melancholy silence.

“Well! Since Aunt Elain isn’t here to help in the kitchen, maybe you could show me what to do,” Nyx blurted, feeling very much like the sour mood was his fault, and he ought to do something to fix it.

Nuala smiled, a little startled, but Cerridwen laughed outright. “You? You’ll knock into everything, with those big wings of yours.”

Nyx laughed. He was a bit clumsy, especially in tight spaces. “I’ll be careful,” he promised.

Cerridwen rose from the bed, gently tugging Nuala up with her, and Nyx stood up as well, quickly tucking in his wings before he made a liar out of himself by immediately knocking something over. “The first time your Aunt Elain baked with us, we all ended up covered in flour,” she said, smiling wistfully at the memory.

“I think I can manage that,” Nyx quipped, and they all laughed together. And they were still chuckling as they made their way down to the kitchens, determined to make new, happy memories together.

Chapter Text

Nyx threw back his head, laughing delightedly. “Missed me!”

Cerridwen was cackling as she flung another handful of flour in his direction, on purpose this time. He’d jostled her the first time with one of his wings, causing her hand to slip, but now she was armed and ready. “We’ll see about that!”

Nyx ducked unsuccessfully as the fluffy particles scattered into a cloud in the air, showering him and the kitchen tiles and the countertop. He stood up, sputtering, blowing air through his lips to try to get rid of the flour clinging to them, for he didn’t dare try to wipe his face with his thoroughly covered hands. He gave up and slung an arm over his face to use his shirtsleeve, figuring his clothes needed washing anyway.

Nuala was watching both of them, her arms sternly folded, but as she got a look at Nyx’s powdered face, she burst out into giggles. “You look ghostly.”

Nyx grinned, holding his hands out awkwardly in front of him, knowing full well that he was covered in powdery handprints already. “Not everyone can be a shadow,” he quipped, “so I had to go in the other direction.”

Cerridwen swiped at her own powdery cheeks, leaving trails of fine floury dust behind. “You are far messier than your aunt ever was,” she exclaimed.

“There, I’m finally the best at something in this family,” Nyx declared, folding his arms triumphantly across his chest, but felt a pang of discomfort when neither of his baking companions laughed with him. That was a little too close to the mark.

But before either female could respond, Nyx felt a new presence in the River House — two new presences, actually — and his heart leaped with gladness as his mother came rushing into the kitchen, paint-splattered and glowing, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Mama,” he gasped, rushing to her and throwing his arms around her, flour skittering into the air in a great cloud around them. His mother embraced him, all arms and belly, and he let himself breathe in her scent, feel the familiar warm comfort of her presence, before pulling back to look at her properly. “The baby’s getting so big,” he exclaimed.

His mother laughed. “You mean I’m getting big. You can say it.”

Nyx looked up into her blue twinkling eyes. “You’re supposed to get bigger, right? You’re growing a whole person in there.” Then he noticed that she was now covered in flour, and started laughing again. “Oh, Mama, I’ve messed up your clothing.”

His mother held his shoulders, looking him up and down. “And you’re full of paint, so we’re even.”

Nyx looked down at his formerly black clothes, which were now dotted with flour and pink, blue and green paint splatters. “People are always telling me I should wear other colors,” he shrugged.

“Are they?” His mother looped an arm through his, like she would lead him out of the kitchen, but then took a critical look around the room. “It looks like you had the snowball fight in here.”

“Ceri and Nuala were helping me practice. I’m going to win this year,” Nyx declared, joking both about throwing flour snowballs and winning the fight, which he knew full well was never going to happen. But then he turned towards them, offering sincerely, “I can help with the cleaning. I made most of the mess, anyway.”

Both females looked bemused, maybe even a little offended. “No, child, go be with your mother,” Nuala chided him, and Cerridwen nodded emphatically in agreement, adding, “We’ll manage better without you in here.”

Nyx acquiesced, feeling both grateful and a little chagrined, for he hadn’t really meant to make more work for them, after all. But Cerridwen, perhaps seeing his reaction, softly added, “You did well for a novice baker.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Just hope it’s edible.”

Then Cerridwen slid oven mitts onto her hands, briskly whisking the bread pans away to place in the oven, while Nuala grabbed a towel and began scrubbing at the floured countertop, both of them subtly hinting that they needed to do proper work in the kitchen and that he should vacate.

His mother regarded it all with a gentle smile playing at her lips, though he could see that she was surprised. And as they strolled out of the kitchen together, he felt the gentle tap at his mental shield, and then she said in his mind, After all these months of not seeing you at all, I didn’t expect to come home to find you in the kitchen.

Nyx flushed, remembering that he had visited and then departed Velaris only a few nights ago without so much as saying hello to her. I got home early and wanted to help, he explained, though the excuse sounded stupid even to him. There was no way that what he was doing in the kitchen just now could be described as helping.

They passed through several rooms before arriving in his mother’s private office, converted from his old playroom when he’d outgrown playing with toys. Nyx wondered whether it would be converted back, now that there was a baby on the way, or if some other room in the house would be chosen. Maybe even his old bedroom, he thought, his heart lurching at the thought of it. Technically, he still lived in this house, still thought of it as home, but could he really stake a claim on that room anymore?

“You seem disturbed, sweetheart. Is anything the matter?” his mother asked, settling herself into a plush armchair, one hand braced on the armrest and the other gently cradling her belly. Nyx hastened to grab for the matching footrest, sliding it under her so that she could prop up her feet. “Enough fussing, Nixie. Sit with me, and tell me everything.”

Nyx brushed himself off self-consciously, then settled into another chair near her, trying not to stare at her belly. Was that what she had looked like, pregnant with him? Had she sat with her feet up just like that, relaxed and calm, or had she spent all her time fretting, knowing they most likely wouldn’t survive? How had she managed it?

He blinked rapidly, trying to dispel those gloomy recollections, and cast around for a suitable topic of conversation. Everything that he’d done lately seemed far too heavy, too depressing and anxiety-provoking, to bring up, even if she was asking. Didn’t she deserve one pregnancy that wasn’t burdened with his problems?

“I’ve been practicing ward-casting,” he said. “Still slow, but I’m improving. And I cleaved all the wards in Helion’s conference room last night.” When I winnowed in, frantic about Father and the Winter Court younglings. He didn’t need to mention that part of it.

His mother smiled. “That’s very good, darling. That skill could save your life, and others’.” She rubbed a slow circle on her belly as she gazed thoughtfully into the distance. “I had to do that, at Hybern castle, and then again in the war camp when we rescued your aunt.”

“I remember the story,” Nyx said softly. Poor Aunt Elain had been grabbed by the Cauldron, and his mother and Uncle Az had snuck into the Hybern camp to retrieve her. It struck him, then, that as much as his family emphasized fighting prowess, none of his mother’s heroic acts had depended on warrior skill — it was always her magic, and cunning and determination, that carried the day. It made him feel better about his own choice to focus on developing his magic, at the expense of completing the Blood Rite. No other High Lord except his father had ever done that, anyway.

“So, magic training is going well. What else?” His mother shifted so that she could prop an elbow on the armrest, leaning her head on her hand. “Have you made any new friends?”

What kind of friends, he didn’t have to ask. He knew what she meant. “I’m too busy to socialize much,” he half-lied, for dancing and dallying with pretty females in Rhodes’s nightclubs certainly counted as socializing — just not the kind he felt like describing in detail to his mother. And he hadn’t done much of that recently, either. “I did meet the Winter Court prince and princess.”

“Ah, yes,” his mother said, “Viviane and I were pregnant at the same time, and I heard she had a boy as well. How are they all doing?”

“Very well, I think. I didn’t see much of the High Lord and Lady, for they were mostly in negotiations,” he said. He hesitated, then added, “Boreas, the son, was a bit of a prick. But I think he came around, in the end.”

His mother’s eyes darkened. “I hope people have been treating you with due respect. Uncle Az tells us you’ve had some — incidents.”

Nyx inwardly cringed. He’d known his uncle would report back to his parents, had expected this line of questioning eventually, but had hoped to avoid dredging this up during the holidays. But he forced himself to look at her forthrightly. “It’s fine, Mama. Nothing I can’t handle.”

His mother nodded, though she still looked uncertain. And because he was a coward, and couldn’t make his mouth form the words, he reached out with his daemati powers instead. Did Uncle Az tell you that I saw Tamlin?

She sighed with exasperation. Of all the people you had to encounter.

“It was really fine,” he said, eager to reassure her. “It could have been worse, actually. His daughter wandered away from him, and I found her. Any parent would be fearful in that situation.”

“I had not realized he finally married, much less had a youngling,” his mother said. “News does not reach us directly from the Spring Court. But I’m surprised Lucien never mentioned it.”

She looked displeased, like his uncle had deliberately concealed it, so Nyx hastily said, “Uncle Lucien didn’t know about the daughter or even the wedding, until their visit. Apparently Tamlin was paranoid about kidnappers, so he invited only a few sentries as witnesses, and swore everyone to secrecy, and kept the lady well-hidden.” His uncle had been rather insulted that Tamlin hadn’t trusted him, though he’d sighed resignedly and said he understood it. Nyx shook his head at the whole affair, scoffing, “Like someone would dare stroll right into a High Lord’s manor, and steal his bride right from the ceremony?”

His mother looked distinctly uncomfortable at that. “Well.” She rubbed her belly absently, then went on, “Tamlin still sounds like Tamlin. It’s hard to picture him with a daughter.”

Nyx shrugged his shoulders. “I only got a brief glimpse of them together.” He smiled, remembering the little emerald-eyed pipsqueak who’d called him demony friend and squeezed Tamlin’s face, pestering her father for chocolate ice cream. “They seem happy enough.”

His mother didn’t look altogether pleased to hear it. Some wounds, it seemed, had still not fully healed, though so much time had passed. Nyx knew there had to be more to it all, but it was none of his business — he didn’t wish to pry into his mother’s ex-loves any more than he wanted her digging into his romantic relationships.

So he said, eager to change the subject, “You just came from the studio downtown?”

“Not this time. I was teaching at the Library,” she said, her face and posture relaxing. “Had to get in one last class before the Solstice.”

His mother’s paintings were wonderful memories, commemorating people and places and events, but painting was also a way for her to calm her busy mind, and express feelings that were too raw or difficult to explain in words. It was why Nyx had kept visiting her studio and setting up a canvas beside her, long after he’d realized that he had no natural talent or patience to practice. It was mesmerizing to watch her work, to watch as her vision took shape and color, and he thought that even his daemati skills could not give him a better sense of who she was as a person, or what she felt in her heart.

“The Library?” he asked. He couldn’t imagine there being enough light to see by, not that having more light improved his artwork any.

“Yes, for the priestesses who aren’t ready to venture out into the city. Some of them have shown interest in becoming artists, or art teachers, with a focus on healing through expression,” his mother explained.

“That sounds nice.” It really did. He’d often wondered what it must be like, to live in the Library, tucked away from the outside world. It could be healing, he supposed, to enjoy such peace and quiet, but it was so dark down there, so somber and tomblike. He vastly preferred the golden sunlight and open airy spaces of Rhodes’s Great Library. It felt disloyal, given what court he was heir of.

His mother smiled softly. “For a long time, we left the priestesses to their own affairs. But then when your aunt started up the Valkyries, we realized that some of them were looking for new opportunities. And your Aunt Gwyn suggested that some of them would not want to be warriors, that they’d had enough of blood and violence.”

She would know. His Aunt Gwyn was a formidable spirit, a survivor of great horrors and an accomplished Carynthian warrior, though she preferred the Valkyrie title. Both Enyo and Catrin had followed in her footsteps, and even Sibyl had considered it, though the call of scholarship and magic had ultimately been greater. Nyx wondered what he would have chosen, had he been born female, for he far preferred the Valkyries’ training methods and philosophy to the hyper-aggressive, brutal ways of the Illyrians.

But for him, it had been no decision at all. He had begged and pleaded to be spared training in an Illyrian camp, and then outright refused to go, fearing that he would be treated especially harshly by both the adults and the other boys because of who he was, and his High Fae and human heritage. Aneirin’s experiences certainly seemed to bear out those anxieties, though his cousin was too tough a male to let it bother him.

Nyx leaned forward, taking in his mother’s appearance fully. Her skin glowed with good health, though there were faint circles under her eyes, like she hadn’t been getting proper rest. “And how are you feeling?” he asked, “I mean, with the pregnancy and everything.”

“Just tired,” she admitted. “Whenever I lay down to sleep, the baby starts kicking.”

“Did I do that?” he wondered, thinking that he must have caused many sleepless nights, for his whole family, both before and after he was born.

“Very much so. You were always jostling and slamming about. Your father used to joke that you would be born a fighter,” she chuckled.

Nyx grimaced a little at that. He had had combat training, of course, from his father and uncles, but he was not a fighter, not like the rest of the family.

His mother held out an intricately tattooed hand. “Here, want to feel?”

Nyx’s eyes widened. “Can I?” He got up and drew closer, tentative, and let his mother take his hand in both of hers, pressing his palm to a spot on her belly. After a few months, he felt a swift fluttery movement, and he gasped in surprise. “Was that the baby?”

His mother chuckled. “Yes, that was kicking.”

“Oh!” Nyx felt warm and fluttery, too. There’s really a person in there. He reached out cautiously with his mind, seeking the little soul who’d just kicked his hand, and nearly gasped aloud when he got a hint of a sweet little wisp of a presence. The baby’s mind was a jumble of sounds and feelings, but it was there, and he marveled at it. He looked back up at his mother, who was watching him quietly. “Oh, Mama, you must be so happy.”

“I am, Nyx. I’m happier than I’ve ever been,” his mother said, her eyes shining.

Nyx was determined not to feel jealous of that. Her pregnancy with him had been full of anxiety and pain, and drama within the family, and he heartily hoped this one would be happier, for all their sakes.

Still, some small sour part of him sulked at the implied comparison, and he found himself blurting, “Are you disappointed the babe doesn’t have wings?”

His mother’s eyes widened a little. “You saw that, did you.”

He shrugged helplessly, suddenly wondering if he’d done wrong to use his daemati powers on the vulnerable youngling, but then his mother sighed and said, “We are just happy the baby is healthy and growing. But I had hoped, at first, that she’d have wings, too.” Now that I can give birth to winged babies safely, she didn’t have to add. “She’ll be the only non-winged child in the family.”

Nyx wrinkled his forehead. “Sibyl doesn’t have wings, either.”

“Oh, right,” his mother said, waving her hand, looking a little discomfited. “I’d forgotten about her.”

Nyx frowned at that. Sibyl had spent plenty of time at the Night Court over the years. And he’d just spent the past six months living with Sibyl and her family at the Day Court. How could his mother forget her?

As though she realized she’d said something strange, his mother clarified, “I mean, sometimes I forget Sibyl is one of us.”

“Because she doesn’t live here?” he asked, utterly confused by this. That didn’t make sense, did it? His mother had once left her family to live across the Wall, had been faerie when they’d been human, but never stopped considering them her family, not for a second. “Sibyl’s as much an Archeron as me or Enyo.”

“I know,” his mother said, a tad defensively.

A prickling awareness ran down the back of Nyx’s neck. “Is it because of Uncle Lucien?”

“What?” His mother’s indignant response was a little too quick to be casual. “Why would that have anything to do with it?”

Nyx wanted to cringe, hating the turn the conversation had taken. But now that they were getting real, he wasn’t going to accept a bullshit answer. “Because she takes after him in her magic, looks so much like his side of the family.”

“Does she? I hadn’t noticed,” his mother said.

“Come on, Mama. Of course you’ve noticed. Even strangers notice.” How many times had people been surprised to learn that Sibyl was his cousin? “You included Rin and Cat in your tally of the cousins, and technically, they’re not blood relations. Not that it really makes a difference,” he added quickly, for he did consider the twins his cousins, and Uncle Az his uncle, regardless. “But you didn’t include Sibyl. I just don’t see what else could be the reason, other than who her father is.”

His mother pressed her lips tightly together in displeasure, but didn’t answer.

“Uncle Lucien’s never been a full member of this family,” he said, trying to make his tone sound matter of fact, not accusatory. “Not really.”

His mother snapped, “Did he tell you that? Complain to you about it?”

“The opposite, actually. He told me he felt lucky that you all even tolerate him.” Nyx let his irritation show, just a little. His uncle had been nothing but kind and helpful to him, far more honest and forthcoming than anyone else in the family was likely to be, and not afraid of admitting things that put him in an unflattering light. And Nyx knew his uncle had defended his mother, at great risk to his own life — had seen it, in those memories. What else did they want from him?

His mother’s gaze softened, and she sat back. “He said that?”

“He did. He also said you’re remarkably forgiving,” Nyx recalled, wondering whether his mother had really forgiven anything, exactly. It didn’t seem like it. Perhaps she was content to let matters lie, whatever feelings she might harbor deep inside her.

Your mother, and her sisters, tiptoe around topics. That’s an Archeron trait, one I’m glad you and your cousins didn’t inherit.

His mother let out a deep sigh. “Well.” She shifted, as though she might stand, then seemed to think better of it, only nudging the footstool away so that she could sit upright. “I suppose it’s complicated, Nixie. A lot’s happened.”

“He told me he made mistakes - interfered when he shouldn’t have,” Nyx said. “And he was on Tamlin’s side, so people distrust him. After what Tamlin did to our family, I get that. But he left Tamlin to go with you, so now Tamlin doesn’t trust him, either. It doesn’t seem fair, Mama.”

“He doesn’t need Tamlin or me. He has Helion, and Áine,” his mother said, just a hint of bitterness in her voice. “A father and mother, who love and support him. Maybe that’s the unfair part.”

“Doesn’t he deserve that? Doesn’t everyone?” Nyx asked, shocked. He struggled to understand what she’d meant by it. “I guess you and your sisters never had that.”

“No, we didn’t,” his mother said wistfully. “And there’s no secret parents waiting for us out there, who won’t neglect and disappoint us.”

It was true enough, but the whole matter still didn’t sit right with him. None of that was Uncle Lucien’s fault, or Sibyl’s for that matter. So Nyx said, “Is that really why you don’t like Uncle Lucien?”

“Don’t mistake me, Nixie. I do like him. He was one of my first friends when I came to Prythian. We’ve saved each other’s lives on several occasions.” His mother sighed, playing with a loose curl that had escaped from her braid. “But you’re right, he has never really fit in at this court. His perspective on everything is just… very different. And he’s got too much history with your father.”

Nyx straightened a little. He’d seen that firsthand, in Uncle Lucien’s memory. The two males had been very quick to insult and challenge one another. But his father had been working for Amarantha at the time, carrying out so many cruelties that everyone easily believed he’d murdered children. Was it really so surprising that Uncle Lucien would despise him?

Uncle Lucien’s seen too much. At the Spring Court manor. And Under the Mountain.

“It must be very awkward,” Nyx said.

His mother looked relieved. “You do understand.”

Nyx didn’t, not in the slightest. But he said, “I’m trying.”

“That’s all I can ask for.” His mother gave him a pained smile. “I heard that you have… other questions.”

Nyx winced, wondering exactly how much detail Uncle Azriel had gone into, or what his parents might have felt through their daemati senses, during a weak moment when his mental shields slipped. “That can all wait til after Solstice,” he said nervously.

“Can it?” His mother raised an eyebrow at him.

Nyx sighed. “I don’t want to ruin the holiday.”

“That bad, huh?” His mother reached for his hand, and squeezed it. “I don’t want this to fester. Your father and I want to be here for you, and if that means delving into some uncomfortable topics, then so be it.”

Nyx was flooded with relief to hear it, but he knew there were only hours remaining until the entire family — other than his Day Court relatives — would be descending upon the River House for their yearly party. And it was his mother’s birthday, by the Cauldron. He couldn’t spring this all on her tonight.

“It’s nothing urgent,” he reassured her. “The past isn’t going anywhere.”

“No,” she agreed, “it isn’t. I think I’ve just proven that.” She pushed up to stand, and Nyx held out a hand to help her, even though he knew she didn’t need it. She took his offered hand, wrapping her own slender but strong fingers around his. “Every time I think we’ve all moved past it, something happens to remind me that we haven’t. And don’t blame yourself, Nyx,” she added sternly, when he opened his mouth to apologize. “This was a good reminder that we’ve still got issues to deal with.”

Understatement, he thought, but didn’t say so.

They would have to deal with many issues, all too soon.

But right now, Nyx wanted to celebrate Solstice and her birthday, and enjoy the time with his family. They were lucky to have each other, healthy and whole, able to spend this holiday together. He wouldn’t be the one to spoil it. He could be patient.

“I’d better go change before the party,” he said, looking down at his floured and painted tunic. “Don’t want people to think my fashion sense is slipping, just because I’m at the Day Court.”

Day Court fashion was really preposterous — the elaborate silk chitons had always reminded Nyx of bedsheets. Luckily, Helion hadn’t been offended when he’d said so, but had made some innuendo that had everyone at the table blushing, his mate most especially.

His mother smiled wryly. “You do that. It’ll be a lovely party. Can’t wait to try the bread you baked.”

“I’d better try it first, just in case,” he said, flushing at the thought of everyone being served his first paltry effort at baking, feeling very free to comment and joke about it. But that was how things always were — everything he did was always fodder for conversation, whether among family or strangers.

Nyx turned to go, but one thought was still tickling at him. “Mama? We should ask Nuala and Ceri to stay. Come be with us, at dinner and afterwards. I don’t know if they’ll want to. But we should offer.”

His mother eyed him thoughtfully, considering this, but said nothing in response. Nyx tried not to fidget, wondering about the reason. Maybe she was talking to his father, asking about it. Maybe there was some history between them all that he hadn’t known about.

Who was she that Nuala and Cerridwen been talking about, whose forgiveness they’d never asked for? Could it have been his mother?

His curiosity burned inside him, threatening to undo his resolve to let matters be, to stop bringing up difficult topics, and just enjoy Solstice. Everything felt fraught now, like he was stumbling onto uncomfortable truths without even looking for them. What else was going to blow up in his face, before the holiday was over?

Finally, his mother stammered, “Let’s — let’s leave it for this year. Maybe discuss it with your father for the future. Okay, Nixie?”

“Okay,” Nyx said, even though it wasn’t.

Chapter Text

“Nixie!”

Nyx looked up, a beat too late, and nearly sloshed his spiced wine all over his cousin Catrin as she flung herself forward, throwing her arms around him enthusiastically, gushing, “We’ve missed you, asshole!” as though they hadn’t just seen each other the other night.

Nyx hastily slid the glass onto a side table, then chuckled and patted his cousin’s back through her fancy velvet party dress, murmuring, “You’re not fooling anyone, you little sneak. They all know I was here, and I know who told them.”

Catrin pulled back from him, her pretty freckled face crinkling into a mock pout. “I only told Daddy. I can’t help it if he blabbed.” As though that weren’t his job, Nyx thought in consternation, but didn’t press the point with her. He didn’t need that getting back to the family, either. She punched his arm, and he tried not to wince — she was strong, damn it. “You’re the sneak, anyway.”

“True, true.” Why deny it? He hadn’t meant to sneak around, but he had left Velaris abruptly rather than face his parents.

I can’t do that this time around. Can’t keep running from this.

Nyx gestured towards the buffet table, and Cat bounced eagerly towards it, beckoning him to follow, a hint of the siphon tucked under her dress snagging his attention before he focused back on navigating across the crowded room without bumping into anyone. He was saving himself for dinner, but trailed after her anyway, catching her twin’s eye from across the room and giving him a nod of greeting.

Aneirin inclined his head in return, then went back to talking to Uncle Az. He was nearly as tall as his father now, and just as broad and muscled in his usual warrior’s leathers, and despite his coloring that took after Aunt Gwyn, he was a mirror image of his father in every other way. Even the two cobalt siphons at his wrists glowed with the same steady brightness.

They’re all so proud of him. Nyx tried not to feel jealous. That could have been him, a proper Illyrian warrior, if he’d followed the path laid out for him. The fact that he would have been miserable didn’t enter into it.

Cat snatched a plate and began piling up all of the different delicacies onto it, fruits and cheeses and various cooked concoctions that all smelled inviting, but Nyx’s attention wandered across the crowded room, at all his family. Not far from Rin and Uncle Az, there was his Aunt Nesta, regal and straight backed as always, out of armor for once, hair braided into a tight coronet, sitting on the sofa with Aunt Gwyn and Aunt Emerie, and across from them Amren was perched seductively on Varian’s lap, which Nyx quickly averted his eyes from.

Aunt Mor flitted past, saying something tart to Amren and Varian that made them both cackle with laughter, then draped herself over Aunt Emerie, pressing a smacking kiss to her sweetheart’s cheek. Aunt Nesta tensed up, her gaze growing sharp and steely, but that reaction was gone by the time Mor squeezed in on the couch, and the conversation began to flow again. Whatever unpleasantness still lingered between them — he’d once had an earful about it from Enyo, who was ultra-sensitive to any perceived disrespect to herself and her parents — they were both on their best behavior tonight, if only for Emerie’s sake.

Both females were strong, had wills of iron, had survived against all odds and through near-death and horror, but the way they had survived was quite opposite. Aunt Mor was unflaggingly kind and solicitous, eager to make friends who shared her positive spirit, while Aunt Nesta was guarded and suspicious, her instincts honed through years of starvation and neglect, and then through her trials with the War and the Cauldron. She was fiercely loyal to her Valkyries, whom she thought of as sisters just as much as her own blood siblings, and was uncompromising and blunt in her manners, like any Illyrian warrior. Aunt Emerie was the peacemaker, a blend of both temperaments, and Nyx was thankful for it — otherwise family gatherings like this one would be way more awkward.

Uncle Cass laughed uproariously, and Nyx turned towards the sound just in time to see Enyo angrily swatting at her father, her face reddening. That only seemed to make Uncle Cass laugh harder, then croon, “Come on, sweetheart, you know I didn’t mean it like that.” But Enyo was already stalking away, not bothering to tuck her wings in, narrowly avoiding knocking over the gifts that were stacked in a teetering pile by the hearth.

Nyx and Cat exchanged a look, and she rolled her eyes before bounding after Enyo, intercepting the angry female before she could storm out of the gathering in a huff. Nyx watched, with no small amount of relief, as Cat coaxed Enyo back in, steering her towards the group of Valkyries, who closed ranks around her, soothing her, no doubt by commiserating about what an ass her father was.

Uncle Cass caught Nyx’s eye and shrugged helplessly. Nyx grinned and reached out with his daemati powers. What you do this time, Uncle?

Nothing, honest, Uncle Cassian protested.

That didn’t sound like nothing. You’re going to catch hell from every Valkyrie for miles, Nyx warned him, taking a long sip of his wine at the mere thought of it. He’d been in that situation several times, and was not eager to repeat the experience.

Just like every other day, then. I’m vastly outnumbered, his uncle complained, though his voice in Nyx’s mind was rich with amusement, and when he looked over at his wife and daughter, he was smiling. When they both just glared at him in answer, his smile only grew wider.

That was Uncle Cass — unfailingly good-natured. It was that patience and easy humor that had coaxed Nyx through his combat training, though his uncle could be ruthless when the situation called for it, especially in battle. Like another Enalius, that was his uncle’s reputation, and Nyx shuddered as he recalled the few memories of the War that his parents had shown him, at how deadly and impressive Uncle Cass’s fighting had been.

“You’ve been working on your magic, boy,” a voice said suddenly, and Nyx turned from his musings to find that Amren was standing before him, eyeing him appraisingly. Despite looming over her physically, and despite having far more magic at his fingertips, he always felt small and awkward when he was around her. But Varian blithely leaned past her, gathering food onto two plates, while Amren continued to inspect Nyx.

Nyx inclined his head to her. “Thank you, Amren. I’ve been taking ward-casting lessons, and trying to practice all the court powers as equally as I can.”

Amren nodded. “I can feel it.” She nabbed a slice of cheese, arranged onto a toothpick, from one of Varian’s plates of goodies. “Mind that you keep your powers in balance, or you risk them lashing out randomly, canceling each other out at a critical moment.”

That had indeed been one of his biggest problems, when trying to learn his magic — trying to produce ice and accidentally activating fire along with it, resulting in a slushy mess, or summoning both light and darkness to produce an unimpressive gray fog. Having magic from multiple courts was very rare, with only his own mother and Uncle Lucien truly understanding what a challenge it could be — while everyone else thought him whiny and ungrateful if he dared express those frustrations.

Nyx’s focus was momentarily snagged by a commotion across the room — Uncle Cassian, earnestly pleading with Enyo to forgive him, under the stern watchful eyes of the other Valkyries, and Aunt Mor trying unsuccessfully to suppress her chuckles and quips at his expense — but quickly turned back to the faeries next to him. “How is the Summer Court these days?” he asked Varian. “Lord Tarquin? Lady Cresseida?”

“As good as ever, thank the Cauldron,” Varian replied, passing Amren one of the plates. “A little uneasy, I’ll admit, with Eris’s marriage to Despina.” When he saw Nyx’s look of confusion, he clarified, “Despina, Crown Princess of Hybern, and the new Lady of the Autumn Court.”

“Not High Lady, then,” Nyx mused. “I didn’t expect that.” He’d have thought that a Hybern princess would be eager to grab up as many powerful titles as possible. But what did he know of Hybern, really? Only what little he’d heard from the war stories.

“The power will not be shared. They each govern their own territory,” Amren said. “It was part of the marriage contract, from what our sources have managed to tell us.” Nyx wondered what sources those might be, other than Uncle Azriel and his shadows, but now was not the time to ask. “Eris will not be King of Hybern, and his new bride will not lay claim to Autumn.Their heirs may inherit both lands, if the union survives that long. But for now, the two realms stay separate.”

“Well, that’s a relief, isn’t it?” Nyx asked, suddenly wishing he had Uncle Lucien here to ask about it. His uncle knew more about the ins and outs of court politics than anyone else, from a combination of his longtime friendships with courtiers all over Prythian, and his own cunning that had earned him his foxlike reputation.

“It is, for now, but Eris is wily,” Amren said, clucking her tongue disdainfully. “He will find a way to bend Hybern to his will, even if it takes centuries. Nothing will stand between him and power forever. Even when he acted our ally, I always distrusted him. I told your father to eliminate Beron and all his brood, and bestow Autumn on the youngest.”

Nyx stiffened, wondering whether it was wise to speak so openly of such things, especially considering how his own father had come to power. One did not go about assassinating royal families, no matter how much they were hated, or risk retaliation, if not all-out war. But Varian only laughed, as though he’d heard her talk in such a way many times before. “That’s not how the magic works, my love.”

Nyx had no idea how the magic worked, why it chose as it did, and often seemed to choose unwisely. How did it know who was worthy, or capable of wielding it for proper purposes?

Amren said, “Where strength goes, magic follows.”

Nyx cleared his throat, not certain he liked the sound of that, and addressed Varian. “How does Lord Tarquin take all this?”

“He takes it very seriously. Hybern, that cursed isle, lies to the west of our coastline, Autumn to our eastern border. And if Spring allies with Eris, as we all guess it will, Tarquin fears that our territory will be nearly surrounded,” Varian said. “It is a strategic nightmare.”

Nyx winced sympathetically. Summer would be cut off on three sides, with only the wintry northern border linking them to the rest of Prythian.

“But as Tarquin and I have assured your parents, Summer is not interested in allying with Hybern,” Varian went on, spitting out the name like a curse. “They are responsible for too many depredations and cruelties against us, both during Amarantha’s reign and the War that followed. We sacrificed two High Lords, and countless valiant soldiers and citizens, to free ourselves from their terror, and have no intention of dishonoring their memory. We will not send a single diplomat, or engage in any trade or friendship, unless they make reparations.”

“They would be doing so with Eris’s money, for they were bankrupted by the War,” Amren scoffed, “and Eris will not part with a single gold mark to strengthen Summer. Not when your territory lies smack in the path of his ambitions.”

“Let him scheme. It will come to nothing. We have dealt with far more cunning opponents before,” Varian said dismissively. “Summer is firmly allied with the other courts - Winter, Day, and Night, and Dawn if Thesan ever deigns to involve himself.” Varian waved a fluttery hand, mimicking one of Thesan’s famed songbirds. “As for Spring, we have been defending our southern border vigorously for several decades now. It is no trouble to extend our vigilance to the Autumn border.”

It sounded like a lot of trouble, but Nyx tried to sound hopeful. “Perhaps it won’t come to that. Perhaps Eris can draw Hybern in, make an ally of them on Prythian’s behalf.”

“Have you met Eris?” Varian scoffed. “The male sows chaos wherever he goes. He acts not for Prythian as a whole, but for his own interests.”

“I suppose that’s common enough behavior in a High Lord,” Nyx said.

Amren drew herself up, eyeing him sharply. “It is a High Lord’s sacred duty to act in his court’s best interest.” She glanced around the room, as though seeking out her own High Lord, but Nyx’s parents had not yet come in to join the party. “But inviting Hybern to gain any foothold on our shores is irresponsible, even if Eris claims he is acting the diplomat. I pushed your father to claim the mantle of High King for exactly this reason, to prevent such dangers. It is unfortunate he did not pursue the matter.”

Nyx was glad of it. He doubted that many faeries in wider Prythian, beyond their own court’s borders, would want his father as High King, after what happened during the occupation. But he only said, “Prythian has not had a High King in thousands of years.”

“We are fortunate that Tamlin declined the position, when Amarantha offered it to him,” Varian remarked.

That had not occurred to Nyx before. Tamlin was his family’s longtime enemy, and if he’d agreed to sit at Amarantha’s side, he could have pressed his advantage, used her conquest as an opportunity to exact revenge. Instead, it was Nyx’s father who had been at Amarantha’s side for all those years.

But not as her consort — as her whore, whatever that meant.

The whole thing was confusing as hell, and gave Nyx a headache. He felt like he was missing something terribly important, some detail or clue that would make it all make sense. And he desperately wanted it to make sense, though he knew it would be unpleasant.

Some things are not meant for your eyes, Nyx. It would traumatize you, and that would help no one.

If just seeing what had happened would traumatize him, what about everyone who’d been there? Lived through it? Nyx couldn’t bear the thought of it.

“We need not speak of that. It is Solstice,” Amren scolded. “And I need a drink, Varian.” Her partner dutifully pecked her cheek, and went off in search of the drink table, pausing to elbow Uncle Cass good-naturedly and exchange friendly barbs along the way. Varian had been attending their parties as long as Nyx could remember, and teasing his uncle about being a danger to architecture for that long, as well.

“It was one building,” Uncle Cassian exclaimed, with the group around him joining in like a chorus, then breaking up into laughter.

Amren reached up and sank her slim fingers into Nyx’s collar, pulling him in closer. He suppressed his yelp, and leaned down obligingly. “Never forget that what your father did, he did for the good of our family, and Velaris,” Amren hissed in his ear. “We live in peace and prosperity because of him. He was not afraid to make the hard choices, to do what he had to do. He sacrificed everything for all of our sakes’. No one else will understand, not even our close allies - but we understand, because he did it for us.”

Nyx nodded, standing up and straightening his collar, not needing to give Amren any other answer. She stated it as absolute fact, not to be questioned. His father was revered here in Velaris, and in the Night Court’s other civilized places, and if malcontents in the Hewn City or the wilds of Illyria sneered at him or quibbled with his methods, they were simply ungrateful, or ignorant. His father was a hero, for there was nothing he wouldn’t give for his court and his people, and his family most of all. Nyx had grown up in that shadow, awed by the male who loved and raised him, and unnerved at the standard that he’d set, in equal measure.

But outside this court, there were many who thought him a villain. A deceiver, a murderer and torturer, a willing participant in Amarantha’s cruelties. The kind of person who could kill innocent younglings.

Was that wicked daemati with the soulless black eyes impersonating his father all over Prythian? Or had that really been him, but acting under duress, as Uncle Az suggested? Marching on Rhodes with Hybern’s army, earning the Deceiver nickname, was bad enough — but what had he done Under the Mountain that no one wanted to talk about?

Nyx suddenly felt a gentle rap at his mental shields, as though his father himself had heard those questions, and his heart rate spiked, his body flooding with the shame of thinking those traitorous thoughts here in his father’s house, on Solstice, on his mother’s birthday, by the Cauldron.

Nyx.

He excused himself from Amren, then stepped towards the edge of the room where he could more easily tune out the party in progress. Hello, Father. Aren’t you going to come in? The party’s started.

In a little while. But first there is a private matter to discuss. Come up to my office?

Nyx headed for the exit, his legs obeying the implied command before he’d even made up his conscious mind to do it. He tried to lock down his thoughts, shoo away the nagging questions that had crept in despite his efforts to focus on the holiday. Is everything all right? he asked nervously. Where is Mother?

I’m here too. Come up, sweetheart, her voice piped up, and he breathed out a sigh of relief, though he couldn’t begin to articulate what he’d been worried about.

He ascended the stairs, feeling a creeping cold dread inside him, like he was about to be called in for a scolding, or sent to his room without supper. Not that he’d ever been treated like that, but it was a favorite punishment for naughty children in his books of mortal fairytales. And he felt like a naughty child, though he hadn’t done anything.

Nyx speared out his daemati senses towards his father’s office, trying to gauge the mood within, and was surprised to note another presence inside, with his parents. He cracked the door open cautiously, then opened it the rest of the way.

“Uncle Lucien? What are you doing here? I mean — Happy Solstice,” he blurted, flushing at his own awkwardness. “You didn’t mention you were coming?”

His uncle rose, clapping a warm hand on his shoulder. He was dressed impeccably, in a dark green brocaded suit jacket and pants instead of his usual Day Court chiton. “Just making a delivery, and catching up with your parents a little.”

“Oh,” Nyx said stupidly. “A delivery?” Solstice gifts, probably.

But he frowned at the thought of his uncle coming all the way over here, just to drop off parcels, when he could have used a bit of simple magic to accomplish it. Nyx had already exchanged his gifts with his Day Court family prior to departing, and hadn’t been tasked with bringing anything back, either. And he’d been too preoccupied with his own whirling thoughts to ask about it.

“Two deliveries, actually,” his father said. “Two very interesting ones, at that.”

Nyx turned to look at his father, who was seated at his desk with his long legs propped up casually, clad in a midnight black suit that seemed to gobble up any light that fell upon it. It felt like he was looking in a conjurer’s mirror, for Nyx had forgotten how alike they looked, how it seemed like his own face was looking back at him. But not quite his, for his father’s deep well of power shone in his eyes — not soulless and black, but violet and sparkling with starlight.

What did people see, when they looked at that sharp face, those glittering eyes? Did they see a ruthless killer, a preening tormentor? Did they see a conscientious ruler, a savior? Nyx looked at his father, really looked, at the male who so very beloved and familiar to him, yet so profoundly a stranger. He desperately needed to say something, to stop making it weird as Sibyl would say, and yet no words could be forced out of him.

Uncle Lucien hovered near the doorway, his own familiar face reassuring, open and smiling. If he regarded the High Lord of the Night Court with any lingering animosity, he was good at not showing it.

Then his mother reached forward, from where she had been lounging comfortably in one of his father’s plush armchairs, and handed him a small gift-wrapped box, its silver foiling gleaming in the low light. Nyx stared at it for long moments before accepting it, like he didn’t know whether it would contain treasure, or poison.

“From Viviane and Kallias,” his uncle said, his metal eye clicking as he watched Nyx slide the wrapping aside with surprisingly steady fingers. “They could not present it to you in person, but wanted to be sure you received it on Solstice, their most sacred holiday.”

Nyx sank into the armchair opposite his mother, conscious of the three powerful faeries all staring curiously at him, and pried the box open to find a gorgeous sapphire medallion nestled inside it, set among strands of diamonds that hung down from it like icicles.

His father sat up, feet landing gracefully on the floor, so that he could lean forward and examine the gift more closely, while his mother gasped softly. “Oh! That’s beautiful.”

Nyx withdrew it carefully, his Winter Court magic rising up as he lifted it, and he stared with wonder into the depthless jewel for long moments before thinking to ask, “This isn’t really for me, is it?”

Nyx looked up at his uncle, who only looked thoughtful, not surprised. “There’s an official proclamation that came with it.” He indicated the scroll, neatly wrapped up on his father’s desk, then fixed Nyx with friendly mismatched eyes. “You should be honored, Nyx. It is rare for anyone outside of the Winter Court to receive such recognition.”

“I am,” Nyx said, his eyes wide, and he carefully laid the gem back in its box before thinking to ask, “But why honor me, exactly?”

Uncle Lucien shifted on his feet, suddenly a bit uncomfortable, but managed to say matter of factly, “Kal and Viviane were grateful for your help in investigating the massacre. Now that the culprit has been identified, their people can find closure.”

“And so can we,” his mother added quietly, reaching for his father’s hand.

“You figured it out, not me,” Nyx protested to his uncle.

Uncle Lucien waved a hand. “We did it together.”

“Apparently you’ve gotten an education in diplomacy as well as magic,” his father mused, his violet eyes sparkling. Was that pride? Nyx hoped it wasn’t. It felt wrong to be praised by his father for this, when his father had been the one accused of the murders.

“Speaking of that, he hasn’t seen the other present,” Nyx’s mother said, indicating a piece of paper and a small lumpy object placed on top of it. Definitely not another jewel — and thank the Cauldron. Nyx felt nervous just touching the beautiful sapphire, much less wearing it.

“Ah yes. That one was surprising,” Uncle Lucien said. “It arrived at the palace as I was getting ready to come here.” His eye clicked as he turned to Nyx’s mother, as though he wanted to say more, but was hesitating.

Nyx came closer to the desk, eyeing the strangely shaped object, then reached out to pick it up. “From Spring?” he asked incredulously, twisting it around, examining it, feeling a small spark of magic that resonated inside him.

“From the princess,” Uncle Lucien said. “Apparently, she made it. The card, too.”

Nyx raised an eyebrow, then snagged the parchment from the desk, and nearly burst out laughing at the caricatured drawing of him — a dark smudge of shadow and grotesquely large wings. He held it up so that his parents and uncle could see it. “It’s a good likeness.”

“You made quite the impression,” Uncle Lucien said, chuckling at it.

“We should hang it in the foyer, with your other portraits,” his father quipped.

Nyx held up the gift, carefully turning it this way and that. “I wonder if,” he murmured, then infused a little of his Spring Court magic into it, grinning when the hardened clay shimmered and transformed, stretching out into a delicately petaled flower.

“Nyx!” his mother exclaimed, startled, then said, more evenly, “I see you’ve been practicing your shapeshifting.”

“Not really,” Nyx admitted. Of all his powers, his Spring Court ones were the least developed. He had no practical use for them, and it felt almost disloyal to use them. His mother had confided in him that she’d once felt the same. But it’s part of you, yours to use as you see fit, she had added. You never know when you might need it. Shapeshifting saved my life more than once, as well as your father’s.

“Talk about diplomacy,” Uncle Lucien said. “You should be proud, Nyx. Getting any acknowledgment from the Spring Court is a major concession.”

“Why should they be the ones who concede anything?” his mother protested. “After all Tamlin’s done, he’s in no position to grant anyone favors, or not acknowledge them.”

“Considering that Spring is about to formally join Eris, I’d say this is fortunate,” Uncle Lucien replied, carefully not addressing her assertions, Nyx noticed. “It leaves the door open for negotiations later, if not between High Lords and Ladies, then at least between the heirs to the courts.”

Nyx crinkled his brow at that. “Kore’s a youngling.”

“Younglings grow up, Nyx,” Uncle Lucien said, pointedly tilting his head in Nyx’s direction.

“They do indeed,” Nyx’s father murmured, beaming first at Nyx’s mother and her pregnant belly, and then looking thoughtfully up at his son, as though what he saw both pleased and puzzled him in equal measure. Nyx tried not to squirm at it.

“Anyway, I should get back,” Uncle Lucien said. “Let me know your final decision about taking the trip, when you’ve made it.”

“I’d better go, hadn’t I?” Nyx asked. “To thank everyone in person?”

“Not to Spring, though, surely?” his mother said, a hint of worry creeping into her tone.

“Well,” Nyx hedged, “well, shouldn’t I?”

“It’s risky,” his father said, dusting a spot of lint off his jacket. Nyx thought of how several of the Winter Court testimonies had mentioned that particular gesture, and wanted to scream at his father to stop doing it, though he knew the impulse was irrational.

“Not that risky. He’d be with Lucien. And Sibyl, too,” his mother said thoughtfully. She looked up at Uncle Lucien. “Will you bring her by to visit? It’s been an age since we have seen her.”

Uncle Lucien looked a little surprised, but smiled and said, “We’ll come to pick Nyx up after Solstice. Sibyl will be happy to see everyone.”

“Not as happy as Aunt Elain,” Nyx said, thinking about his aunt finally having the chance to catch up with Nuala and Cerridwen during her stay. It was the perfect arrangement, really — he would get to see the rest of Prythian with his uncle and cousin, while his aunt had time to spend with her family, and could help his mother get ready for the new baby.

“Next year you should all come,” Nyx’s mother said, still looking at Uncle Lucien. “Have Solstice together.”

“Oh yes,” Nyx exclaimed, pleased and surprised that she would suggest it.

Uncle Lucien’s eye clicked, as though it had something to say on the matter. But his uncle smiled. “That sounds lovely,” and sketched a bow to all of them before departing.

Nyx turned to his parents, unsure of what to say, settling on, “Everyone’s downstairs.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” his mother said, rubbing her belly absently, then looked at the flower still in his hand. “Does that need water?”

Nyx shrugged. “I don’t think so?” He focused on it, shifting it back into clay again, then sliding it into his pocket.

“Six months away, and you’ve made alliances with half of Prythian,” his father said jokingly, but there was appreciation in his tone, even if it sounded skeptical.

“It’s been good. Mostly,” Nyx said, then added hastily, “But I’m happy to be home, too.” And despite his nagging questions, he really meant it.

“We’d better get going. That dinner’s not going to eat itself,” his mother said, sliding out of the chair and standing up, then reaching for his father’s hand. The sight of them holding hands, how tender they always were towards one another, comforted him.

Mama forgave him. Mama loves him.

Maybe that was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

“It’s just my color,” Uncle Cassian exclaimed, holding up the skimpy red bikini bathing suit against his clothing, to a chorus of raucous laughter. He grinned at Varian. “Now I definitely have to visit Adriata, hit the beaches.”

Varian muttered what sounded like a prayer to the Cauldron, but Amren merely leaned forward, like she would snatch the offending garment right out of his hands. “That’s mine, you brute.”

“It is not,” Uncle Cassian intoned, deliberately dangling it out of her reach, narrowly avoiding smacking his mate in the face with it. She scowled at him, but he stayed smug, intoning, “By the rules of the gift exchange, whoever unwraps it gets to keep it. It’s your misfortune that I drew a higher number than you.”

Aneirin said, deadpan, “Bet you can’t fit that on over your wings. But if you do, I’ll buy your drinks all night at Rita’s next time I’m in town.”

Nyx’s father chuckled wryly, “It’s not his wings that won’t fit,” and kept chuckling even when his mother plucked the bathing suit from Cassian’s hands and whipped it at him, scolding, “Rhys! There are children present.”

His father caught the other end of the bathing suit, and a brief tug of war ensued as his mother tried to get it back, until Amren reached out and grabbed it from both of them, hissing, “Stop that! You’ll rip it,” while Catrin pouted, “We are not children.”

Aunt Mor cackled, crowing, “It only counts towards the bet if he models it for all of us.”

Uncle Cass’s eyes narrowed, as though this condition might test his resolve to go through with it, but he was saved from having to answer when Enyo said tartly, “I bet you’ll never get it back from Amren. Stealing things that belong at the Summer Court is her longtime hobby.”

Nyx’s jaw almost hit the floor, hearing his cousin joke about that so casually. Enyo and Amren had always acted like siblings, from the time she was very small, and she got away with saying the most outrageous things as a result of it. But he could feel without looking how both of his parents tensed up at the mention of stealing. They had received blood rubies for doing exactly that, death promises that were no laughing manner, and had only won back the Summer Court’s friendship after coming to their aid when Hybern attacked. Reparations, after a fashion.

But Varian grinned wickedly, taking a rather different meaning from Enyo’s taunt. “It doesn’t count as stealing if I came willingly,” he drawled, and made a show of giving Amren a lingering kiss that had everyone groaning and tossing crumpled bits of wrapping paper at them.

“Get a room!” Enyo hollered.

Amren kept the kiss going, simultaneously extending her arm to give them all a vulgar gesture, provoking a fresh round of catcalling and laughing.

Nyx breathed a sigh of relief, then met his mother’s eyes from across the circle. She gave him a tight smile, clearly relieved as well.

But there was something else in her gaze as well — concern, or disappointment.

I really messed up this time.

Nyx yanked his mind away from his gloomy thoughts, determined not to spoil the rest of the evening like he’d almost ruined dinner, and tried to focus back on the gift-giving. They were all settled in a ragged circle around the massive pile of presents, which was dwindling by the minute as each person redeemed their slip of paper to choose a gift randomly from the pile. So far, Varian had received a warm knitted scarf that would be of no use whatsoever in Summer, while Aneirin had unwrapped a steamy Sellyn Drake novel that all of the Valkyries swooned over, while the uncles supplied suggestive comments that made his poor cousin’s face turn as red as his hair. But Uncle Cassian seemed to have the unique talent of picking out the most preposterously mismatched present from the pile every year, and this year’s choice seemed to be no exception.

Nyx always thoroughly enjoyed the circus that was his family’s newest tradition, watching the way that some folks employed their spying talents or cunning to figure out what to pick and what to avoid, while others lunged impulsively for the best-wrapped or most unusually shaped item. The items were always swapped and bargained over afterwards — he didn’t doubt Amren would be sunning herself on the beaches of Adriata in Uncle Cassian’s bikini, for example — but everyone always walked away with something, and that was what mattered.

“I’m next! Me, me!” Catrin squealed, eyeing Aneirin’s new reading material with a jealous fervor. Nyx knew she would be determined to choose something Aneirin would love, so that he would be sure to swap his gift with her, and not be swayed by other offers. Cat stood, delicately picking her way through the group on her tiptoes, and folded her arms thoughtfully as she scanned the pile of gifts.

Nyx’s own number was far down the list, second to last in fact, so he only half-watched the spectacle, knowing full well that he had no chance of picking out anything decent. It hardly mattered, anyway. He needed nothing, wanted for nothing, and participated in the tradition because the family expected it, because not participating would make him a spoilsport. His own contribution to the pile was rather unimaginative — a sampling of Eleusinia’s best ice cream flavors that he had packaged up and infused with his ice magic so that it would stay frozen and fresh until eaten. He just hadn’t had time to come up with anything funny or clever.

“Yes!” Catrin held up her prize, newly shorn of its wrapping, a handsome leather dagger sheath that Nyx thought was a far worthier gift than the romance novel she’d had her eye on. But she beamed at Aneirin from across the pile of gifts at her feet, and he gave her a brisk nod in return. Trade accomplished, then.

Aunt Nesta was up next, but Nyx’s eyes strayed to Enyo and stayed there. He desperately hoped that Enyo’s mother would find something worthy or at least respectable in the pile, for Aunt Nesta’s being slighted in the gift giving was a long-standing sore point, and was in fact why they had gone to this current arrangement. Enyo, who missed nothing, had not failed to notice when her mother’s pile of presents was smaller than the others’, and had had some harsh words to say on the subject. The fact that Aunt Nesta was in only a few scattered paintings at the River House, and was left out of a prominently hung “family portrait” featuring Aunt Elain and their father, hadn’t helped matters.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Aunt Nesta had tried to reassure her daughter, whether because she really didn’t care, or she was embarrassed at making a scene in front of Aunt Mor and Amren and Varian.

But Enyo was having none of it. “Are you or are you not a member of this family?”

Aunt Nesta was very much a member of the family, revered and valued. Nyx knew that his parents, particularly his father, would buy her anything and everything if she asked for it, out of gratitude for her sacrifice that had saved all their lives. But there was some lingering history that he didn’t understand, some level of tension and strain that had yet to fully dissipate, especially now with Enyo there to point out what she saw as slights and injustices. Solstices, in particular, were awkward, when some people got much more extravagant gifts than others, and some members of the family didn't exchange gift with each other. Even had it not been for the past history, such imbalances could easily breed resentment.

It had been Catrin, ever the peacemaker, who had come up with the idea with putting all the gifts in one communal pile, then having everyone select an item at random. It would reduce the number of gifts one had to buy, and would be fairer for everyone. If people chose to exchange more lavish gifts in private, they could do so without risk of offending anyone. Even years later, Nyx always prayed that Aunt Nesta would receive the best gift in the pile, both because he genuinely appreciated what she’d done for him, and because he dreaded Enyo’s negative reactions.

When Aunt Nesta’s foray into the gift pile produced a lovely cashmere sweater that was far more his own mother’s style, but would look very well on his aunt, Nyx breathed a cautious sigh of relief. And then another, when Enyo herself dug into the gifts and came up with his own box of ice cream, and seemed very well pleased with it.

“It’s all a plot, to get you to come visit the Day Court. Sibs and I will take you to Eleusinia’s, and then you can select your own ice cream flavors,” Nyx said. “It’s all delicious. Isn’t that right, Uncle Az?”

Uncle Azriel solemnly vouched the superiority of Eleusinia’s ice cream, amid doubters who insisted that Velaris had any number of shops that could compete with it. Enyo fended off pleas to share her box with anyone, at least until she’d had a chance to try all the flavors. Nyx sat back, relieved that his own contribution hadn’t been disastrous.

You’ve caused enough trouble for one evening.

He’d gone downstairs with his parents, determined to enjoy the fine meal with his family, and put all his thoughts of ancient history behind him. They were here together, which was  a privilege that many families didn’t have, and had plenty of fine food and wine, and the leisure to enjoy it. But when Nuala and Cerridwen winnowed the food in, but made no appearance, even just to be thanked for their efforts, Nyx’s mood had begun to sour.

Aunt Nesta had presided at the head of the table, her mate on one side, Enyo on the other. Nyx was amused to note that the Illyrian warriors had taken one side of the table — Uncle Cass, Aneirin, and Uncle Az, in that order — while the four Valkyries were lined up on the other — Enyo, Catrin, Aunt Gwyn and Aunt Emerie, and Aunt Mor next to her. Varian and Amren had sat down together, leaving the end of the table for Nyx and his parents. Nyx’s mother was at the foot of the table, his father on one side of her, and Nyx on the other. It had put him across from his father, with a front row seat to how his parents spoke to each other in low voices, put food on one another’s plates, and took turns patting his mother’s belly.

It had made him feel profoundly guilty.

Especially when he couldn’t look at his father without remembering what he’d seen in that gods-damned memory.

“More water, Feyre darling?” his father asked solicitously.

Mortal trash, his voice reverberated tauntingly in Nyx’s mind.

“That piece of shit. But that’s Devlon for you,” Uncle Cass’s voice had boomed out from the other end of the table, jarring Nyx out of his thoughts. He had hastily shoved down his revulsion, forcing himself to take a bite of roast chicken.

“Some things never change, I guess,” Aneirin had agreed. “If anything, he’s gotten crankier since you all trained with him.”

“That’s probably our fault,” Uncle Azriel had said, though he didn’t sound sorry about it. “Every time we visit, we ruffle his feathers. He’s a proud bastard."

“Most Illyrian males are,” Aunt Emerie had commented. And she would know. “Insufferably proud and pig-headed.”

“Present company excluded, I’d hope,” Nyx’s father had purred.

I’d forgotten that human minds are as easy to shatter as eggshells.

“Mostly,” Aunt Gwyn had said pointedly, and all the Illyrians at the table had chuckled at it, though they also looked a little offended.

“Sensitive Illyrian babies,” Nyx’s mother had added, and they all laughed again, his father the loudest.

Look at how delightful she is—look how she’s trying not to cry out in terror. It would be quick, I promise.

Nyx had coughed forcefully then, eliciting calls of alarm and murmured queries of concern for his well being. He’d waved them all away, downing his glass of wine far too quickly to clear his throat. What could he say? Oh, it’s no problem, I was just reminiscing about the time my father nearly killed my mother, and gloated about it.

His father’s gaze had lingered on him for extra moments, long after everyone else’s focus had returned to their own dinners. He knows something’s wrong. He can feel it.

Nyx had kept on taking bites, content to let the conversation flow around him, hoping it would distract him, get him out of his head. He’d been gone for long enough that he had to work to understand the context for everyone’s stories, and he’d struggled to pay attention. He’d gathered that the Valkyries had been going on missions to remote villages, bringing relief after a year of drought and poor harvests, and investigating a series of crimes against females that they thought might have a common perpetrator. Rin and Cat were both training with their siphons, debating whether to add a third yet or wait a few more months. Enyo was conspicuously silent during that part of the conversation, and Nyx wondered when everyone else would realize what she’d already confided in him -- that she’d inherited no power from either parent.

“And you, Nixie? How’s the Day Court?” Aunt Mor had asked him brightly, giving him one of her kind smiles. “Helion’s not working you too hard, is he?”

“Not too hard. It’s helpful to learn from such a skilled magic user,” Nyx had said, suddenly conscious that all other conversations at the table had ceased, and that everyone was listening in. They were curious about his doings, he thought. I’ve been gone too long.

“I heard the Day Court has excellent libraries,” Aunt Gwyn said.

“Oh, you’d love it,” he had assured her. She really would, too. His aunt was a diligent scholar and intellect, and he imagined she’d be right at home among Helion’s cadre of scholars if she weren’t such a committed warrior. “The Great Library has books on every subject.”

“Even romance?” Catrin had asked, nudging her mother with her elbow suggestively.

Nyx had blinked at that, but Aunt Nesta declared, “Sellyn Drake lives at the Day Court. Of course they’d have romance books in the libraries.”

Nyx had had to admit that he had no firsthand knowledge of it, but had assured them all that Helion took pride in making his collections as complete and thorough as possible. Presumably that would include all genres, romance included.

“That old bastard, with his preferences, I’m sure there are plenty of romances to choose from,” Varian had quipped.

That had gotten Nyx’s back up a little, though he knew Helion would have just laughed at the innuendo. “Helion’s been a very kind host,” he’d protested. “Everyone’s been very welcoming.” That had been almost accurate — and only Uncle Azriel and Enyo, and perhaps his parents, knew that it wasn’t.

“Good,” Uncle Cassian had declared, “because there’d be hell to pay if they weren’t.”

Nyx had not liked the sound of that, but had chosen to ignore it. What could he say? Uncle Cass was only looking out for him.

“Nixie can take care of himself,” Enyo had piped up.

“Course he can,” Uncle Cass had replied, taking another few vigorous bites of his chicken before snorting, “Heard you got into it with Tamlin.”

Everyone had made some version of a disgusted face — Aunt Gwyn had had the mildest reaction, merely wrinkling her freckled nose, while others muttered angrily or rolled their eyes at the mention of the cursed High Lord. And Aunt Nesta had declared, “If he bothered you, Nyx, I’ll winnow down there and give him hell. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again.”

“I’ll go with you,” Aunt Mor had piped up, and a rare smile had passed between them.

Nothing to unite us like a common enemy.

But Nyx had shrugged it off, disliking all the drama. It had really been all right, a little tense maybe, but he’d never been in any peril. “Tamlin was more flustered than anything,” he had assured them all. “He wasn’t about to lash out with his wife and daughter watching.”

He’d slid his hand into his pocket, feeling for the lump of clay, his secret flower, and smiled a little.

“Didn’t know the bastard married,” Aunt Mor had commented.

“And a daughter? Is she a beast like her father?” Uncle Cassian had asked.

Nyx’s temper had flared. “She’s a sweet little girl. She just wanted ice cream.”

Uncle Cass had held up his hands. “With a father like that, I just wondered.”

“So all younglings are just like their fathers?” Nyx had snapped back. “Are you just like yours, then?”

Cauldron, had that been the wrong thing to say.

Uncle Cass’s siphons had flared in anger, bathing the dining room in an ominous bright red glow, while everyone else had fixed disapproving or angry glares in Nyx’s direction. 

“Take that back. Now,” Enyo had growled at him.

But Nyx had not backed down. It had seemed very important, for reasons that he couldn’t quite articulate, that he did not let the point go, and it was riling up his irritation that no one seemed to understand where he was coming from. “I just wondered,” he’d said testily.

“I am not like that raping, murdering fuckhead,” Uncle Cass had thundered.

Aunt Mor had jumped in, perhaps hoping to diffuse the situation. “It’s not an unreasonable assumption your uncle made. Tamlin’s daughter is surely being raised with his values, probably taught all sorts of ridiculous things —“

And then Nyx had dug his hole even deeper, by snapping back, “Like you were, by your father?”

His aunt had gone pale, and abruptly stopped talking.

His father’s fury had been palpable, thundering in his mind, and also aloud — it was so overwhelming, crushing in its intensity, that Nyx couldn’t tell the difference anyway. “Enough. You will be silent.”

Nyx’s body had strained and struggled against the command, the dominance of a High Lord giving a direct order to a subject. His father almost never pulled rank like this, for Nyx was generally so compliant that it never got to this point. And the idea that his father would silence him for just asking questions, after calling his mother mortal trash and sneering about giving her a quick death —

Nyx had glared at his father, not caring what mix of court powers blazed in his eyes, and had said with steely determination, “I will decide when it is enough.”

And to his shock, he’d felt his father’s darkness waver.

His father had sat across from him, fury and confusion etched plainly on his usually placid features, eyes dark and suspicious, like he couldn’t believe Nyx had just challenged him, in front of the entire family, no less. And that was all very well, because Nyx couldn’t believe it either. What the fuck had he been thinking?

His mother had laid trembling hands on both their arms. “Now, Nyx. Rhys. Let’s all calm down, okay?” Her voice was tentative, soft, almost fearful. 

He never, ever wanted to make his mother feel that way.

She’d had enough males in her life who’d done that to her. And one of them was sitting right there at the fucking table —

That thought had made him want to blast his father, but the sane part of him knew he mustn’t, that he was hugely overreacting. That he was ruining Solstice, and ruining his mother’s birthday, and freaking everyone out.

You should have more control, you stupid ass.

What did he care what was said at dinner, anyway? It was all just talk, not harming anyone.

Nyx had hastily pulled all of his power back, shrinking back in his chair, muttering a reflexive apology to the room at large, avoiding looking too directly at anyone, his father especially, his eyes blurring with tears that he refused to let fall.

Uncle Azriel had stepped in then, speaking softly. “Nyx was just pointing out what we all know, in stark terms. Very few of us at this table would wish to be judged based on our fathers’ actions.” A shadow had tickled at Nyx’s shoulder, and he'd managed to look up, catching his uncle’s kind expression through blurry vision.

“You’re right, damn it,” Uncle Cassian had said, his siphons guttering.

That was Nyx’s cue, and he’d taken it. “Sorry I overreacted,” he'd said, inclining his head towards Uncle Cassian, who’d always been kind to him, who hadn’t deserved the outburst, not really. “I know you’re kind and good, and you’d never hurt females.” Then he'd turned to Aunt Mor, who had gone several shades paler, and was staring down at her plate while Aunt Emerie rubbed soothing circles on her back. “And you’re nothing like Keir. We all know that.”

Aunt Mor had looked up at him, giving him a wobbly smile that he’d known wasn’t genuine. “Thank you, Nyx.”

No more Nixie. He doubted anyone here would use that childhood nickname ever again.

He’d felt Amren’s eyes on him again, and begged the Cauldron she wouldn’t comment on the strength of his magic. He had not intended to throw down a challenge like that, and was half expecting to be hauled outside to settle the score at any moment.

But the conversation had picked up at the table again, stilted and tense at first, then gradually slipping back into the easy camaraderie that had been there before. No one had asked him any more questions, not even just to enquire about Aunt Elain, much less her husband or daughter, and he’d not touched any more of the delicious dinner that Nuala and Cerridwen had labored over. When he finally snuck a look at his father, the male was perched on his chair, his face a mask of detached indifference, his eyes drifting anywhere but Nyx’s direction, and his mental shield slammed as firmly shut as the Prison.

Good. Nyx was in no mood to talk, anyway.

It had been a terrible relief when the meal disbanded and the group had adjourned into the parlor, to digest their meal and exchange gifts, but Nyx was dreading his turn to choose. He didn’t want anyone to look at him, to be the subject of anyone’s attention. All he'd wanted was to let everyone enjoy a happy Solstice, and he'd failed miserably.

I fucking blew it.

“Well?” Enyo snapped at him, and he jolted.

“My turn already?” he asked, startled.

“Already? The rest of us have already chosen,” Catrin chortled. She regarded him with her usual cheerful manner, seeming totally unbothered by his petulant behavior at dinner. “It’s just you and Aunt Feyre, now.”

“Oh,” Nyx said, blushing, and turned to his mother. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go first, Mama? It is your birthday, after all.”

Uncle Cassian let out a low curse. “Shit, Feyre, we all should have let you have first crack at it —“

“It’s all right,” Nyx’s mother said hastily. “Just because it’s my birthday doesn’t mean I should jump the line, or I’d be going first every year.” Then she turned and gave Nyx’s father a sultry look, probably due to some comment or innuendo he’d spoken into her mind. Nyx cringed a little at the thought of it.

“We want dessert, someone just go already,” Aunt Mor complained good-naturedly, swirling the wine around in her goblet. She was wearing her gift from the pile on her head - a pair of plush earmuffs with cat ears sticking out. It had clearly been purchased with Catrin and her lifelong nickname in mind, and Nyx didn’t doubt it would be sneaking its way into Cat’s bag by the end of the evening. “No one’s opened my gift, and it’s a good one.”

“This time,” Uncle Cass couldn’t resist quipping. Aunt Mor stuck out her tongue at him.

“Shh, hints are not allowed,” Aunt Emerie said, curling her arms more closely around Aunt Mor. They looked so comfortable together, so loving, that it was easy to forget that their relationship was still relatively new.

Nyx frowned down at the two gifts that were still on the floor. One was a formless lump, messily wrapped in festive paper, while the other was a neat flattish square that had been meticulously decorated. Nuala and Cerridwen’s work, he guessed — either his mother or father’s contribution. Of course they wouldn’t have had time to wrap it themselves, but had asked their servants to do it.

His hands shot out towards the lumpy one and grabbed it, before he had time to think on it or second guess his decision, and he peeled back the paper with trembling fingers.

Everyone leaned forward to look, murmuring and nudging each other, but Nyx’s gaze was wholly fixed on the gleaming silver sphere, about the size of an orange, that rested in his hands, reflecting all the lights of the room with a beautiful glow.

“Holy shit,” Uncle Cassian blurted out. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It sure is,” Aunt Mor said sweetly.

“Mor. Really?” Nyx’s father murmured.

“It belongs to me as much as Keir. It’s my inheritance,” Mor declared. “If he has a problem with it, let him fight me.”

Fight? Nyx’s gaze shot up to Aunt Mor in alarm.

“Oh, Mor. This is far too generous,” his mother was protesting, and the sphere seemed to grow heavier in Nyx's hands.

“It’s mine to do with as I will. I guessed it would call to its new owner, the one who most needed it. Obviously I was right,” Aunt Mor said matter of factly, smiling at Nyx. If any hurt feelings lingered in her heart because of what he’d said to her, she certainly wasn’t showing it. She seemed genuinely happy, and that made him happy, too.

“It’s wonderful,” he stammered, almost afraid to ask what it was.

Enyo asked, jealousy tinging her tone, “Nyx got a symphonia?”

Nyx shook his head, carefully palming the silver orb, turning it around and around to get a better look at it. “This doesn’t play music, I’m certain,” he said, though it did resemble Aunt Nesta’s precious symphonia, just a little. This was different, in a way he couldn’t articulate, but certainly powerful — it had a magic far deeper and more profound than anything he’d felt before.

He heard Uncle Az say, in response to his wife and daughter’s hissed questions, “That is the Veritas. An orb of truth.”

Nyx clutched at it, his fingers feeling thick and clumsy. An orb of truth? It had to be priceless, and extremely potent magic. “It’s too much. I can’t — I don’t deserve it,” he protested to Aunt Mor, flushing deeply.

“It called to you, boy,” Amren said sternly. “Don’t refuse it.”

“My family has hoarded it for far too long. It was doing no good to anyone, stashed away in the Hewn City. No one there has the power to use it,” Aunt Mor said. Then she turned to his father, as though answering some unspoken objection. “I’m sure Nyx would be glad to share his gift, should we need it.”

“Of course,” Nyx stammered, staring and staring at it. His gift. It sounded so strange to his ears. “But — but Aunt Mor, I don’t have your truth power.”

His aunt smiled enigmatically at him. “Are you sure about that?”

Nyx cradled the orb in his hands, desperately wanting to find out, and also desperately afraid of the answer, either way.

His father cleared his throat. “Well, Feyre darling, it looks like the choice has been made for you.”

Shit. Nyx had quite forgotten they were still doing the gift exchange.

His mother looked a little uncomfortable as she eyed the neatly wrapped square sitting forlorn and alone on the drawing room floor. “Well, this is a first — that’s the present I put in the pile.” She reached for it sheepishly, carefully hooking a finger into the folds of the wrapping so that she could slide the paper off without damaging it, then turned it around for everyone to look at.

It was a small framed painting of Velaris, glittering in the moonlight.

“Beautiful,” Aunt Gwyn proclaimed, and then they all chimed in in agreement.

Nyx’s ears burned as he looked at the painting, which his mother must have labored over for many long hours. “Should we switch,” he asked, his mouth dry, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father nod approvingly.

But his mother shook her head. “No, sweetheart, I think you were meant to have the orb.” She smiled at their family, holding the painting to her chest. “I guess that means I get to keep Velaris.”

Everyone started talking at once, suggesting places to hang the painting, or asking her how she’d achieved the beautiful glowing lights along the Sidra, or wondering when she’d paint the new baby into a family portrait, but Nyx sat holding his orb of truth, and found that he had nothing more to say, after all.

Chapter Text

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Nyx flopped down onto his bed, his childhood bed that suddenly felt small and constricting, when before it had always seemed perfectly snug and cozy. He barely had enough room for himself and his wings, and he rolled over onto his stomach, wincing when the talon of his right wing swung forwards and swept a pile of books off the nightstand.

Clumsy and stupid. What a combination.

He left the books where they’d fallen, and nestled down into the bed, struggling to get comfortable. Not that he deserved to be comfortable, in this room all bought and paid for by his parents, with a library’s worth of books, clothes of the finest fabric, trinkets and keepsakes and hand-painted treasures. He was a miserable spoiled wretch, an ungrateful asshole, and he didn’t need a fucking orb of truth to tell him so.

He’d counted down the minutes until he could escape from the party, until Amren and Varian waltzed out into the night together, until the lively conversation had died down to embers, and even bubbly Aunt Gwyn had stifled a yawn. Aunt Mor had drifted off to sleep curled in Aunt Emerie’s lap on the couch, while Uncle Azriel, who needed less sleep than anyone, was eyeing all the males with a warrior’s stoic calculation, no doubt formulating his strategy for the snowball fight based on everyone’s current condition.

Nyx had lost sight of his cousins completely, then demurred when Cat popped up in his vision, demanding that he come out to Rita’s with them. “Spoilsport,” she’d pouted, before mussing his hair and then bouncing towards the door, loudly complaining of Nyx’s refusal to Rin and Enyo, and the three of them had waved and left together, leaving him behind.

Spoilsport. Yes, that’s what I am.

Nyx had quickly gone upstairs, mumbling a hasty goodbye to whoever might be lingering in the parlor, careful to avert his eyes from both his parents. He didn’t trust himself to say the right thing, to be calm and collected, and he had no mind to brawl with his father, especially not in or near the house with his pregnant mother in it.

What he really should do was go back to the Day Court, lay low for a while until his mother gave birth, steer clear until the babe was old enough for everyone’s anxiety to settle. But the thought of having it out with his father with a vulnerable youngling scurrying around — that was hardly less risky.

Perhaps when his baby sister had grown up a little, when she was at least Kore’s age — no, seeing her father and brother fight would surely scare her.

Later, then, when she was a teen like Rin and Cat, at least able to winnow herself places, or shield with magic.

But the idea of waiting fourteen years, and of what might happen in all that time, turned his scant dinner sour in his stomach. There was no way he could trespass on Helion’s hospitality for more than a decade, hanging about the palace like an errant shadow. He’d miss his sister’s entire childhood, become a stranger to his uncles and aunts and cousins, would never get to see Ceri or Nuala, and he’d deprive himself of his own sweet mother, who’d done absolutely nothing to deserve his anger. She loved him so much she’d been willing to die. How could he just abandon her?

And what of the little sister, who’d be raised as he was, happy and oblivious? How would she react when she learned what he had — if she was ever exposed to the truth at all?

The thought of just avoiding his father, of not confronting him, of not fixing this, sickened him. His father was still his father, and always would be. And his childhood had been happy, full of laughter and games and late night flights over the city, revels and bedtime stories and Starfalls. He was so damn lucky to have a father who loved him, no matter what that father had done to others. And if his mother had forgiven it all, had moved on and was now happy, what right did Nyx have to hold a grudge about it?

Never forget that what your father did, he did for the good of our family, and Velaris.

How could hurting innocent people be for the good of anyone?

Nyx hadn’t been alive then, but he never would have asked his father to do that for his sake, wouldn’t have wanted it. He struggled to imagine Uncle Cass, or Aunt Mor or Amren, or especially Uncle Azriel, begging his father to do awful things, or to put himself in danger, to spare them one moment of pain or hardship. After all, Uncle Az had been sorrowful about being trapped in Velaris, saying he’d been desperate to rescue Nyx’s father, to raise a weapon, to strike blows against Amarantha and Hybern.

And Nyx’s mother, even as a breakable and defenseless human, had been brave and stoic. Even when she’d been terrified, in that memory he’d seen, when she’d been seized by a terrible power she could not fathom and had no hope of shielding against, she’d tried to hold her ground, not give in, not cry out or beg for mercy. And Nyx still couldn’t fathom why his father had acted with such cruelty, such preening malice, when there was no Amarantha looming over him, directing his actions, or forcing his hand.

He was not afraid to make the hard choices, to do what he had to do.

Had there really been no other options? Nyx’s father had always been known for his cunning and forethought. What choices had he considered and rejected? With his daemati powers, his ability to manipulate perceptions and memories, was torturing an innocent human girl his only recourse?

These are questions only your father can answer.

But the thought of approaching his father right now, of asking him a gods-damned thing, made Nyx want to vomit.

Nyx’s eye caught a gleam of silver by the window, and he lifted his head to it. The Veritas sat carefully propped on his bookshelf, nestled between Tales of Enalius and A Brief History of the Solar Courts, Eighth Edition. He shook his head, trying to decide which book was more fictional, then shoved all that out of his mind, focusing instead on the orb of truth beckoning to him.

What the hell had Aunt Mor been thinking? It was a priceless treasure, an heirloom of her family, and she was risking a showdown with Keir by claiming it, then giving it away to someone not of their bloodline. Did she want an excuse to battle her father? Surely she didn’t need one. Keir had done plenty over the centuries, but his horrific abuse of Mor should have sealed his fate long ago. How he’d been left to rule over others, innocent females and vulnerable younglings, Nyx couldn’t imagine.

But why not just give the Veritas to his parents? Surely they’d have much use for an orb of truth, to help with all the difficult challenges they faced when governing, and with dealing with the other courts and their scheming. Or why hadn’t Aunt Mor just kept it for herself to treasure, or pass it down to any younglings she and Aunt Emerie might one day have together? Why had Nyx been the one to end up with it? 

It called to you, boy. Don’t refuse it.

Nyx pushed up from the bed, hastily tucking in his wings before he toppled anything else, and closed the distance to the bookshelf in a few quick strides, staring at the orb like it might light up, or start speaking to him. He had no idea how it worked, how he might use such an object, if he was even capable of it. Aunt Mor had been too wrapped up in the festivities, too tipsy and sleepy, for him to pester for magic instructions, especially at a family party.

“How do you work,” he murmured, tentatively reaching out to brush it with his fingers, struggling to recall his various magic instructors’ advice for handling objects and artifacts. His brain felt mushy, fogged over with the wine he’d slung down at dinner on a nearly empty stomach and the anger burning in his gut, but he could feel without much concentration that there was magic imbued throughout the sphere. Not individual spells like he’d practiced with Phaedrus, but more of a concentrated aura. It felt familiar, somehow, and as he continued to guide his hand along the edges of the sphere, he realized it was his magic that he felt, amplified and reflected back to him.

Nyx stepped back and observed it, angling his head first one way and then the other, trying to figure out how the damn thing worked, then shrugged helplessly. He was so far out of his depth that he might as well have been his human mother, trying to perceive the magic all around her, but without the knowledge or senses to do it. She’d once told him that faerie power tasted metallic, like copper, and that she’d had no idea what she’d been missing until she’d awoken with new fae senses. “In a way, I was reborn,” she’d explained to him, and he’d marveled at the very thought of it.

That would make her little older than I am.

He quickly banished that thought from his mind, for that was still, true even counting her years as a human. In the human realm, the difference in their ages would place them solidly in different generations, but among faeries, who could live for a thousand years or longer, twenty-three years was nothing, barely worth mentioning. High Lord Tarquin, who’d celebrated his hundredth birthday not long ago, was considered a young adult, and even Uncle Lucien, who was more than three times that age, was still occasionally called little by Nyx’s other uncles and his father.

His mother’s life had been terribly rushed, far harder and desperate than he could have ever imagined experiencing. She’d been only Sibyl’s age when she’d first come to Prythian and gone Under the Mountain, and Enyo’s age when she’d fought in great battles. She’d lived whole lifetimes by the time she was twenty-three, was already bearing a youngling of her own, and he couldn’t fathom how she’d done it.

“I’ve had every advantage,” he told the Veritas miserably. “I was born to wealth and incredible power, while she had nothing. Why haven’t I done more? What have I ever done that’s worth anything?”

The Veritas flashed, as though responding, and Nyx jumped back, startled, as the silver surface began to swirl.

What the hell is it doing? His heart began to pound in terror. Oh, gods, I hope I haven’t broken it.

He hadn’t touched it that carelessly, had he? That would just be the pinnacle of humiliation and failure, if he’d ruined Mor’s priceless artifact before even learning how to use it. Hiding in the Day Court wouldn’t be far enough away — he’d have to exile himself with Uncle Lucien’s humans, if they’d have him, or go even further, flee to the continent —

The silvery sheen became wisps of smoke, and then the orb became clear and bright, vibrating as it filled with power, and Nyx hastily plucked it from the shelf before the books and knickknacks began to rattle. He backed up nervously, his legs hitting the edge of the bed, and he lowered himself down to sit on the edge, cupping the orb gingerly in his hands. The room became almost painfully bright as the Veritas glowed, but Nyx couldn’t tear his eyes away as colors swirled inside the orb and then settled into a fully formed image.

“Snow?” he squawked aloud, before remembering that sane people were sleeping, and that he shouldn’t be making a racket.

But there was snow in the orb, or a very good likeness of it, for his Winter Court power stayed settled and quiet inside him, not reacting at all to the sight as it would to the actual presence. Nyx watched, transfixed, as the snow fell in great sparkling gusts, and then the image began to move, as though he were flying through the snow towards a great stone castle.

He nearly yelped again when the image changed, and the snow cascaded outside the window, and he was looking inside at a group of faeries. He recognized only a few of them — Kallias and Viviane, and both of their children, standing on a raised platform, the crowd arranged all around them. The expressions on their faces were grave, solemn, sad, mirroring the mood of the gathered spectators, some of whom had their arms around each other, or stood alone, hugging themselves, and more than a few were crying.

Kallias raised his hands, commanding the crowd’s attention, then began to read from a piece of parchment with a bright gold symbol at the bottom, which Nyx recognized as Helion’s personal seal, the one he affixed to all court correspondence. And suddenly, he understood what he was seeing, though he wondered how it was possible.

He held the Veritas tightly in his shaking hands, afraid he might drop and shatter it, and stared at the images that it was showing him.

There were Boreas and Khione, both watching solemnly as their father spoke, then just as solemnly greeting a steady stream of faeries, shaking hands, bowing their heads, patting shoulders, whispering what Nyx guessed were words of condolence.

There was Kallias, clad in a simple dark suit of mourning, his usual sparkling silver crown set aside, bearing witness as a line of his subjects came up to the dais to inspect the parchment, now carefully laid into a glass case lined with velvet, too lost in their own grief and memories to fully register that their High Lord stood beside them.

And there was Viviane, stepping into the crowd to comfort a sobbing female, who clutched a little stuffed bear under one arm while she embraced her High Lady with the other.

That was when Nyx felt his own tears beginning to fall, but he didn’t risk dropping the Veritas to wipe at them.

Nyx couldn’t escape the sensation that a strange sort of peace was settling over the Winter Court families of the fallen younglings, despite the sadness weighing down upon them, and he thought he understood it. There was nothing to fear now, if the one who had murdered their precious babes, whose sneering face and voice tormented their memories, was truly dead and long-buried, never to return to threaten them again. Nowhere would Dagdan be hailed as a hero, or excused for his evil. He was truly gone, along with all the horror he stood for. And although they would never get back all he’d taken, at least they could nurse their grief in a world free of him.

The picture grew cloudy, then swirled and vanished, as though the snow had rushed in and covered it.

“Wait —“ Nyx begged it.

But the orb grew dim and cloudy, then turned silver and inert again.

I’ve seen enough, apparently.

Nyx felt like he was grasping at the edges of comprehension, figuring out the essential nature of the Veritas. He has asked it a question — What have I ever done that’s worth anything? — and it had shown him an answer.

The potential of that, the power of it, scared the hell out of him.

“How did you do that?” Nyx asked breathlessly, his heart pounding. But it sat cold and solid in his hands, and did not answer. He felt foolish for talking to it, but he had no idea how else to ask it questions.

He desperately wished he understood how the Veritas worked, the limits of what it might and might not show him. How might he direct it, get it to answer questions? Had those images from Winter been a vision, like what Aunt Elain had, or more like what Uncle Az learned from his shadows?

“Can you show me my mother?” he asked the orb, and it swirled with smoke in answer, but then settled back down.

Maybe I have to be more specific.

Nyx had spent long hours in Helion’s libraries, researching and reading, and he supposed that this was similar — he had to carefully hone his questions, if he wanted to get real answers.

Let’s see if it can do events from the past.

He thought for a moment, then chose a story he already knew well, a story he’d asked to hear when he was a youngling.

The night I finally met her — it was one of the happiest moments of my life, his father had once told him, about the night he’d met Nyx’s mother. I found her at a festival. Some faeries were giving her a hard time, and I chased them away.

“Show my mother when she met my father,” he said to the orb, then added, “Please.” He was not sure whether being polite to the orb was strictly necessary, but he wasn’t about to take chances.

This time the Veritas shone brightly and clearly, giving him a view of a dark, eerie forest, lit up from distant bonfires and torches. Then Nyx nearly shrieked at the sight of his human mother, just like he’d seen her in Uncle Lucien’s memory, and the wicked faeries that were surrounding her. His hackles rose, his blood burning with anger, to see them wrestling her, trying to drag her off into the trees. But his raw fury settled down into stark relief when his father stepped towards them, out of the shadows, and the infernal creatures scattered. And from the look on his mother’s face, she was relieved too.

That look, shared between his parents so long ago, soothed and comforted him. He stared at it, clung to it like a lifeline. So their early encounters had not all been terrible and violent. Perhaps he’d overreacted, after all.

Nyx knew he should leave well enough alone, that it was late and he should be sleeping, that there would be time aplenty to study this mighty gift and ask it questions. He could talk to Aunt Mor in the morning, take it back to the Day Court with him, consult the books and scholars, get some proper perspective on what this thing was, and where it got the images it had shown him.

But a restless voice inside him urged him onwards, scolded him for being a coward. Finally he could see the whole truth — get the answers that no one was brave or foolish enough to provide to him.

So he arranged the orb carefully on the bed, then sat himself down facing it, peering down at it nervously, then spoke his next request in a clear voice.

“Show me Under the Mountain.”

Chapter Text

The ground trembled as Nyx slammed into it, loosening rocks that went tumbling down the mountainside, sending the snow from the trees skittering into the crisp morning air, glittering like tiny diamonds in the early morning sunlight. So peaceful out here, an idyllic winter morning, the blanket of snow absorbing much of the sound, as though the forests and mountain were tucked in and slumbering — far too peaceful for the depthless anger burning through him.

His breaths came in great ragged pants, puffs of steam that quickly dissipated into the frigid cold of the mountains. He was woefully underdressed for it, still in only his nightclothes, had only just remembered to shove his feet into boots before winnowing from his bedroom and shooting up into the air. But he was sweaty from flying, and burning up with magic, and the stinging kiss of the icy snowmelt on his aching muscles felt refreshing. He flung an arm over his weary eyes as the sun gleamed and reflected, ringing faintly, off the fresh snowdrifts, painfully bright and cheerful. Like it was taunting him.

He flung himself down, stomach clenching, and slammed his fist on the ground, the snow underneath him instantly melting, the grass underneath that singeing on contact, as his fire rushed out of him. Everything fucking hurt, and he didn’t care. It should all hurt, after what he’d seen. How could anything feel good, ever again?

He’d been so thoroughly disgusted, so fucking livid, that he’d fled his house, fled Velaris, before he could lash out, do things he’d regret. Every instinct he had screamed at him to protect, to avenge, to punish the bastards who’d killed and tortured, who’d hurt his mother, or watched her torment like it was fucking entertainment.

How she’d suffered, how she’d languished, how she’d been paraded about and humiliated — it sickened him, infuriated him, made him burn and burn with unquenchable anger. He longed to fly to the Middle, tear down that mountain, reduce it to rubble, spit on Amarantha’s corpse, burn her and her cursed beasts into ashes. But they were already gone, long gone. It was almost a letdown, and not a comfort. It would have felt better to kill them himself, to unleash himself fully and vent all this rage.

No wonder Uncle Lucien wouldn’t show me his memories.

Nyx rubbed at his eyes, stinging and raw, tears unshed and half-frozen prickling at them. He could never unsee those horrors now, and never unsee who had committed them.

He stumbled up to his feet, rustling his wings to shake off the snow, the little icicles that were starting to form on his wings. He was suddenly chilled, his skin slick with sweat, his limbs quivering, and he reluctantly heated himself up a fraction, just enough to get his muscles moving again. His feet started taking strides, each footfall sinking deeply into the snow, and as he took step after step, his anger began to burn all over again.

He’d held the Veritas with shaking fingers, willing the images to change, refusing to accept what he was seeing. It was a cascade of horrors, heart-poundingly gruesome, and he was only glad that the orb was soundless, though he could practically hear the sobs and screams and pleas regardless. He’d seen deaths, too many deaths, some meted out suddenly, others tortured and slow. Some were at the hands of disgusting monsters, but others were meted out by the witch herself — and still others by the cockily grinning male perched next to her.

That had been almost the worst, seeing that familiar amused smirk on his father’s face, the same indifferent hands-in-pockets pose, the same feline grace and precision, all in the service of the witch queen’s tortures. Nyx had nearly screamed when his father first appeared in the Veritas, then had watched with increasing horror as his father prowled through that cursed court, intimidation and loathing and death always close behind him.

And all that had been before his mother, his brave stubborn human mother, stumbled into the throne room, before she’d been savagely beaten by fucking monsters —

Suddenly Nyx whirled around, ducking instinctively as a snowball whistled by, followed by a familiar face popping up from behind a copse of low trees. “Nyx? There you are, sleepyhead. So you decided to join us, after all,” Uncle Cassian called down to him.

Despite his raw anguish, Nyx almost laughed. He hadn’t slept at all last night, wasn’t sure if he would ever sleep again. He gritted out, “I’m looking for my father.”

My father. The words felt all wrong, like he’d opened his mouth and some foreign language tumbled off his tongue.

“Nice try,” his uncle chortled. “Like I’m going to give away his position. You know it’s every male for himself.” And he lobbed a snowball Nyx’s way, as though to prove it.

Nyx’s magic lashed out, and the snowball blew apart into a puff of powder and glittering frost, scattering in all directions.

“Hey,” his cousin’s voice called out, from somewhere opposite Uncle Cass’s position, “that’s cheating.” And snowballs came hurtling from that direction, whistling as they arced through the air towards him.

Nyx glared towards his cousin’s hiding place, in no mood for this bullshit, and each of Aneirin’s expertly packed snowballs blew apart, exploding in midair.

“He’s right, Nyx. No using magic,” Uncle Cass admonished him.

Nyx had had enough. “That was not using magic,” he snarled. “This is using magic.”

He lifted his shaking hands, whipping up the snow into a frenzy, then flinging it outwards in all directions. The trees swayed, wind whistling through them, flinging needles and pinecones that pelted the mountainside. His uncle cursed and ducked, while his cousin simply disappeared from view, evidently realizing he couldn’t win. More distantly, his Uncle Az was somewhere, too, observing with his usual spymaster’s detachment, maybe even reporting to Nyx’s father.

I’ll give him something to report to Father.

Nyx threw back his head and howled, and the temperature around him plunged into a blistering cold, as a roaring blizzard barreled out from his position, violently bending and shaking the trees, blasting snow everywhere. He made no effort to shield himself as the sudden storm whipped all around him, lashing his cheeks and tossing his hair, only tucking his wings in and standing against it, inviting the mountain to do its worst. As if in answer, a boulder tore loose from its perch and rumbled towards him, then exploded into a cloud of dust as Nyx’s magic sizzled into it.

Nyx usually never used his misting ability, finding the whole notion profoundly disturbing. It was too final, too stark a fate, to seize hold of a thing and scatter its essence, obliterating it as though it had never been. He clenched his fists, shoving that lethal power back down inside him, no matter how it seethed and prickled, demanding to be released.

Uncle Cass was shouting again, but his voice was lost to the roar of the wind and the screaming grief and fury tearing Nyx up inside. Get out of here, all of you, Nyx warned, blasting the message into his uncles’ minds, his cousin’s too. Not that they’d listen. He didn’t want them caught up in the crossfire, if his father ever decided to come out and face him.

“Nyx!” Aneirin hollered. “Call off the storm!”

Nyx did not call off the storm.

He was the storm.

Thunder cracked overhead as hailstones pelted down, making deep holes in the swirling snowdrifts as they landed, as the sky plunged into an intense darkness, blotting out the mountain, the trees, and from his throat ripped loose a furious, mournful howl.

His mother’s tearstained human face flashed in his mind, how powerless she’d been, sick and sweat-soaked and shivering, caked with mud, after so bravely fighting that monster. That had been a heart-pounding sight, the spectacle of her dashing through the maze, slathering herself with filth and assembling a trap of bones — but her awful condition afterwards had been scarier still.

He’d been waiting for the Veritas to show his father helping her, rushing into her cell, sweeping her into his arms, tenderly cleaning her off, healing that gruesomely protruding bone in her arm, drying her tears and consoling her. Nyx had often been told how his father helped her Under the Mountain, after all.

But was that his father he’d seen, lunging at his badly injured mother, twisting her arm while she writhed and screamed and passed out from the pain? Hurting her, when she was already so badly off, laughing at her awful condition? Nyx had wanted so badly to believe it was that impostor again, the daemati with the soulless black eyes, but he knew that it wasn’t — not when her injuries were suddenly healed, and that familiar black lace tattoo swirled up her arm.

Nyx could have burst out crying right then, thinking about that lovely intricate design and all the others she’d gotten since, how proudly his mother displayed them, how they seemed so much a part of her. He had fond memories of curling up sleepily on her lap as a youngling, her arm draped comfortingly over him, how he’d traced those designs with his fingers, following each curve and line from elbow to fingertip. 

These are a symbol of love, she had told him, when he’d asked why she had them. Everyone can see how much your father and I mean to each other, our everlasting connection, our devotion. And Nyx had thought she really meant it.

But all the orb had shown was her shame, how she’d tried to tuck her arm behind her, how she scrubbed at the tattoo as though she was desperate to remove it. Whatever the tattoo meant to her now, she’d been horrified to receive it —

Nyx, his father’s voice resounded in his mind. Stop this.

No, he seethed back, then slammed his mental shields tightly shut. Had they been down before? How much had his father seen and heard?

The sky abruptly cleared, the darkness banished by a deep thrum of power, and there was Nyx’s father, glowering at him. “You will stop this now.”

Nyx let out a snarl of anger, the wind picking up again around him, tossing snow and ice and downed tree needles in his father’s direction. His father shielded, deflecting the onslaught, but Nyx took a step forward, undeterred. “You will not give me orders.”

Shadows began to leak out from his father as he thundered, “I am your High Lord and your father —“

“You are a bastard,” Nyx hollered.

His father went silent, tight-lipped, but the ground rumbled ominously underneath them. 

Good. Let him be angry.

Nyx stared his father down, fists clenched at his sides, and shook the ground twice as hard. He would not be intimidated, would not back down.

Suddenly there was movement to his left, one of his uncles approaching, and Nyx flung out a shield of air between them, encircling his father and himself, keeping everyone else out. He didn’t need his other family in the crossfire, or weighing in with opinions, taking his father’s side. None of them had been Under the Mountain, or seen what the Veritas had shown him.

His father eyed him sternly, his jaw set tight with anger, but said nothing. Perhaps he was trying to de-escalate the situation, seeing that Nyx was close to losing it. Or perhaps communicating with the others mind-to-mind, trying to gain information, gain the advantage?

“Why’d you do it, Father,” Nyx said brokenly.

His father’s hands slid into his pockets, and Nyx suddenly understood the meaning of that gesture, in a way that he never had before. Dismissing me, showing me I’m not a threat to him, that he can defeat me with just a thought.

“Do what?” his father asked.

“Do what,” Nyx spat. “Hurt Mama, that’s what.”

His father’s face contorted with fury. “You know I would never.”

“Do not fucking lie to me, Father,” Nyx growled. “I saw you do it. I saw everything.”

“I can assure you, you did not,” his father shot back, but he looked less certain now, as if a possibility had suddenly occurred to him. “You — you looked in the Veritas?” Nyx did not deign to answer, but the truth was clear enough, and his father continued. “Whatever it may have looked like to you, whatever it is you thought you saw, know that there is more to the story.”

“What else is there? Besides causing Mama pain and embarrassment? Don’t think I missed the way you dressed her,” Nyx snapped, his cheeks flushing hot with fury as he thought about those infernal images.

His mind revolted at the shame of seeing so much of his mother’s body, how nothing was left to the imagination, how he’d squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught of scenes of her dancing and writhing, tipsy and vomiting, and the lascivious way the males looked at her, the predatory gleam in their disgusting eyes. He’d seen males look at Sibyl that way, with her fully clothed and ready to blast them if they overstepped, and had still struggled to keep his composure. Seeing his mother in that situation, just as young and far more vulnerable, swaying in a drugged stupor, unable to stop even after she’d been sick on the floor, had utterly repelled him. He’d wanted to bundle her out of there, or at least throw his coat over her, and had been relieved as hell when Uncle Lucien had gone to her cell and done exactly that.

Now I know what Nuala and Cerridwen were upset about.

Why was that what they’d been tasked with doing — wrestling his mother, stripping her, painting her bare skin to display her to others? Why had that been their contribution? Why weren’t they sneaking her warmer clothes, or keeping her company, or taking her out of her cell for a quick reprieve, some fresh air?

“Listen, Nyx, you weren’t there. You don’t know how limited my options were,” his father said, a note of pleading coming into his voice. “I really was trying to help her.”

“How,” Nyx demanded flatly. “Explain it. Explain to me how terrifying her, humiliating and degrading her, was supposed to be helping her.”

His father snarled, “Enough, Nyx. You have questions, fine, but don’t you dare lob accusations at me.”

The command reverberated through Nyx, unsettling and riling him, a High Lord giving orders, but he shoved back on his father’s power. “Why not,” he said tightly. “If you’re really so blameless, you’ll be able to answer them with no problem.”

His father’s shoulders sagged, just a little. “I never claimed to be blameless.” He took a hesitant step forward, then another. “What did it show you.”

“Far too much,” Nyx said, shuddering. “I can’t — It makes me feel filthy to even say it.” He folded his arms across his chest, suddenly realizing that he was freezing, and warmed up the air by several degrees until his body stopped shivering. “No female should ever be treated like that. Stripped, drugged, forced to dance. How could you, Father?”

His father wiped a hand roughly across his face. “Don’t you think it killed me, to have to do that?”

“You had to? Did Amarantha order it?” Nyx asked icily.

His father’s shoulders slumped a little more. “No. No, she didn’t.”

“Then it was your idea? You fucking bastard —“

“Watch your mouth. Be quiet,” his father snapped, his violet eyes darkening to near-black. “You asked, so I’ll answer you. But do not insult me, Nyx. I’ve been very tolerant, but I have limits.”

“What are you going to do, Father? Twist my bone until I pass out from the pain?” Nyx sneered at him.

His father lunged for him, gripping the thin fabric of his nightshirt, a low snarl ripping from his throat. “Shut up.”

“No.” Nyx shoved him back, and for a few brief moments, he thought they might really brawl — that they might strike at each other, cause actual damage. They’d never come to blows before, not outside of the sparring ring, and as much as he hated the thought of physically fighting, part of him wanted to lash out, vent his rage.

Mama would hate this, some small sane voice inside him warned, and it was that thought that made him step away, force his hands to go still, corral his power to stay settled inside him. She wouldn’t want us hurting each other. She’s been through enough already.

His father stumbled back as well, and Nyx realized he’d sent that thought outwards. His shields were half-down again, no great mystery since he was mentally exhausted and sleep-deprived, and part of him just wanted to throw it all at his father, make him see. But of course he had seen — he was there. He had done it in the first place.

How did his mother look into his father’s eyes, and see not a tormentor, an abuser, but a lover, a soulmate? How did his father look at her and not see her tear-stained face, her garishly protruding bone, her swooning painted body jerking about in a mockery of dancing?

“It’s been over twenty years,” his father said, as if in answer. “Our lives didn’t end Under the Mountain, despite Amarantha’s best efforts. I’ve done things since — things that redeemed me. At least in your mother’s eyes, if not everyone’s.”

He sighed deeply, and Nyx saw then how exhausted his father was, how his eyes were bloodshot and underlined with dark circles, how he looked just a little off-balance and haggard, like he hadn’t gotten much sleep either. Perhaps he’d gone to bed worried about the confrontation they’d had at dinner, or had suspected that Nyx would try to use the Veritas. Or maybe he’d felt it, when Nyx had succeeded.

“Your mother did forgive me,” his father said, his voice taking on a plaintive tone. “I explained it all, laid it out for her, and she accepted my explanations. Accepted me, and the bond, and loved me in spite of it.”

“I know,” Nyx said. He hadn’t wanted to bother her with this, hadn’t meant to ruin her birthday or Solstice, or worry her while she was pregnant. “She once told me you helped her, kept her from falling apart Under the Mountain. But what I saw looked like the opposite.”

“I know it looked bad,” his father said, shifting fallen snow aside with his boot. The area around them was a jumbled mess of fallen trees, great snowdrifts in some areas, bare patches of muddy grass in others, piles of fallen rocks and a landslide further up the slope of the mountain. I did that, Nyx realized with a jolt. He’d been out of control, careless, a danger to others, and an oily guilt spread through him at it.

Still, he couldn’t let the point go. “Looked bad?” he asked incredulously. “It was bad.”

“It was bad,” his father said, sighing wearily. “I couldn’t be seen helping her openly. We had to be enemies.”

“No one saw you inside that cell, except Nuala and Ceri,” Nyx pointed out.

“Your mother saw me. I couldn’t risk her telling Lucien —“

“Why?” Nyx challenged.

“Why?” his father scoffed. “We were enemies. The whole point was to fool everyone about my true intentions, keep it all hidden.”

“You were both trying to help her. You could have gone into his mind, tried to coordinate—”

“I couldn’t risk it,” his father insisted. “He was too close to Tamlin.”

“Who was also trying to resist Amarantha,” Nyx said, getting frustrated. “He could have been her consort, sided with her, just like you pretended. Where would that have left you then?”

Nyx’s father swore softly. “Fucking dead, that’s where. Or an eye on a ring.” He shook his head at it. “I don’t know if he would have worked with me, but I couldn’t risk it, Nyx. Tamlin betrayed our family once, I wasn’t going to give him a chance to do it again. So I played my part, and he played his. I made sure he stayed angry, didn’t grow complacent. That was what the dancing was for, and to keep your mother from sitting alone in that freezing cold cell, slowly breaking.”

“No,” Nyx snapped. “That couldn’t have been the only option.”

His father drew himself up stiffly. “You seem very certain of that.”

“You had Ceri and Nuala. They could have been her friends,” Nyx protested. “Or you, if you couldn’t risk their safety. You could have sent her images, warmed her up so she wouldn’t be cold. Talked to her in her mind, made her feel less alone.”

“And if Amarantha questioned her?”

“Come on, Father,” Nyx cried, starting to lose his patience. “You could have made it so that she couldn’t reveal what you didn’t want known. There’s magic for that, isn’t there? Isn’t that why Uncle Lucien said blight instead of Amarantha’s name, because he was cursed from speaking of it?”

His father’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Lucien? Have you been discussing this with him?”

Nyx’s heart dropped into his stomach, but he answered honestly. “He’s answered any question I’ve asked. But he refused to show me memories from Under the Mountain.” He shuddered. “Considering what he went through, that’s probably for the better.”

His father seemed to relent at that. “He certainly did suffer.” 

“He’s forgiven you, for your part in it, if that matters,” Nyx said.

“We talked it over, when he came to Velaris. Once he saw the city, he began to understand.” His father looked off into the distance, his gaze soft and contemplative. “He forgave me far more readily than I forgave him. I don’t know if I ever really did forgive him fully.” Then he looked at Nyx again. “You think that’s odd — that your mother and others forgave me for so much, and yet I begrudge others their errors.”

“It is odd. Isn’t it?” Nyx asked. “I would have thought there’d be a lot bigger reckoning, after all that happened during the occupation.”

“There may be one yet,” his father said. “Everyone pulled together for the war effort. Without a common foe to rally against, there might have been a civil war between our courts, or at the very least, far more division.”

“Hybern wasn’t all that cunning, were they,” Nyx mused. “If they’d just waited a bit longer after Under the Mountain, sown a bit more division between the courts, they could have conquered us easily, rather than meeting the strength of all our combined armies.”

His father nodded, looking almost impressed. “Is that what you’ve been doing at the Day Court? Reading up on military history and strategy?”

Nyx shrugged. “That, and other things.”

“A worthy pursuit. It suits you. You have a cunning mind,” his father said. “I can see you won’t be satisfied with simplistic answers. As much as I hate to dredge up the past, you do deserve to know the truth in more detail. Especially if Eris shares your opinion on sowing discord, so he can conquer a divided Prythian.”

His father hesitated, then laid a hand on Nyx’s shoulder, tentatively at first, waiting to see if Nyx would throw him off, perhaps. “We should talk more. Not here, perhaps. Your uncles and cousin are freezing their asses off out there, wondering what’s become of us.”

Nyx grimaced. He didn’t want to have to explain any of this to his uncles or cousin, or to get the rest of the family weighing in on this. He wanted to leave and fly away, suddenly feeling like he needed to be alone, needed to process everything, and everyone else could get back to their Solstice fun. “I’ll go back to the house. Or… wherever.” The thought suddenly occurred to him that perhaps his parents wouldn’t want him under their roof anymore, after he’d challenged his father in such harsh fashion.

His father’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Of course you can go back to the house. It’s still your home, no matter what happens.” Nyx must have looked skeptical, for his father went on, “I may not like being challenged, Nyx, but you did so because you were standing up for your mother. Trying to protect her. I can’t fault you for that, even if I’m the one on the receiving end of it.”

Nyx just nodded, his throat suddenly feeling choked off, like he couldn’t get words out.

“Will you go straight home? Your mother’s worried,” his father said.

Nyx’s shoulders slumped. He hadn’t wanted that. “Of course.”

He dropped the air shield around them, then braced himself against the blast of frigid air that swirled in.

“Mother’s tits, Nyx. When did you get so damn powerful?” Uncle Cass exclaimed, stepping forward, slapping him on the back a little too hard.

“I — what?” Nyx said stupidly.

Aneirin came up on his other side, grinning. “Fucking hell, cousin. I think you won this year.”

Uncle Az was behind Nyx’s father, his expression stoic. “We are not setting the precedent that magic is allowed, or none of us will ever win again.”

Uncle Cassian was trying to look upbeat, amused, but his hazel eyes were full of concern, sliding back and forth between Nyx and his father. “Do we make an exception, just this once?”

Nyx was tired of fighting, tired as hell in fact, so he quipped, “If the prize is a hot cup of coffee and a really long nap, then yes, I won. Otherwise, I’ll leave you all to fight it out.”

His uncles continued to argue over it, with Aneirin occasionally chiming in, but Nyx’s father turned to him one last time.

They exchanged no words, but no words were needed. Something had shifted, and both of them felt it.

But what it meant — of that, Nyx wasn’t certain.

Chapter Text

Nyx shook his head, silently declining the offered plate of cookies, and brought the mug of black coffee to his lips, wincing slightly at the bitter flavor. Catrin shrugged and popped a cookie into her own mouth, chomping off the point of the sugary star, then went on to Aunt Nesta, who snagged two cookies with a nod before flipping to the next page in her book, and then to Nyx’s mother, who was lingering by the window, staring out at the snow dusting the River House lawn.

What does she see out there? Nyx’s couldn’t begin to imagine.

“Well?” Cat asked, poking her nose over Aunt Nesta’s shoulder, eyeing the page she was reading. One of the floppy cat ears on her new earmuffs brushed against her aunt’s cheek, but Aunt Nesta was too absorbed in her Sellyn Drake to notice, and after a few moments, Cat began giggling hysterically. “Oh, Cauldron.”

Nyx emphatically did not want to know what steamy scene had provoked that reaction, especially when Aunt Nesta whispered something conspiratorially, and they both flushed and giggled again.

“They’re not back yet?” Aunt Gwyn asked, from her spot on the couch. She was weaving another of her corded bracelets, stringing purple and silver strands with a moonstone charm, for Nyx’s baby sister. He had one too, all-black string with an onyx gem, given to him as a youngling. He had been so excited to have one that matched his fathers’ and uncles’, even though it had dangled precariously off his skinny wrist at the time, and now it pinched too tight to wear.

“Not yet,” his mother answered, and she flashed Nyx a look of pure disappointment and sorrow before turning firmly back towards the window.

The coffee burned sour in the back of his throat, and he hastily put the mug down with shaking fingers before he risked spilling it. He’d come straight home, hoping to talk to her, reassure her or maybe ask her a few questions, but there was no way to do that with all the family piled into the house with them.

“Good. They’re all busybodies, and we’re just getting to the action,” Cat declared, pouting when Aunt Nesta turned another page. “Hey, I wasn’t finished!”

“You’re slowing me down,” Aunt Nesta sighed, but relented, flipping the page back. A moment later, Cat started giggling again, and the two females exchanged a sly smile as Cat turned the page, then gasped softly. “Ooh! Finally!”

Aunt Gwyn looked up at them, smiling indulgently. “I’ll borrow that when you’re finished. No spoilers,” she added, and Cat clapped a hand over her own mouth, nodding vigorously. Then Aunt Gwyn held up her handiwork, admiring the iridescent stone at the center, wondering to no one in particular, “Do you think it’s long enough?”

No one else seemed inclined to answer, so Nyx dragged his aching bones from his spot at the table to approach the couch, get a look. “Doesn’t that depend?” he asked. “When do you plan to give it to her?”

His aunt cocked her head to the side, considering. All of her coppery hair was bundled back from her face, tied in a simple ponytail with her white Valkyrie ribbon. She never went anywhere without her ribbon somewhere prominently displayed, as well as the delicate stained glass rose necklace that Uncle Az had given her right before they’d started courting. Nyx thought it was odd, since Aunt Gwyn had never much been interested in flowers, but perhaps Uncle Az just hadn’t known her well back then?

“It’s been a long time since I’ve made one. We haven’t had a baby in the family since the twins. How old do you think is old enough?” she asked.

Nyx shrugged, having no idea. He didn’t know the first thing about raising younglings, or what was age-appropriate. But he thought of his own bracelet, nestled in his desk drawer upstairs, and a thought occurred to him. “Maybe make it adjustable?” he suggested. “That way you don’t have to measure so exactly. And she can keep wearing it as she gets older.”

Aunt Gwyn’s teal eyes sparkled. “Oh, what a great idea!” Her gaze flicked down to his wrist, which was conspicuously bare, and Nyx resisted the urge to shove his arm further into his shirtsleeve to hide it. “Does yours not fit anymore?”

In fact, his bracelet hadn’t fit him in years, but before Nyx could say so, his mother stirred from the window, turning to face everyone. “They’re just getting back to the cabin. Who’s joining us for dinner?”

Aunt Gwyn rose, collecting all of her cords and loose stones into her hand, sliding them into a hidden pocket in her dress. “I’ve got a late shift at the library tonight. You all have fun,” she said brightly, though Nyx thought her face looked a little pinched, like her smile was pulled a little too taut.

Catrin pouted. “Mama, it’s Solstice!”

“I know, Cat, but I took off three days this week already,” Aunt Gwyn said, striving not to sound exasperated. “Merrill’s got a deadline —“

“Is she giving you a hard time?” Aunt Nesta suddenly asked, in a tone icy enough to freeze. “Do I need to speak to her again?”

Aunt Gwyn’s eyes widened a little. “Let’s save that for when she really pushes it. No, this was actually my choice. But thank you, Nesta.”

Aunt Nesta’s mouth tightened, but she nodded, evidently deciding not to push the issue. Instead, she slid her bookmark in between the pages she’d just been reading, and looked around. “Where did Enyo get off to?”

“She’s downtown. Some of the girls wanted to go ice skating,” Catrin said. “Maybe she lost track of time.” But she threw Nyx a significant look that told him that was not the reason, which he had already guessed — Enyo was still pissed at him for last night, for having insulted her father.

Although Uncle Cass had accepted his apology, and shrugged the whole incident off with his usual good humor, his daughter would not let the matter be so easily forgotten. And as annoying as that could be, Nyx respected it. Wasn’t he doing the same, with his own mother?

Nyx’s mother folded her arms across her chest, leaning them on her growing belly. “What’s ice skating?”

Nyx piped up, glad that he finally had something to contribute to the conversation. “It’s a popular pastime at the Winter Court. Khione told me about it,” he said eagerly. “You put blades on your shoes, and you can glide across ice. It sounded like fun, actually.”

Cat nodded, giving him a sly smile. “Better than snowball fighting?”

Nyx decided not to give that an answer. He’d been teased enough about coming home early, as though he’d simply chickened out or been too dainty to get frostbite, rather than nearly flattening the mountain with a furious blizzard. He’d been careful not to mention that, or to let on about the argument with his father, knowing that it wasn’t really anyone’s business, and that none of them had the context to understand his perspective. He needed to talk to his mother alone, if she would ever stop giving him the silent treatment.

“Well, if she’s not back soon, I’ll have to take the stairs to the House, to get my overnight bag,” Aunt Nesta grumbled.

You have wings, Nyx. So does your mother. My mother doesn’t.

He wondered just how often that was an issue — how often Aunt Nesta had to depend on her mate or her daughter, just to get into her own residence.

“I could fly you,” Nyx offered. “Or I can just pick the bag up, if you tell me where it is?”

Nyx’s mother cleared her throat. “That’s kind of you, sweetheart. But I was hoping you would stay a bit?”

Nyx’s heart sank at the thought of what she might say to him, once they were alone, but he tried to think positive. He’d wanted to talk to her, and it looked like he was finally going to get his wish. So he nodded, throwing an apologetic look towards Aunt Nesta, then fixing Cat with a pleading expression.

Cat rustled her own wings, reluctantly taking the hint. “What color's the bag? I can get it.”

Nyx retreated back to the table, to his abandoned cup of coffee, as the females continued to make plans, to throw on scarves and hats and boots, joking about whether to take Sellyn Drake to the cabin with them and which of the males might be the first to sneak a glance at it when they thought no one was looking. He drank the bitter liquid, and watched his mother, as she hugged Aunt Gwyn and Cat goodbye, then slung one arm around Aunt Nesta’s back as they walked out of the room together.

For several minutes they all disappeared out into the foyer, and Nyx was left to gaze at the decorations, the aggressively cheerful displays that didn’t at all match his melancholy exhaustion. Part of him just wanted to crawl into bed, to sleep off his headache, to avoid any more confrontations. But he was leaving for his trip with Uncle Lucien and Sibyl tomorrow, and he couldn’t leave all this uncertainty and unpleasantness between them.

“Bye, Nyx!” Cat’s voice hollered from the foyer, and that roused him from his sulking. He called out farewells to all of them, as though he wouldn’t be seeing most of them up at the cabin later, then downed the rest of the coffee in one bracing gulp.

Having nothing more pressing to do, he moved to the sink to wash his mug, along with the other dishes. His power felt wobbly, almost depleted, after his tantrum up in the mountains, but he focused intently, producing little streams of water from his fingers, and then blasts of warm air that dried off each newly clean cup or plate.

“Nuala and Cerridwen can do that,” his mother said from behind him.

Nyx frowned into the sink, then wiped his expression clean as he turned to face her. “I thought they deserved a break. It’s Solstice,” he said evenly, adding silently to himself, if we aren’t going to invite them to dine with our family, the least we can do is not leave them dishes.

His mother held out a tattooed hand, beckoning him. “Sit with me, sweetheart. Let’s talk.”

He obeyed, hastily drying himself off with one last puff of magic, then took her offered hand. Her fingers felt cold, and he heated his hand up a little further, wondering if she was again avoiding using her magic, like she’d been advised to do during her last pregnancy. He’d found that strange, how she’d refused to shift to her Illyrian form, even when not doing so would be guaranteed to kill her. And while that was her choice to make, he supposed, he couldn’t believe that his father, or the healers, or their friends and family, wouldn’t have objected.

The fact that she’d come so close to dying still boggled his mind, made him cringe to think on it. He never would have wanted his mother to suffer on his account, much less perish in favor of saving him. She’d already suffered so much in her life, had already died once already. He’d seen that, too, in the Veritas.

“Sweetheart?” his mother murmured, and Nyx looked down at himself, wincing when he saw that darkness was leaking out from them, his fury at her treatment rising too close to the surface, and he hastily pulled all his power back.

Don’t lose control, he scolded himself. He’d already done enough today, throwing his power around.

Nyx slunk guiltily towards the couch, finding that he couldn’t quite meet his mother’s eyes.  It felt wrong to look at her, after what he’d seen. It was only a relief that she was not dressed in one of the silk paneled dresses that revealed so much of her body, but in the cashmere sweater that Aunt Nesta had unwrapped from the gift pile, the fabric pulled tight around her pregnant belly. But he wondered, anyway, how his mother liked it, adorning herself in such attire as might remind her of what had been forced on her Under the Mountain. Did it not trigger unpleasant memories?

His mother sat down next to him, looking him over for long moments, and then her voice was in his mind, as though what she wanted to say was too confrontational, too weighty to pronounce aloud. What’s happened, Nyx? You seem… different.

“Different how?” he asked, his voice coming out as a jarring squawk.

She sighed, resting her hands on her belly. “Argumentative, for a start.”

Nyx frowned. “Our whole family is argumentative.” Arguing was one of the chief ways they all interacted, and he’d never seen that as a problem before.

His mother chuckled a little, not disagreeing. “Argumentative for you, I mean. You’ve never been one to challenge your father, especially not in public like that.”

“A family dinner is hardly public,” Nyx protested, then bit his lip. Was that argumentative? “I am sorry, though. I hope it didn’t ruin the Solstice for you.”

He meant that, he really did, but part of him chafed to have to say it. What were a few ill-timed comments at dinner, when she’d been so violently abused and degraded by his own father? Had Nyx called her mortal trash, invaded her mind, blurted out her most private sexual fantasies to the table? Had he instructed their servants to strip her bare, restrain her when she tried to protest? Had he shoved drugged drinks down her throat, forced her to dance?

His mother was watching him with a nervous expression. “Perhaps you’ve been away too long. You seem unhappy. Angry.”

Nyx blinked at this. He could see how she might get that impression, but — “No, I’m not unhappy at all,” he assured her, but admitted, “Angry, yes. But not without reason.”

“Uncle Az assured us that you were doing well. Helion praised your progress in magic,” his mother went on, as though he’d not spoken. “And I thought you’d come to us, to me, if you were in distress.”

“I didn’t want to burden you,” Nyx said, gesturing to her pregnant belly, his face growing hot. It seemed ludicrous now, to think he could hide this from her. He wasn’t even sure why he’d done it. Did he think she wouldn’t be strong enough to handle it? She’d handled far worse before.

No, the truth was that he’d been protecting himself, trying to spare himself the uncomfortable confrontation, the possibility that he might disappoint his parents yet again. “I didn’t know how you’d react,” he said. “You or father.”

His mother shifted, facing him more fully, and he looked into her stern blue eyes, the only physical feature that they shared, even though their magic was so similar. “I haven’t had a chance to react. You haven’t told me anything directly,” she pointed out.

Nyx’s shoulders slumped. “You’re right. That wasn’t fair.” But he couldn’t resist adding, “You haven’t told me anything, either.”

His mother’s gaze grew sharp. “What do you mean?”

“Mother,” he burst out, disbelieving, “Mama, I’ve seen memories. Images. I know what happened Under the Mountain.”

His mother’s face drained of color. “A lot of things happened Under the Mountain,” she said warily.

Understatement of the fucking century.

Nyx could barely contain his reaction. But he wouldn’t add any more to her pain, or her embarrassment. She didn’t owe him answers. She’d done nothing wrong. It was his father whose actions were in question.

“Why would you dig into that, of all the things,” his mother asked, twisting her hands nervously together. “What have people been saying to you? Is this new interest because of the Winter Court problem?”

“Twenty four younglings were viciously killed. That’s more than a problem, it’s a war crime. A massacre,” Nyx said pointedly. “And people thought Father was capable of it.”

“Well, we know better,” his mother said vehemently, drawing herself up, her voice resonating more deeply, a High Lady issuing her judgment. “Your father is good. Profoundly good. He’s sacrificed everything for us, to protect our family, and his court.”

“By killing others,” Nyx blurted out. “Innocent and guilty.”

His mother reared back, as though he’d struck her. And gods, he felt like an asshole for it.

“I know what Father would say to that. That being High Lord means making the hard choices. But I don’t like the choices he made,” Nyx went on, desperate to soften the blow his words had administered, but frustrated that she was acting so shocked, like she hadn’t known who she was mated to. Surely she’d seen him threaten and hurt others — surely she remembered what it felt like, herself.

“He did what he had to,” his mother said stiffly, ice coating her words. “Far more than you know. And you owe your life to the fact that he made those decisions. It’s easy for you to sit here now in safety, in the home he generously provided, and criticize him.”

That was true, and yet Nyx hated the way she’d framed it. Why was being safe, having a home, considered generous?

His mother stared past him, out the window. Talking to Father, perhaps. It made him irrationally angry. Couldn’t he have one conversation with his mother without his father weighing in, or lingering in the background?

He took deeper breaths to rein himself in, before reminding her, “You told me you and Father were willing to listen. Discuss even the uncomfortable topics.”

His mother sighed deeply. “I did say that, didn’t I.” A long, difficult silence lapsed between them. “I meant it, too. I really did.”

She pressed a tattooed hand to her heart, and Nyx stared at the intricate swirls, recalling the awful moment she’d gotten those markings, the way she’d looked horrified at them.

“Did Father force you into that bargain?” he asked her.

The hand dropped limply to her lap. “At first, yes.”

Nyx sputtered, “Mama —“

“I said at first,” his mother snapped, and Nyx clamped his mouth shut, before furious curses and threats could fly out of it. “It started off that way. He had to make it look like we were adversaries, that he was doing it to make sure I failed, taking Amarantha’s side. He took a big risk by helping me at all.”

Nyx mulled this over, considering it. “But he was making his relationship with you so public. Wouldn’t that make Amarantha jealous, or suspicious?”

His mother wrinkled her forehead. “Amarantha really wanted Tamlin. And seeing Tamlin’s precious human like that made her happy. Like I was betraying him.” She blinked a few times, and Nyx’s heart twisted. She had felt like she was betraying Tamlin, he was almost certain, and it had probably made her feel even worse than she had already, contributed more to her suffering and embarrassment. “Maybe Amarantha thought it would convince Tamlin to choose her.”

“But he didn’t,” Nyx said. “Not even to get revenge on Father.”

“He just sat there. Didn’t do anything,” his mother said, with obvious disgust. “Do you know how demoralizing that was, to look at him, and get no reaction?”

Nyx couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t imagine any of it. “I would have expected more passion, more fighting,” he said.

His mother shook her head. “Tamlin didn’t fight for me. He was utterly passive. During those months I was Under the Mountain, and all the months afterwards. He never fought for me, until I outright left him. Then he fought against what I wanted, to get me back.” She took Nyx’s hand, staring into his eyes, as though she could make him see it all through her perspective. “Your father fought for me. Yes, it was unpleasant. Yes, I would have preferred that he had done it differently, if he could have. But he fought for me, when no one else would.”

Nyx squeezed her hand. “Tell me how he fought for you, Mama. What did he do?”

“That bargain, which I hated at first, became my lifeline,” his mother said, “when I felt like I was drowning, when I stopped feeling anything at all. Rhys saw that I was suffering, suffocating, and brought me here, built up my strength, gave me the choices I never got to have at Tamlin’s court. He gave me this family, this city. His friendship and love, most of all.”

“So he made amends for all he did?” Nyx asked, hope flaring in his heart.

“I’d say he did. Others might not see it that way, but it’s not up to them,” his mother said firmly. “After all these years together, Nyx, your father has shown me who he truly is, time and again. And he is not that awful act that he put on Under the Mountain, or when he was trapped doing Amarantha’s bidding. I know he feared that, at one time, and I hope this hasn’t set him back.”

Nyx felt a little stab of guilt at that. He hadn’t meant to stir up his parents’ old traumas. Hadn’t Uncle Lucien talked about not wanting to relive awful memories that he’d made peace with?

“Neither one of us is perfect, Rhys or me. We’ve both made mistakes,” his mother said. “It’s easy to look back and say what if or you should have done this instead. But all we can do is move forward. And I thought we’d done that.” She gestured around to the cozy sitting room, to the house and grounds and city around them. “We’re at peace, Nyx. Shouldn’t we enjoy it?”

“That’s what Uncle Az said, too," Nyx told her. “But some people lost children, or parents, or their mates were killed. They don’t have peace, as long as that goes unaddressed.”

“Hasn’t your father given enough? He died, Nyx, saving this realm. You don’t know how horrible that was. How close we were to losing him forever.” She brushed a tear away, then another, and Nyx squirmed miserably, wishing he had a handkerchief to offer her. “Amarantha victimized him for fifty years. Can’t he move on?”

Nyx’s heart plummeted as he struggled to process this. He didn’t dare ask what Amarantha had done specifically, for the references to being a whore, and the suggestive way he’d seen her touching his father, were hint enough. A deep, oily revulsion spread through him at the thought that his father had had to endure her attentions, and had to pretend to enjoy and want them.

“I love Father,” he said, as his mother wiped her tears on her sweater sleeve. “I don’t want him to be hurt or in pain.” He swallowed hard. “I just want him to be the version of himself that’s noble and good to everyone, not just to us. It does matter what his reputation is, or we’ll be back to having enemies before we know it.”

“If you’re talking about Tamlin —“

“Not just Tamlin. All the courts. And the realms beyond ours,” Nyx said. “What happened with Winter is a perfect example. Those parents grieved their children for decades, never knowing who was really to blame, and we almost lost their alliance. That would cut Summer off from us, and then what would happen? All the seasonal courts, siding with Hybern? It would be a disaster.”

His mother let out a sharp hiss. “I knew we never should have trusted Eris.” But then she sighed wearily, admitting, “People know that Eris is a snake. But they may still trust him more than they trust Rhys, after everything that’s happened. And — they might not trust me, either.”

“Why not you?” Nyx asked indignantly. “Because you switched courts?”

“Because I did things that I’m not proud of, too,” his mother said, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. “Because I made mistakes, and innocents suffered.”

Nyx shifted so that he could be closer to her, draw an arm around her. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to, Mama.”

“I didn’t, not really,” she said brokenly, staring down at her hands, as though all the answers could be found there. “But that’s what happened. I used Tamlin’s people against him, toppled his authority. And many, many people suffered because of it.” She took a shuddering breath, then went on, “I’m surprised your Uncle Lucien hasn’t mentioned it, because he was one of them.”

“No,” Nyx said, frowning in concern, “no, he didn’t.”

“I don’t regret hurting Tamlin. He more than deserved it. But I should have been more targeted in my revenge,” his mother said. “I should have dealt with Tamlin and his priestess, and left his people out of it. Maybe the court would have fallen anyway, but it would have been off my conscience.”

“Tamlin brought it on his court, by inviting Hybern into his lands,” Nyx said.

His mother shook her head sadly. “But I was the one who turned his guards and soldiers against him, drove a wedge between him and anyone who could have helped him defend his people when Hybern attacked them. Hybern marched in unopposed, and it gave them access both to the Wall and the other seasonal courts.”

What a disaster. Nyx couldn’t imagine it. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to,” he protested.

“Perhaps not, but I didn’t consider all the consequences before I acted. I’d like to think I would do things differently, that I would find another way if I could redo it, but I can’t change it.” His mother patted his hand. “Do you understand now? Your father isn’t the only one who’s hurt innocents. I’ve killed too, Nyx. Technically, I had to, at least Under the Mountain, but it nearly broke me. I know what it feels like, to carry that guilt, and that’s why I can never judge your father for it. Because I know I would do the same, do whatever it took, to protect what was most important to me.”

She looked mournfully into Nyx’s eyes, and he tried not to balk at it, tried to look forthrightly back at her. “There you have it, Nyx. Your parents have both done terrible things, for what we thought were important reasons. I hope you’ll never be in that position. But if you are, I hope you can live with whatever choice you make.”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure my children will question it,” Nyx said.

His mother laughed, though more tears slid down her cheeks as she did so. “I’m sure they will.”

Chapter Text

Nyx stepped in out of the cold, rustling his wings to be sure to clear them of any residual ice or snow, rather than tracking it into the cottage. The interior was toasty, warm and inviting, and a chorus of greetings rose up as he and his mother stepped through the threshold. Nyx hung back, letting his mother go in first, taking extra moments to breathe in deeply, calm his racing nerves. The flight to the mountains had been a workout, especially with his pregnant mother bundled in his arms, and he’d been glad of the bracing wind and the snow flurries in the mountains for making their pronounced lack of conversation less awkward.

He wondered how stilted his relations would be with both parents. They’d talked openly, and he was thankful for that much, but things felt awkward and unresolved, and were likely to stay that way for a while. He sensed their exasperation, their flustered confusion, for his outrage about long-past events that had seemingly come out of nowhere. And when he’d continued to question their statements, and not just accepted their explanations at face value, he knew they’d been hurt by it. He thanked the Cauldron that he’d already decided to leave with Uncle Lucien and Sibyl tomorrow, if only to give them all a break from the tension.

But he still had to get through tonight — and as he surveyed the scene in the cottage, he wondered how he’d manage it.

The first one to notice him was his father — indeed, he’d probably sensed Nyx and his precious passenger long before they’d arrived — and a long look passed between them, though no words were spoken. They’d both said plenty earlier in the day, Nyx hurling accusations, and his father bristling at them at first, then offering his justifications. He’d promised that they could talk more about it, after Nyx spoke to his mother, but Nyx wasn’t even sure what he would want to hear, if he could magically conjure the perfect words from his father’s lips.

I’m sorry, maybe.

But his father clearly wasn’t.

Whatever his father done — and Nyx had seen plenty — his parents were both convinced it was justified. Necessary. And he could see that, from a certain perspective, but his own sense of justice, of how things should be, still revolted. Some visceral part of him simply refused to accept that his clever father, who’d cultivated his cunning into the sharpest of weapons, could see no other option besides his mother’s extended pain and humiliation. And he couldn’t understand why she seemed so accepting, when she hadn’t consented to any of it. Was her guilt over her own actions really so bad, that she would excuse all the harm that had been done to her? Did she not think she deserved better?

Nyx had been so relieved to find that his father was innocent of the Winter Court massacre that he’d started to hope it was all a deception, that he’d peel back the layers to find that his father had really been kind and decent, and that faeries all over Prythian were laboring under an unfair delusion cast by the evil daemati, at Amarantha’s direction. Or even that his father himself had cultivated the false impression, to protect his beloved mate, to keep her safer. How Nyx would relish proving them all wrong, showing them who his father really was.

But the truth, it seemed, was messier.

People are messy, Uncle Lucien had warned him, and what an understatement that had turned out to be. Nyx hadn’t even realized how diplomatic, how careful, that phrasing had been — not when he’d seen firsthand how his uncle was tortured, for the crime of openly assisting his mother, despite the fact that Nyx had never heard his parents once mention it, in all the times they’d talked about the past with him. Did his uncle know how little his efforts were valued, or the role to which he’d been delegated? Had he decided to ignore it, as he ignored all the other ways he and Sibyl were slighted, in favor of preserving the hard-won harmony between them?

We live too long, and suffer too much, to be so self-righteous.

Was that advice for me? Nyx wondered. So that I’m not tempted to judge too harshly? 

Would he really live long enough to do such terrible things, as his parents had, and then live to justify them? Was it naive to imagine that he could choose differently? And if not for himself, for the people who worked for him? He wondered where Nuala and Cerridwen were tonight, whether they still had nightmares of Amarantha’s horrors, and whether they’d ever get to sit down with his mother and talk to her about what they’d been made to do to her body, how upset it still clearly made them —

“Shut the fucking door, Nyx, we’re all freezing,” Enyo hollered, and Nyx jolted back to reality, hastily stepping into the cottage and letting the door slam emphatically behind him. He heartily hoped she wouldn’t start up with him, not tonight, because he was liable to say more things he’d regret.

His mother’s coat was already off, and she was settling onto one of the couches, cuddling up in his father’s embrace, and Nyx tried to see them the way he always had before — a loving couple, happy and affectionate, who’d given him a good life and supported this beautiful family. Then his gaze snagged on Uncle Cass, who had his wife perched on his lap, occasionally making some crass comment to her about the book she was reading, and chuckling when she swatted at him or made a tart remark in return. Uncle Az was perched next to them, patient and stoic, as though he’d been the third wheel in their dynamic many, many times before, and was resigned to it.

“Stop brooding, Nyx, and come join our card game,” Cat entreated, threading her fingers through his and leading him from the doorway, past all the adults and into the kitchen. Rin was lounging at the dining room table, legs propped up on his sister’s chair, and Cat scowled playfully at him and waved his legs out of the way, plopping down on his foot when he declined to relinquish his position quickly enough.

Then Enyo, across from him, looked up from her cards, pointedly glaring, then made a big show of folding her hand, as though she would quit on the spot.

“Don’t bother. I’m not going to play,” Nyx said crossly, and his cousin’s eyes narrowed further.

“This isn’t the snowball fight, you can’t just throw your power around in here,” Enyo snapped at him.

“You heard about that, did you.” He slid into the chair next to her, ignoring the way she petulantly jerked her seat further away. He shed his own coat, just a thin layer — he never needed much, not with his Autumn Court power to warm him up — and tried to get comfortable.

“Half of Illyria felt that storm, you know,” Rin said quietly, laying his own cards flat on the table. When Nyx winced, he grinned and added, “Don’t sweat it, cousin. Like I told you, they needed to see that you aren’t a lightweight. And I’d say this pretty much proved it.”

Nyx hated the idea of his blizzard-tantrum gaining him a reputation around Illyria, but wasn’t sure what he could do about it. Maybe it would make life easier for Rin and his uncles, if the Illyrians knew that their own weather could be turned against them if they stepped out of line? Somehow, Nyx doubted it.

Cat leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table, the card game forgotten. “What really happened with you and your parents?”

We’re really going to do this now? With them right in the next room? Nyx almost protested, before deciding that he didn’t care. Between his two parents’ daemati powers, and Uncle Az’s shadows, and Cat’s habit of repeating everything to her father anyway, anything he said was bound to make its way back, no matter how careful and circumspect he was. And maybe he wanted them to know what he thought of it all. Maybe a little honesty was what was required. They were angry with him anyway, so they might as well be angry with him for telling the truth.

Enyo was watching him warily, as though the same thought had occurred to her. Of all his cousins, she was the one who understood the consequences for telling the truth, and that the past could not just be buried and forgotten. She lived those consequences every moment of every day, surrounded by people with incredible power, determined to keep up with them no matter what it cost her, and always demanding that they do better, holding them accountable. And as much of a pain in the ass she could be, Nyx admired her for it.

Nyx rubbed a hand over his face, as though he could swipe away all the heartache and exhaustion of the past twenty four hours, then said quietly, “I saw some things in Aunt Mor’s orb of truth.”

“Shit. What things?” Cat asked, her teal eyes glinting with excitement, while her brother rustled his wings, angling himself forward without making it obvious that that’s what he was doing. He was just as eager to hear more as his twin, but better at being nonchalant about it. It was such an Uncle Az-like gesture that Nyx almost commented on it.

But Enyo sat back, arms folded across her chest, and Nyx cast about to try to guess the reason. Was she jealous of the gift he’d gotten — of the fact that he apparently had Aunt Mor’s power, in addition to all his others? Did she already know what his father had done Under the Mountain, or elsewhere during the occupation? Or was she simply so pissed at him that anything he said would produce that reaction?

Nyx glanced back towards the living room, at his parents lounging comfortably together, then at the walls all around them. His mother had painted large eyes on the walls  — Amren’s silver, and the hazel of his Uncles Az and Cassian, and Aunt Mor’s warm brown, and smaller violet star-filled eyes to represent his father, which had been added later — and he almost felt like they were watching him disapprovingly, even more so than the actual people were. Creepy, he thought, though he knew his mother hadn’t meant them to be spying. Still, it was interesting who wasn’t represented. Indeed, there was no room on the walls for anyone else’s eyes, even if his mother had been inclined to add them.

Suddenly Enyo’s sulking made a lot more sense.

“Let’s just say that, to fool Amarantha and her court, my father did a lot of things,” Nyx huffed, only just remembering to keep his voice down. He’d pushed his father far enough for one day, and had been pushed far enough himself. If they brawled, they might level the entire cottage, as Aunt Mor and Aunt Amren had once supposedly done. Nyx hadn’t forgotten the challenge that had been left lingering, the way he’d pushed back against his father’s dominance, and how the magic had wavered, as though uncertain. What it meant, he didn’t want to ponder. “And I didn’t like the way he treated my mother.”

Cat’s eyes were wide as saucers. “That orb showed you Under the Mountain? Did you see — her?” Her voice dropped to a thin, high whisper.

“If by her you mean Amarantha, yes, it did,” Nyx said, hating how his cousin blanched at the mere mention of the queen’s name. He understood not pronouncing it, for names had power, but not saying it seemed to lend it power, too. The queen had dominated all Prythian for half a century, wrought incalculable damage. Not talking about her, and all she’d done, as though she’d never existed, seemed a losing proposition.

What would happen as more younglings were born, who’d never known the horrors of the occupation? Would they learn her name, know that she’d been a real person? Would they be told the truth, or just the convenient parts of it? Would the messier parts, the parts that implicated people like Nyx’s father as complicit, be neglected from the stories, relegated to old dusty books, or just dropped from the histories completely?

Enyo’s eyes flashed. “If our fathers, and Mor and Amren, had been allowed out of Velaris, they could have crushed her.”

Cat protested, “You don’t know that. They could have been killed, or captured.”

“And since when do we let that possibility stop us?” Enyo said hotly. “Since when do we choose to sit on our asses, hiding away in safety, while tyrants rampage unchallenged? Are we not warriors?”

There was stirring behind them — apparently their conversation was attracting their parents’ attention — but Nyx nodded in firm agreement. Uncle Azriel had told him he’d wanted to help, but was locked in Velaris. For forty nine years, more than twice Nyx’s lifetime. How much longer would that have gone on, had Nyx’s mother not blundered Under the Mountain?

He thought about his mother’s complaints about Tamlin, about how she’d hated being locked in his manor, when what she’d wanted was to get out and help, to do something, make a difference. How would she have felt, being trapped in Velaris for decades on end, knowing full well that his father was suffering?

Rin said, “I get it. I’d want to kill the queen too. But it wasn’t that simple. An assassination attempt would have been extremely challenging. She had all those stolen powers.”

Enyo scoffed, a bit defensively, “Powers aren’t everything.”

There was no safe answer Nyx could give to that.

Cat said, “So you confronted your father about Under the Mountain? Nyx, that was risky.”

“I know,” he said. “I just couldn’t get the images out of my mind. Father knows he’s not blameless, but he can’t admit the possibility that he could have done things differently. And neither can my mother. It’s strange, because I saw how badly she suffered, but she seems to think it was the only option. But Enyo’s right, he could have released his warriors. Or he could have used Nuala and Ceri to go on spying missions or to help keep her spirits up, or tried to make alliances using his mind powers, and as far as I can tell, he didn’t do any of it.”

“If Aunt Feyre forgave him, then I don’t see the problem,” Catrin said reasonably. “She was there, after all, and the one who was affected.”

Nyx had to concede the point there. But Enyo said, “There were others who witnessed her torment, and then saw her allying with her supposed tormentor afterwards. You don’t think that affected them? Sent a message?”

“It was wartime. Things were different,” Aneirin argued. “And who was she going to be with instead? Tamlin?”

They all shuddered at that thought.

“Why did she have to be with anyone,” Enyo said disdainfully, casting a glance over her shoulder at their parents again, rustling her wings for good measure. “Is that a female’s only option, to be claimed by one male or another?”

“Ugh! Cauldron forbid,” Catrin said, wrinkling her forehead, and Nyx wholeheartedly agreed. The thought of Enyo, or Catrin or Sibyl, being passed back and forth between much older males, induced to love whichever captor was the least bad option, made him furious.

But he felt obliged to point out, “Mother doesn’t see it that way. She sees my father as her champion, someone who fought for her, helped her and supported her. Even if it was unpleasant at times.”

Enyo’s face was a mask of stone. “My mother feels the very same. Interesting, isn’t it?”

Cat fiddled with the cards on the table. “Its weird, it’s like something you’d read in a Sellyn Drake novel, but when it’s your aunt and uncle, it just hits different.” She threw a glance towards her father, who was in earnest conversation with the other adults, but who managed to look up and wink at her before turning away again. “I doubt they’d want any of us to be helped like they were.”

“That is never fucking happening,” Nyx burst out. “Any male tries it, I’ll break their kneecaps, then you can finish them.”

His cousins all stared at him incredulously, then Rin whistled. “Fucking hell, Nyx, I have never heard you talk like that.”

Nyx took breaths, forcing air into his lungs, clenching his fists under the table. Out in the living room, the conversation had slowed, and he knew that he was attracting far too much attention.

“I just — gods. It was disgusting. It makes me furious,” he tried to explain. Cat snagged the wine bottle from the middle of the table, and Nyx nodded eagerly, relieved when the cabin provided a large glass for her to pour it into. Then there was a thump, and he looked over to see that Enyo had taken out his box of ice cream flavors that had been her Solstice present, and was angling a spoon at him.

A peace offering. He would take it.

Rin was looking at Nyx forthrightly. “Whatever choices your parents made, you were the result of it. So didn’t it work out all right, in the end? I mean, would you have rather not been born?”

Nyx raised his hands. “I’m not saying that. Though when it comes down to it, there are a lot of things about me being born that I wish had gone differently.” He caught Enyo’s eye, hoping she took his meaning. “And if you’d seen your father hurting your mother —“

“He would never,” Rin said firmly.

“I know he wouldn’t.” Uncle Az had never been anything but loving and supportive towards Aunt Gwyn, towards all females for that matter. There were few things that made him angrier than seeing a vulnerable female being mistreated. It made Nyx wonder what Uncle Az might think, if he ever got a look at the images in the Veritas. Or Uncle Cass, or Aunt Mor, for that matter. In fact, he couldn’t imagine any of his family finding it acceptable, no matter how compelling the reason may have been.

Except that his mother had forgiven, and moved on, and come to think of her mate as her champion, her savior. The one who fought for her, when no one else had.

Except that hadn’t really been true, had it? Hadn’t Aunt Mor fought for her? Hadn’t his uncles? Hadn’t they sworn to serve and protect her? Was all of that dependent on her relationship with his father, or would they have supported and loved her anyway? What sort of family would they be otherwise?

Nyx snagged a bite of Enyo’s ice cream, savoring the rich chocolate flavor on his tongue, trying to push all those worrying thoughts out of his mind.

Rin shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I know what you mean, though. You don’t think I hear the shit that’s said about our family, all over Illyria? Especially your parents, I hate to say it.” Nyx waved a hand. He knew full well what people thought. It had been one of the reasons he’d stayed away from Illyria in the first place. “Most of it’s garbage, just outright slander, but people believe it for a reason.”

“Jealousy,” Cat said solemnly, “and having small dicks.”

Enyo let out a laugh, and Nyx’s stomach unclenched a little to hear it.

Aneirin flushed, as though the thought of his twin sister knowing the dick size of grown Illyrian males was disturbing. But he shook his reaction off, and went on, “I’ve tried to ask Pa what he thinks about it, once or twice, and got fucking nowhere. You know how he is.”

“Mine’s not any better. At least not for me. He’s physically incapable of lying to my mother,” Enyo said, sneaking a glance at her parents. “The one thing that mating bond is good for.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Nyx could see that Uncle Cass was whispering something in his aunt’s ear, and that she was half-scowling, half-laughing at it. Nyx’s own parents were watching in bemusement, while Uncle Az was staring out the window, looking wistful. Nyx’s heart clenched a little, and he suddenly asked, “Why didn’t Aunt Gwyn want to come to the cabin?”

Aneirin froze, looking distinctly uncomfortable, and Cat fiddled with her cards again, suddenly finding their designs very interesting. It was Enyo who answered, “This cabin reminds her too much of the night they were grabbed, sent to the Blood Rite. She never slept well here, even with all of us here to protect her.”

Nyx sucked in a sharp breath. He did recall the story about his aunts, though he was fuzzy on some of the details. Somehow a mortal queen had learned about Illyrian customs, and had realized that the Blood Rite would suppress Aunt Nesta’s magic, and had engineered an elaborate plot to lure his aunt into it. He looked over at his aunt again, who didn’t seem at all bothered by being up in a cabin in the Illyrian mountains, despite it.

As if to answer that unspoken question, Cat said, “Mama had not been out of the Library since the night Hybern attacked her temple. For years, she feared the outside world, until Aunt Nesta started up the Valkyries. And the very first time she took a risk, left the safety of the Library and Velaris, she was violently kidnapped. Males burst into the cabin and drugged them. She probably thought she was about to be —“ She broke off, shuddering, then went on, “Everything that we Valkyries have done since is to make sure that kind of shit never happens again.”

Nyx felt an oily guilt spreading through him. What had he been doing with his time? Reading books, making fire-stars, going out dancing? It all sounded frivolous in comparison. He was the heir to this gods-damned court, and should be doing much more to protect the innocent people in it.

“But,” he said, his mind reeling with all the implications, “we’ve been coming to the cabin on Solstice for forever.” Had Aunt Gwyn suffered through all those years that their family had been up here, celebrating?

“When we were younger, I think she put up with it, so that we wouldn’t miss out,” Cat said. “She didn’t want to be the one to ruin the tradition, especially being new to the family.” She inclined her head in Nyx’s direction. “I think, when you left for the Day Court, it made her realize that it was okay if we weren’t all together, all the time. It gave her permission to do what she wanted.”

Nyx frowned at that. “But she said she was working late tonight.”

Cat laughed. “That’s Mama for you. Papa, too. They would never just come out and say they wanted to do something different, or needed a change. But if it’s about work, well, that’s justifiable.”

Rin leaned back, crossing an ankle over a knee. “Maybe Pa will leave tonight, go join her. Start Solstice traditions of their own.”

Nyx heartily hoped so. It sounded exhausting, to be constantly working, or to feel like you had to, to earn the right to have a voice, to get what you needed. The whole family was like that, to some extent. After all, there was too much to do, so many problems to take of. They all had a tendency to try to handle things alone, sacrifice their own time or well-being, to spare others the hardship or inconvenience.

And Nyx never would have questioned it, except he’d seen how the Day Court operated. Helion had a ruling council, and teams of scholars working on questions that needed answers. The High Lord and his Lady, and his heir and granddaughter, were by no means idle, but they didn’t take on everything personally, nor was that expected. The thought of governing and protecting a whole court, managing all its moving parts, with just a few people, even if they had infinite energy and were powerful beyond measure — the burden seemed like it would be too great for anyone.

“Speaking of leaving, when are you heading out?” Rin asked.

It took Nyx a moment to realize that the question had been addressed to him. But when Enyo elbowed him, he was jolted into responding. “Oh! Tomorrow evening, I think.” He managed a smile. “They’re spending the day with us, back in Velaris. I thought we could give our parents a break, go out to Sevenda’s. Maybe try ice skating?”

Enyo grinned. “Nyx, you’re already clumsy on land. I can’t imagine what you’d be like sliding on ice.”

“Oh, we are definitely doing it then,” Catrin chortled, while Rin just smiled smugly.

I am in so much trouble.

But before he could think of a suitably snarky response, the cabin door banged open.

“Who wants dinner?” called Aunt Mor from the doorway, Aunt Emerie close behind her. “We brought soup!”

There was a general clamor as chairs were grabbed and rearranged, cards and ice cream cleared from the table, wine was poured, and then they were all bundled around the dining room table. Nyx found himself sandwiched in between Uncle Cass and Aunt Emerie, both of whom seemed more interested in talking to their respective partners than to him, but he didn’t mind it. His head was still spinning from the day he’d had, all that had been said and all the things that he still needed to say but didn’t have words for. He was counting down the minutes until they all said goodnight, until the sleeping bags got pulled out, so that he could finally close his aching eyes and get some rest.

But it felt good to eat dinner, when he’d barely eaten anything other than coffee, wine, or ice cream all day, and the conversation was light and pleasant. And every time he looked over at his parents, cuddled together near the head of the table, dipping into their soup bowls and giving each other sultry glances, his anxiety about what had happened Under the Mountain diminished, little by little.

Maybe there was no perfect answer. Maybe it was all impossibly messy. But his mother had been right about one thing — there was nowhere to go, other than forward.

Chapter Text

“Well! That’s quite enough excitement for one day,” Catrin declared, slamming the door open to the River House, shedding her coat and hat and earmuffs in a trail behind her as she strode through the corridor. Nyx frowned and waved a hand at them, banishing them off to a pocket realm, hoping that Nuala and Cerridwen were inside with the family and not lingering by the doorway to retrieve carelessly strewn garments. “Is there hot chocolate?”

Sibyl laughed, peeling off her own puffy coat and letting it vanish from her fingers. Nyx watched, feeling an unaccountable relief to be with another magic user again. It made him feel less awkward, and less like a showoff. “In a climate like this, there’d better be hot something.”

“Thought you liked the ice and snow,” Nyx teased, remembering how she’d waxed rhapsodic, though most of that had been over handsome Boreas, and not the weather at all. He fell into step with her, trailing Enyo and the twins as they all made their way towards the back of the house, where the adults were gathered for late afternoon refreshments.

“Did I say that?” Sibyl asked airily, sweeping her long red hair back into a ponytail that spilled down her back like a flame, baring her pale face and neck. “Well, it is fun in small doses. When you’re not falling through the ice, that is.”

“Someone fell through the ice?” Aunt Elain asked worriedly, coming forward to embrace her daughter, then giving Nyx a warm hug next. She looked radiantly happy, dressed in a warm sweater and amethyst gown that was rather too elegant for the occasion, but Nyx supposed that she seldom got to wear long-sleeved garments in the heat of the Day Court, and was taking advantage of the cooler weather.

“Not quite,” Nyx said, giving a wave to the rest of the room.

“Stop being modest,” Sibyl scolded, poking Nyx’s arm with a long finger. “If you hadn’t regrown the ice more thickly, the crowd would have plummeted right into the Sidra.”

Nyx’s cheeks warmed as the adults turned towards him, eyeing him as though looking for ice growing out of his fingers.

“It’s true,” Catrin said, already across the room and pouring herself a steaming mug of hot cocoa. “And you did something to the currents, too. Don’t look at me like that, Nyx, I saw you do that hand-wavy thing you always do.”

Nyx held up his hands in surrender. Drat Catrin and her spymaster’s eyes — he’d hoped no one had noticed. He had to work on not relying on hand movements, all his magic teachers always said so, but he switched between powers too frequently to feel comfortable using only his gaze. What if he’d melted the ice, and not refrozen it? He hadn’t wanted to risk making a mistake.

“The tide was starting to come in,” he explained, as all the eyes in the room continued to examine him, “and the water is brackish. It makes the ice melt faster.”

“So you just moved it? Just like that?” Uncle Cassian plopped down on the sofa next to his daughter, jostling her and nearly spilling her own hot drink in the process. Enyo scowled at him, then relented when he reached out to steady the cup of wobbling liquid.

“Like that. You just need practice,” Nyx deadpanned, and they all chuckled at it.

In fact, it had taken only moderate effort to divert the incoming tide away from the frozen section of the river, and grow the ice cover a little more thickly. If it hadn’t been for the loud cracking noises as the ice grew and shifted, Nyx doubted anyone would have ever noticed. And if it hadn’t been for Catrin’s loud exclaiming, no one would have probably realized he’d done it, which was how he preferred things. He was there to have fun with his cousins, and show Sibyl around Velaris’s downtown, not to show off the magic he’d been born with by accident.

But with his cover blown, and his presence brought to the whole crowd’s attention, he’d had to endure a long stream of well-wishers with curious questions about his unique mix of powers, or who wanted to tell them about his mother’s water-and-ice wolves from the Battle of Velaris, or who wanted to see if he had violet eyes like his father the High Lord. Before he knew it it had been almost time to leave, and he’d done very little ice skating at all. But considering how many times he’d slipped and fallen, his feet sliding in opposite directions or flinging out from under him, that was probably a mercy.

His cousins had dispersed throughout the room now, Sibyl and Enyo linking arms as they headed towards the drinks table, Enyo’s wing tucked around them for more privacy. They had a friendship that Nyx envied, that could be picked up right where they’d left off, no matter how long it had been since they’d seen one another, and much of it seemed to revolve around telling gleeful stories about embarrassing things he’d said and done. Sibyl had quite a backlog to share, with the one about the Spring Court princess calling him demony friend in front of the entire city of Rhodes being a particular favorite.

Aunt Elain had drifted back into the company as well, finding Nuala and Ceri, who were indeed both present, and something essential settled inside Nyx as the three of them bent their heads together, talking animatedly amongst themselves, like the old friends they were. He knew Aunt Elain had been happy to see both of her sisters, as well, had hugged Aunt Nesta enthusiastically and patted his mother’s growing belly, and there had been a kind moment between her and Aunt Gwyn, where they’d complimented one another’s jewelry, Aunt Elain’s pearl earrings and Aunt Gwyn’s lovely necklace. It had seemed like certain adults in the room had breathed a sigh of relief at it, though Nyx couldn’t put his finger on what had caused the tension to begin with. As far as he knew, the two females had rarely interacted, other than polite exchanges at family functions, and occasionally tending to one another’s small children. He couldn’t recall there ever being arguing between them. 

But they’d never gotten very friendly, which in retrospect, he now found strange. They were both so kind-hearted, so solicitous of others. Perhaps Aunt Elain found the whole warrior identity a bit distasteful, or Aunt Gwyn couldn’t relate to the life Aunt Elain lived at the opulent Day Court palace.

He could look in the Veritas, he supposed. But it seemed like a paltry use of Aunt Mor’s gift, when there were so many pressing questions he wanted to answer.

Uncle Lucien’s laugh rang out from across the room, distracting him from the broody turn his thoughts had taken. His uncle was flanked by Enyo on one side, Sibyl on the other, and he had his hands held up in surrender, like he was being taken to task for some offense or other. Apparently he had forgotten his very sage advice about not arguing with Archeron females, for now he had two of them ganging up on him. His mismatched gaze met Nyx’s eyes, as though he were pleading for help, and Nyx speared a thought towards him.

What’d you do this time, Uncle Lucien?

Nothing. I swear it.

But his uncle was laughing too hard to be innocent, and both girls were swatting at him, landing blows on his arms and shoulders, which he made no attempt to fend off. Then Aunt Elain finally seemed to take pity on him, marching up to him and telling the girls she would take care of her rascal of a husband once and for all. She grasped him by the front of his shirt and led him away, Uncle Lucien’s golden glow lingering in the room for long moments after they disappeared, presumably to get behind some closed door, and, Nyx desperately hoped, a sound shield as well.

The other adults tittered, with Aunt Elain’s two sisters exchanging incredulous looks. No one had thought his sweet aunt to be quite so forward, but she’d left no doubt about her intentions. Nyx idly wondered if Sibyl wouldn’t soon have a baby brother or sister, as well - if seeing his mother pregnant again hadn’t inspired baby fever in others.

Suddenly there was more hooting and hollering from around the room, and Nyx’s focus snapped to where Aunt Gwyn had come up behind Uncle Azriel, leaning to whisper something in his ear, and he’d grabbed her and pulled her down into his lap, kissing her soundly in front of everyone. Nyx couldn’t recall ever seeing them engage in such a public display, even less so than Aunt Elain and Uncle Lucien, and he saw that Rin and Cat were both averting their eyes, and bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Were they all about to get more siblings? At this rate, the younger generation would soon outnumber the adults, and there would be no end to the trouble they could stir up together. 

What a terrible influence we older cousins will be. He grinned at the thought of it.

Then Nyx’s eyes rested on his Aunt Nesta, propped on one of the couches, legs spread out in front of her, like she was resting them. Maybe she had taken the House’s stairs that morning, or had simply worked herself hard during Valkyrie training. Either way, he hadn’t yet made any effort to do anything but exchange the barest pleasantries with her the whole time he’d been home, so he walked over towards her, thinking now was as good a time as any. When she saw him approaching, she immediately slid her feet out of the way so that he could settle in on the couch beside her.

“Please, don’t trouble yourself,” he said, indicating that she could put her feet back up. “If you need rest, I can stand —“

“You should rest too. I heard you spent the entire ice skating outing falling on your ass,” Aunt Nesta said, and he burst out into a laugh. She had never been one to mince words, which he very much appreciated.

And since he had in fact fallen on his ass, many times, he settled in on the couch beside her, appreciating the soft padding, and admitted, “I much prefer ice cream to ice skating.” Aunt Nesta nodded in approval, and he said, “Speaking of ice cream, have you gotten to try Enyo’s Solstice selection?”

“Not yet. She’s been hogging them,” Aunt Nesta said. “But she left the box up at the House, and I asked it to try to recreate some of the flavors.”

Nyx would have dearly loved to have more time to spend with the House, to try to talk to it, figure out what magic had imbued it with a soul, or as near to such a thing as a magical item could have. Aunt Nesta must have been almost omnipotent, almost as powerful as the Mother Herself, to be able to Make her dwelling into the friend it became.

And she’d given all that up, to spare him and his parents.

The enormity of that gift, the fierce love Aunt Nesta had for them all, the faith that she had that her sacrifice would be worth it — it still stunned Nyx, all these years later.

“Well,” he said, with a jauntiness that he didn’t quite feel, "if the House ever needs a break, you can come to the Day Court and try the real thing. I’m sure Uncle Helion would be happy to host you.”

Aunt Nesta barked a laugh. “I bet he would.”

Nyx was sure he was missing some innuendo or other, not unusual when it came to the High Lord of Day, but decided he didn’t need to know any details. Instead, he shrugged. “Aunt Elain would be happy. And there’s lots to do. You’d love the libraries, anyway.”

She laughed again. “I doubt there are many libraries devoted to my preferred genre.”

“I don’t know about all the ins and outs of Helion’s collection,” Nyx said, squirming a little, for he really didn’t spend his days researching steamy romance novels, “but there are scholars that devote all their time to studying love, mating bonds, and all that sort of thing. I’m sure they read as many books as all the other scholars.”

Aunt Nesta leaned forward a little, her eyes bright with interest. “There are scholars of love and romance?”

“Definitely,” Nyx said. “I’ve been to several symposia on such topics. I’m sure you could meet the scholars who presented their research. There’s Sappho, who studies ancient love poetry, and Diotima proposes a theory of love, a ladder with six rungs, from love of the body to love of the divine in all of us, and —“

Aunt Nesta’s face barely flickered, but he could see that she found the whole thing highly diverting. But she only commented drily, “What an education you’re getting.”

Nyx flushed. “Not really. Not in that,” he said quickly. He had certainly had never fallen in love, nor did he plan to, not for decades. Love would only be a distraction right now. And the thought of introducing any new partner into this family, while he was still struggling to unravel its secrets, and figure out how he fit in amongst them all, seemed far too daunting.

There was laughter from across the room, and both Nyx and Aunt Nesta turned to take in the spectacle. Uncle Cassian was being used as a footstool for Nyx’s mother’s swollen ankles, while Aunt Mor was sitting behind him and braiding his hair. Surrounding himself with the older females, to avoid Enyo and Sibyl’s pestering. It was an elegant solution, almost worthy of Uncle Cass’s reputation as a military strategist.

Nyx turned back to his aunt, who was watching her mate and his antics with a bemused expression, and blurted, “If you’d ever like a look in the Veritas, I learned how to ask it questions.”

Aunt Nesta looked surprised. “Thank you, Nyx, but I don’t think so.” He nodded, content to let the matter drop, not sure why he’d brought it up at all, but then she added, more to herself, “I think I’ve had all the truth in my life that I can handle.”

Nyx swallowed hard. It was none of his business, he shouldn’t ask questions, but — “What do you mean?”

Aunt Nesta turned to face him fully, and just for a moment, he could see the remnants of all the pain and hardship she’s suffered, all the heartache. It was etched into every feature of her haughtily beautiful face, which his mother had once called devastating. “Nyx,” she said slowly, “when I was about your age, I had to face a lot of hard truths. About myself, about my life, about life in general.”

Nyx didn’t doubt it, given all she’d been through. His mother and aunts had had an awful life as younglings, losing their mother to illness and almost their father as well, and had faced long years of near-starvation. They’d lived in a community with no effective leaders, no charities, no functioning economy to speak of, and that had all been before his mother left for Prythian, and war and ruin had found them. Anyone would have struggled, in that situation.

“I did and said a lot of things I’m not proud of,” Aunt Nesta went on, “and I had to face how much I was hurting myself and others. I had to work through it all, and I was forgiven. That is enough for me.”

Forgiven? Nyx burned with indignation, remembering what secrets Enyo had told him. Of forced marches through the mountains, and being locked in the House, and all of it. There was no safe way to bring that up, to let on that he knew the truth was more complicated. He thought about just changing the subject, retreating to talking about the weather, or books, or Valkyrie missions.

“But,” he finally protested, deciding that he would take the risk, after all. “It’s so unfair. What about the way you were treated?”

He would have said more, but his aunt stopped him. "I thank you, Nyx. I truly do. I’ve had to make peace with things the way they are, not the way I would wish them to be. I have chosen to let things go, in the interest of moving forward.”

It sounded just like what his mother had said, and that made Nyx even angrier, even though he saw the wisdom in it. “But it isn’t right,” he insisted.

“That may be,” Aunt Nesta conceded. Her steely gray eyes flicked across the room, to where her mate was currently arguing with her daughter about some training maneuver or other, with several of the others chiming in on both sides of the issue. It seemed like the argument fell along gender lines, not surprising since the Valkyries operated so differently from their Illyrian counterparts.

Aunt Nesta rolled her eyes, then turned back to Nyx. “In an ideal world, everyone would always get perfect justice. All wrongs would be righted. All the wickedness would be punished, and the goodness praised. But that’s not life, Nyx.”

“It could be,” Nyx said stubbornly. His family liked to refer to themselves as dreamers — surely that was a dream worth pursuing?

Aunt Nesta said, “Could, but it isn’t. We can’t wait to have some perfect family, in some perfect world of the future. We have to live now, with the hand we’ve been dealt.”

This was not the hand you were dealt. You gave up every advantage, every bit of your power. He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

But he didn’t have to. She seemed to take meaning from his intense gaze, and sought to reassure him. “This is my family, Nyx. This is my home. This is my life’s work. I can’t assert myself more than I already have without tearing it all down. And I don’t want to do that, not after I’ve spent the last twenty years building it up. I think your mother feels the same.”

He nodded, swallowing thickly. “She does.” He cast a glance towards his mother, laid out so comfortably in his father’s arms, with Cassian massaging her swollen ankles. “I think that’s why she kept her painting of Velaris, instead of trading me for the Veritas orb.”

“She wanted her pretty picture,” Aunt Nesta agreed. “And I understand it. When you’ve been through as much as we have, sometimes you just get tired of fighting. You learn to preserve what you have, make it as beautiful as you can for your children.”

At that moment, Nyx’s mother looked up, and she gave them both a tentative smile, as though she’d heard, and was agreeing. Nyx knew he would have to go over to her, to play the dutiful son, to show her that there were no hard feelings, and with his father, too. He wouldn’t be able to leave the Night Court again in good conscience otherwise.

But he said to Aunt Nesta, “You don’t have to fight alone. You have your Valkyrie sisters. And you have Enyo, and me.”

She blinked slowly, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer, more gentler than he’d ever heard her speak. “Save your strength, Nyx. Someday you will have your own battles to fight.”

He wondered how many times she’d told Enyo the same thing, and how many times Enyo had refused to listen.

Aunt Nesta slid off the couch, patting his shoulder, then strode over to where Uncle Cassian was showing off his finished braids. Aunt Mor scooted back, and Nyx’s mother moved her feet, so that Aunt Nesta could settle onto her mate’s lap, and a moment later they were all laughing again, probably at some tart remark she’d made.

Nyx watched them, enjoying the scene, the pretty picture it made, and hoped that the reality was not too far different.

Chapter Text

“You’re really leaving already? But you just got here,” Catrin pouted, flopping down on Nyx’s bed. “We don’t piss you off that much, do we, Nyx?”

“Maybe Enyo does,” Nyx teased, winking at her, then ducking and laughing when Sibyl grabbed a pillow from the bed and tossed it at him.

“What about me?” Enyo turned her head at the sound of her name, though she’d been tuning out the conversation up to that point in favor of intently studying the Veritas orb, which stayed stubbornly quiet and inert as she rotated it with her fingers, peered into it, lifted it to see what was underneath.

“Nothing,” Nyx quickly assured her, “just seeing if you were paying attention.”

“I wasn’t,” Enyo shrugged, and they all chuckled at it. Always the truth-teller.

Nyx didn’t understand how truth magic worked, why the Veritas responded to him but not to his cousin, whose passion for uncovering the truth, no matter how unpleasant, was even greater than his. It didn’t seem fair. Enyo didn’t need magic, of that he was certain, but it still bothered him that she was at such a disadvantage, while he had more powers than he could possibly master.

“You’re not missing anything. Just Nyx being an ass,” Catrin said tartly, scooping up the fallen pillow and then walloping him across the neck and shoulders with it.

“Oh, you mean like always,” Enyo shrugged, turning back to the Veritas.

“Don’t forget boots,” Sibyl piped up from her spot on his bed, leaning over to critically examine the contents of his suitcase. “Winter Court terrain is no joke.”

“I always wear boots,” Nyx said crossly, but then reached for his warmer pair, just in case. He’d learned to ignore Sibyl’s advice at his peril.

“I thought you all were going to Summer,” Cat said.

“We are. And Spring, before we cross into the human lands.” Sibyl rolled her eyes at the thought of it. “Believe me, I’d rather skip Spring altogether, but it’s the most important stop of the trip.”

Nyx tossed several lighter shirts into his suitcase, figuring they would do for both Spring and Summer. “I don’t know. It might not be so bad,” he said.

Sibyl snorted. “You’ve met Tamlin. What an oaf.”

“There are other people in Spring besides Tamlin,” Nyx pointed out, shoving the last of his socks and trousers into his suitcase, then frowning when he saw that he had no room for books. He would have to rely on stashing the rest of his possessions in pocket realms, which could be a problem if their accommodations were warded. He understood why such security precautions would be necessary — it wouldn’t do to have intruders pulling weapons out of thin air — but it was rather inconvenient. “It’s not fair to judge an entire court by its ruler.”

“You’re not wrong about that,” came a familiar voice from the doorway, and Nyx whirled around in surprise.

“Hello, Aunt Feyre,” Sibyl said, smiling.

“Thought I’d find you all in here,” Nyx’s mother said, looking around his childhood bedroom with a critical eye, like she half-expected to find it trashed. Nyx flushed, remembering the tantrum he’d thrown up in the mountains, the mess he’d made. At least I made it out of Velaris before I lost it. “Aneirin left already?”

“Yup. He was due back in Windhaven hours ago. Vacation’s well and truly over,” Cat said. “He won’t be back now til after the Blood Rite.”

“Isn’t he a bit young to be participating?” Nyx’s mother asked.

“He isn’t. He’s part of the advance guard. They’re patrolling the grounds ahead of time, to make sure no one drops supplies or weapons.” Cat grinned at Enyo, who grinned back at her. “And we’ll be there too, to make sure the Illyrian patrols actually do their jobs.” 

Nyx heartily wished that the Blood Rite would be outlawed, that there were some other way to initiate warriors. The whole setup seemed barbaric, a waste of innocent life, and he suspected that there was something sinister about the monolith atop Ramiel, that its control over magic was not natural. Nyx could think of no way for a stone to amass the needed power, except for collecting it from the fallen warriors, for what evil purpose no one had any inkling. How very convenient that it was taboo for all visitors, that its secrets could never be investigated.

But if the Blood Rite had to happen, at least his cousins would be there to guard the participants, making damn sure that their mothers’ awful experience would not be repeated.

Nyx stood up, nudging his suitcase closed with his foot, then poked Sibyl. “Look what you’re missing out on. Sorry you didn’t become a Valkyrie?”

Enyo stuck her tongue out at him. “Sibyl can join us whenever she wants. Our own mothers didn’t start training until they were older than we are, and we have trainees older than that now.”

“Even Aunt Mor comes to sessions, sometimes, and she’s been a warrior for centuries,” Catrin pointed out.

Enyo’s expression turned sour, but she said nothing. Nyx made a mental note to ask her about it later. He had guessed already that Aunt Mor and Aunt Nesta had an unpleasant history, that there was some lingering resentment, but they were both making an effort to put it aside, and he wondered what Enyo knew about it, what conflicts she might have had with Aunt Mor to defend her mother’s honor.

Nyx’s mother shifted uncomfortably in the doorway. She had never joined the Valkyries, herself, despite being a skilled fighter. Nyx had always thought it was because her duties as a High Lady kept her too busy, but now he wondered if there was more to it, if she had deliberately held herself back. Perhaps she didn't want to encroach, or take away from what Aunt Nesta had carved out for herself?

Sibyl reached out for Enyo’s hand, then for Cat’s. “I’ll always be a Valkyrie at heart. We females have to stick together.”

Then the three of them looked sharply at Nyx, in silent challenge. He held up his own hands in surrender, laughing, “You’ll get no argument from me there.”

“Good,” Sibyl said sweetly, sliding off the bed, tugging Enyo and Cat with her. “Come on, girls, let’s let Nyx finish packing in peace.” Her eyes slid to his mother, still hovering near the doorway. Clearly, there was a conversation still to be had, and Sibyl, ever the diplomat, understood that the cousins would be in the way of it.

The three younger females headed for the door, and Nyx’s mother moved aside to let them pass, then wandered a few steps into the room, tentatively, as though she were waiting to see if Nyx would actually welcome her presence. She was being careful, testing the waters, and he hated that she found it necessary.

“Sit down, Mama,” he offered, gesturing to the bed.

She sat, perching on the edge of the bed gingerly, as though it might come to life and nip at her bottom. “I was hoping we could spend a little time together, before you had to head out. And, I was hoping your father could join us.”

Nyx’s stomach clenched, just a little. The thought of spending time with his parents, after everything that had been said, after all the uncomfortable truths that had been shared, made him nervous. And he felt guilty for that, for they were his parents, and surely he should want to spend time with them?

“All right,” he said, hating the awkward, clipped way the words sounded.

“He’ll be up in a minute,” his mother said, “he’s just going over some last minute things with Lucien, talking strategy.”

Talking about how to handle Tamlin, probably.

What had started out as a leisurely trip to show Sibyl and Nyx the home of their human ancestors, and check in with Queen Vassa and her general, was rapidly turning into a real diplomatic mission, with real consequences if it failed. Nyx wasn’t sure whether he should be flattered, or worried, that he’d been invited to go along. What if his presence upset the negotiations with Tamlin?

He pushed that aside, tried to focus on his mother, to put her at ease. But there was no good place to begin, no topic he could think of that was truly safe. So he said, honestly, “I hope I don’t mess up the mission.”

His mother frowned. “Why would you? The Winter Court is eager to thank you in person, and Summer should just be fun and relaxing.”

“It’s not Summer or Winter I’m worried about.” Indeed, he was looking forward to seeing the Winter Court and its royal family, hoped he and Boreas could become friendly now that the issue of the massacre was no longer between them, and had carefully packed the far-too-generous gift he’d received from them so that he could wear it when the time came. And Summer would be more like a vacation, full of beach outings and fishing and a rare chance to train with experts in water-magic, and Amren and Varian would be there to make him feel at home.

Nyx reached into his pocket, where he’d stashed the little Solstice present from the Spring Court princess. She was young and innocent, no different from Nyx or any of his cousins. None of them had done any harm to anyone, or had a say in what their parents might have done, either. There was no obvious reason there couldn’t be peace between them. But they would surely be dragged into the conflict between their families, despite all the adults’ talk about wanting to make peace with the past.

How long would that little girl consider him a friend? Especially once she was taught Tamlin’s version of events?

“Honestly? If you’re permitted to enter the Spring Court at all, I’d be surprised,” Nyx’s mother said. “Our two courts do not have formal diplomatic relations. It might be better if you don’t attempt it.”

Sibyl would probably be jealous if I got to skip it. “But if I’m invited, I can’t very well refuse. That would only make things worse,” Nyx pointed out.

“If you are invited, there might be some trick. Stay wary,” his mother cautioned. “Remember that Tamlin has resorted to drastic measures before. Hopefully he’s learned from that experience, but we can’t count on it.”

“I’ll be careful,” Nyx promised, silently thinking that Tamlin probably felt the same way about his family, and that things would never change until everyone involved admitted their own errors, and made amends for them. And how likely was that to happen?

“We trust you,” his mother said, patting the bed next to her, and after a too-long moment of hesitation, Nyx sank down next to her. “You’ve made us so proud already.”

Nyx looked into her face, hardly believing that he was hearing this. “Have I?” How could that be possible, after all the trouble he’d caused?

“Of course,” his mother said, reaching for his hand.

Nyx took her hand with trembling fingers. “Even after… everything? Even now?”

“Especially now,” his mother said. She was gazing at him so openly, so sincerely, that Nyx couldn’t help but believe it, even if his mind was scrambling to catch up. “You caught us all off-guard, but it’s our own fault for not telling you the full truth in the first place. Your father and I have talked it over, and we both realize how lucky we were that you were willing to come to us with your questions. That couldn’t have been easy.”

It hadn’t been easy for him, but Nyx brushed that aside. He was only learning about events that others had had to suffer through. Surviving Under the Mountain, the War, and all of it — that was the not-easy part.“I really didn’t want to upset you,” he said apologetically. “I wasn’t going to do this over Solstice. But I didn't want to wait til the baby was born, either.”

“Same with us. We wanted to wait to talk about these… harsher realities, until you were old enough to understand, so that we wouldn’t traumatize you. But then it was just more comfortable to put it off,” his mother said gently. “I guess there’s no good time to find out that your parents aren’t perfect.”

Nyx chuckled at that. He’d never thought they were perfect, exactly, but had certainly had quite an idealized view of them, just as many others in Velaris still did. “You always knew your parents weren’t.”

“I did,” she sighed. “I never had illusions. The best I can say about my parents is that they taught me what I wanted to avoid, what kind of parent I did not want to be. Even if Father did come through for us, in the end.” She lowered her gaze to their joined hands. “I never wanted you to feel neglected, or to take on adult responsibilities too soon. I never wanted you to lack for food, or safety, or opportunities to learn.”

“And I never lacked for any of it,” Nyx was quick to reassure her, for he really had had an idyllic childhood in those respects. His life had always been overflowing — with good food, with caring folk, with more books and toys and clothing than any youngling could ever hope for. “I had too much, if anything. More than I deserved.”

“No. You deserved everything. Never doubt that,” she said fiercely.

Nyx shook his head, scoffing, “Come on, Mama. You earned everything you have. You fought, and bled, and died for it. I did nothing to earn the magic I’ve got. I was just born lucky. And the way Aunt Nesta gave up all her powers, so I could be born — I don’t know what I’m ever going to do to deserve that.”

His mother’s face crumpled, and she pulled him into a hug. Nyx tensed momentarily before letting himself lean against her, accept the affection. “I think you’ve always been too hard on yourself,” she said against his shoulder. “Always carried that guilt, about your aunt’s sacrifice, about what almost happened. But I would do it all again, without hesitation, to bring you into the world, and I wouldn’t regret it. And neither would your Aunt Nesta. Never doubt that.”

“I don’t doubt it, Mama. But you should have saved yourself,” Nyx said, arms tightening around her. He felt a sudden pang of anxiety, thinking about the pregnancy she was currently carrying. What if she died, giving birth to his sister? What if he’d squandered his last Solstice with her, dredging up the past, instead of savoring these last days with her?

“I can feel that you’re nervous,” his mother said, stroking his hair. “This new pregnancy is bringing it all out, isn’t it?” He nodded wordlessly, feeling like everything he wanted to say was lodged in his throat, that he would choke on it if he tried to speak just then. “But I am fine, and I will be fine. There’s no wings this time, anyway.”

“But things can still go wrong,” he stammered.

“We’re never guaranteed anything, Nyx. We’ve all learned that, though hard experience. We’ve all lost people suddenly. Look at what happened to your grandmother Danu, your aunt Branwen. They were attacked out of nowhere.”

Nyx shuddered. Now that was a reason to avoid visiting Spring, so that he wouldn’t be tempted to wring Tamlin’s neck for those horrible deaths, and all the sorrow and heartbreak that had come afterwards.

“I don’t want to frighten you with talk of sudden death. It’s a low risk delivery, and I have the best care possible,” his mother assured him. “I wouldn’t have gotten pregnant again if I didn’t trust in my body and in our healers, and I know your father felt the same.”

“I do,” his father said, and Nyx looked up to see that he was perched in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe, watching his mate and son. “We had many discussions about it, consultations with multiple healers. We didn’t enter into it lightly.” He plunged a hand into his dark hair. “We waited twenty-three years for a reason.”

And as he looked at Nyx’s mother, so much love and pain in his eyes, Nyx understood what the reason was. His father had seen his mother die twice now. How many more times could his heart stand it?

He really does love her.

“Well,” his father said, forcing lightness into his tone, “there’s no reason to dwell on that now. You’re heading on your trip tonight, and we just wanted to clear the air, make sure that you knew there were no hard feelings.”

“I appreciate that,” Nyx said, and he really did. Even if he still felt awkward and ungrateful, and a little bit angry, too.

Nyx’s father settled onto the bed, arranging himself so that his pregnant wife could lean against him. They both faced Nyx, and he looked forthrightly back at them, letting himself really take in their features. This might be the last time they were together, just the three of them, before the new baby arrived, before everything changed yet again, and it felt like there were no more words at all, even though there was still so much to say.

Nyx’s mother broke the silence. “While you were gone to the snowball fight, I had a talk with Nuala and Cerridwen.”

Nyx’s heart pounded a little harder, especially as his father murmured, “Oh? Why them?”

“Well,” his mother said, shifting uncomfortably, “Nyx asked to invite them to Solstice, and I hesitated. And that got me thinking — why did I hesitate? They’ve been part of our family for so many years, helped raise our son and his cousins, and we’re about to trust them again to help with our daughter. But there’s always been a boundary there.”

“It was always there. Even when Branwen and I were younger,” Nyx’s father said. He sighed deeply. “But I know where you’re going with this.”

“I think I do too,” Nyx said, squirming at the thought of what he’d seen in the Veritas, his cheeks heating. No son should ever see his mother like that.

“I never held it against them, that they did your bidding Under the Mountain,” his mother said quickly, grasping his father’s hands, drawing his arms more tightly around her. “I’m afraid I didn’t give them very much thought, one way or another. I wasn’t even sure they were really people, and not just shadows, until I saw them here in Velaris.” She gave Nyx an apologetic wince. “I’m afraid I learned some distasteful ideas about servants from my own parents.”

Nyx was surprised at this. “Even though our family was poor? We easily could have been servants ourselves.”

His mother nodded. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but when you’re brought up a certain way, you don’t realize that you’re thinking in an illogical way, until it's pointed out to you. We were taught to look down our noses at serving folk, that it wasn’t dignified to be too familiar. It surprised me when Elain chose Nuala and Ceri as friends, but it shouldn’t have. She was always less snobbish than me or Nesta, always connected well with folks from all walks of life. Saw people as people, whatever their station.”

“Just like her husband,” Nyx observed, and both his parents nodded.

His mother went on, “It never really occurred to me that Nuala and Cerridwen might have regrets, or guilt about what happened Under the Mountain. Misplaced guilt,” she added hastily, when Nyx’s father opened his mouth to object. “They suffered too, but they didn't want to burden us with it, or bring up topics that might distress us. But they told me they wished they could have done more to ease my suffering Under the Mountain, that they wished the painting and dressing hadn’t been necessary.”

Nyx’s father looked pained. “Necessary.”

His mother shifted, looking up at him, reaching to graze his cheek with her hand. “Yes, Rhys. Necessary.”

His father took his mother’s hand, cradled it against his face. “Was it, Feyre? Was it necessary?”

Nyx held his breath as his mother answered, “It seemed so to you, at the time. There’s no point in second-guessing it. You can’t change the past, Rhys. And it did work out, in the end.”

“Did it?” his father murmured.

His mother went quiet, and Nyx guessed that they were communicating mind-to-mind, as they often did when words became difficult. It was part of what made them so well-suited as mates — indeed, Nyx couldn’t imagine their relationship without it.

Voices floated up to them from the bottom of the stairs, and Nyx strained to hear them, until he recognized one of them as his uncle’s. “— still up there. Nyx?”

“Yes,” he called back down, suddenly realizing that time had gotten on, and that they’d planned to leave hours ago, and that he was keeping his uncle and Sibyl waiting.

“It’s all right, sweetheart. Go,” his mother said, seeing his trepidation. “Write to us, or just give a shout, so we know how things are going.”

“Right,” Nyx said, and leaned in to kiss her cheek, then hesitated for a too-long moment before he reached across her for his father, hugging him awkwardly.

His father returned the gesture, grabbing his neck, murmuring, “Keep seeking the truth, Nyx,” before releasing him, and turning back to his mother.

Nyx scrambled off the bed, grabbing for his suitcase, calling, “Sorry. I’m coming!” and retreated for the door, glancing back at the bed, where his parents were still sitting together.

He had the sense that they might be there for a while, that whatever he’d stirred up had to be worked through and settled between them. And though he still felt guilty about it, he also felt lighter, more hopeful, knowing that they were addressing it.

He closed the door behind him, and headed out, lugging his suitcase behind him.

Chapter Text

Nyx collapsed onto the hot pink couch, yelping as he was nearly swallowed up by the plush cushions. “This is a death trap, not a bed,” he quipped.

The gruff general lounging across from him barked a laugh. “Well, lordling, you’ve learned a valuable lesson. We humans aren’t as defenseless as you might think.”

His queen, perched on his lap, threw her elbow into his ribs. “Don’t be crass, Jurian.”

Now it was Uncle Lucien’s turn to laugh. “That’s like asking Nyx to un-grow his wings. It’s not going to happen.”

Jurian merely raised his beer mug to them all, then downed the contents in one voracious gulp. And Vassa, who had long since gotten used to his uncouth manners, and perhaps enjoyed them, rolled her eyes, and took a long swig of her own wine, as though in answer.

Nyx caught Sibyl’s eye from across the room. His cousin was daintily sipping from her own glass, lips curled into a knowing smirk as she watched the humans’ antics. Unlike Nyx, she’d been here many times before, and seemed to know how to take it all in stride, from the strange assortment of furniture to the constant sniping between the queen and her general, and the glares and averted eyes that faeries still got from the other humans. Here in the old Nolan manor things were amiable enough, but it was tense to be out in public, given the near-universal hatred of faeries that had persisted after the War ended. Nyx rather wondered how his uncle had managed it, living amongst such nervous scowling folk almost full time.

So this is where our mothers were younglings.

It hardly seemed real to him, this hardscrabble land of mud and rock and spindly trees. It was all so gray, drab and depressing, even with the cozy hearth-fires and bustling of the market square. They’d not lingered, especially when the folk got one gander at Nyx’s Illyrian wings and their hands strayed right to their daggers. Nyx tried not to bristle, remembering how vulnerable mortals were, and how right they were to be on guard, but his eyes roved in vain for any familiar features, any hint of long lost family or old friends among the sour, suspicious faces. Surely his human family had once had business partners and confidants, ballroom partners and suitors, and there would have been servants and horse-keepers and gardeners, but either they were dead or gone, or else hiding out of sight like all sensible folks would. So Uncle Lucien had been to the few vendors who’d take his coin, charging him exorbitantly for the privilege, and then they’d bundled themselves back out into the countryside to seek out the old cottage where their family had once huddled, freezing and forlorn.

There Nyx had knelt for long moments in the snow, pressing his hands to the half-rotted floorboards, the gnawed edges of what once could have been a table, a few poles of a bedframe, and the cracked peeling paint of an old dresser drawer, some early art of his mother’s that had been left behind. The elements had not been kind to it, for much of the color had faded under the sun’s onslaught and the whipping wind, and the wood-lice and mushrooms and rodents of the forest, and years of thawing and refreezing, had reduced sections of it down to powder and splinters. But he could still make out the remnants of painted flames on one plank, and a starry sky on another, and twirling vines and lush flowers on a third. He had traced his fingers over those vines, over the roses and irises, as though he could coax them into bloom again, as though he could plant them in the ruins and make something new grow out of them.

What a bitter life Mama led here.

Nyx wondered just how fearful she’d been as a human, how distrustful of the fae that she thought were all monsters, if she’d preferred this dreary and dismal place to the wonders of Prythian. His uncle had laughed as he’d recounted all the times Nyx’s mother had tried to sneak away from the Spring Court manor, especially the time she’d lowered herself out a window at night, but Nyx couldn’t imagine wanting to come back here, to the utter desolation of this impoverished land, out of some misplaced obligation to her family that had been utterly unfair to place on her young shoulders.

“Maybe it was better before the War?” he had asked hopefully.

But his uncle had shaken his head in answer. “From what I’ve heard from your mother and aunt and grandfather, it is just the same. More prosperous now, if anything.”

They’d really had nothing. Not even each other, from the sound of the few tales his mother had told. She had suffered alone, trudging out into the dark heart of the forest each day, had barely kept them alive before the fateful day she’d sealed all their fates. And with that thought, Nyx had suddenly felt like he couldn’t stand to be in that awful place one moment longer, and so they’d moved on.

They had not ventured out to the site of the posh chateau the Archerons had built with Tamlin’s money, where they’d once met with Vassa’s fellow queens where his aunts had been violently kidnapped by Hybern. That cursed place had been burnt down to ashes, and any trinket or bit of wealth or memorabilia had been long since plundered.

Instead, they had left the remnants of the cottage with heavy hearts, and trudged deeper into the forest, until they’d come to a simple stone marker, commemorating the site where Uncle Lucien’s dear friend Andras had been felled by those fateful arrows. Sibyl had reached for her father’s hand then, knowing that the loss still weighed deeply upon him, and Nyx said a silent prayer for the fallen faerie, whose sacrifice had made possible their freedom and happiness.

Nyx was relieved to be back in the old stone manor, away from the prying eyes of humans and the ghosts of unpleasant memories. They were to stay over with Uncle Lucien’s friends for the night, though Nyx had no idea how he was supposed to lie down, much less fall asleep. Arranging himself on this voluminous couch was going to be difficult, would have posed a challenge even if his wings fit on it. But his mind was swirling from the last few days of traveling, and his heart raw with anguish for his family and for Andras, and his nerves were jumpy about their upcoming visit to Spring. So he doubted that sleep would find him even if he had the most comfortable bed in the whole human realm.

His brooding thoughts were interrupted by raucous laughter, as Sibyl drawled, “ — like a gargoyle,” and Nyx grinned in spite of himself, knowing full well which embarrassing story she was telling.

“She meant that I’m a work of art,” he chuckled, spreading his wings out in imitation of a statue.

“Or just a piece of work,” Sibyl snorted, and everyone chortled again.

“When do you all leave for Spring?” Vassa asked, rising from Jurian’s lap, her gleaming firebird wings spreading out behind her. It had startled the hell out of Nyx to meet a human with wings, much less such glorious shimmering ones. He could feel the fire-magic radiating from them, and thought how much his teachers back at the Day Court would love to study it, to figure out more of the sorcerer-lord’s secrets.

How Vassa had been bound to Koschei’s lake, cursed to change forms at dusk and at dawn, and how they’d managed to free her, was a closely held trove of knowledge only for the High Lord himself, and his heir, and a few hand-picked scholars. But Vassa herself was no mystery at all — she was forthcoming and brash, always commanding the room’s attention. She was bold in all her declarations and questions, easily provoked into arguments or laughter, drank and cursed like a sailor, not at all how Nyx would have imagined a queen of mortals would be.

Uncle Lucien hesitated before answering. “That depends on a few things.”

“You don’t have to be diplomatic,” Nyx said quickly, seeing the humans’ looks of confusion. “Uncle’s got to go ahead first, to gauge what kind of mood Tamlin’s in, whether he’s going to tolerate my presence, or turn into a beast and run me out of his territory.”

Uncle Lucien was taking no chances, not relying on the vague declarations of goodwill he’d had from Tamlin’s last letter. “I promised your parents I’d keep you safe, and I don’t want any incidents,” he’d explained to Nyx, who heartily agreed with the sentiment. He didn’t want to be a burden or a distraction, or upset any fragile negotiations.

He’d assured his uncle that he would be happy to hang out with the humans, if Tamlin proved to be unwelcoming, thinking that it would be better to be indoors and warm than lurking in the woods near the border, Jurian's jokes about roosting bats notwithstanding. The queen and the general were hospitable enough, especially now that Vassa could shift at will, and he might be able to ask Jurian some questions about Amarantha. The poor male had seen far too much, centuries’ worth of cruelties and depravities. It had been more than just punishment for Jurian’s own war crimes, and Nyx wondered what Jurian’s secret was — how he’d managed to stay sane and lucid through it all.

And he apparently remembered everything, no mean feat given how many centuries he’d spent trapped on Amarantha’s finger. The intelligence he’d gathered might still be useful, if Hybern ever again became their enemy. Nyx rather wondered if Eris’s frequent visits to the manor had been bent in that direction, if Eris was angling for an alliance with Hybern even before he’d been elevated to High Lord, and had mined Jurian for information — or perhaps he’d had his eye on Vassa, who would have made a formidable High Lady of Autumn.

Jurian leaned back, crossing an ankle over a knee. “Oh, Tamlin will behave, all right, because that wife of his won’t fuck him in his beast form.”

“Ass,” Vassa hissed, swatting a fiery wing at him. Jurian grinned broadly and dodged, narrowly avoiding being singed.

“The Lady Ceres is lovely,” Sibyl said pointedly, though her eyes were twinkling with amusement. “And he honestly seems to adore her. The little one, too.”

“All the more reason to avoid any unpleasantness,” Nyx said, thinking about the little princess, and the Solstice present he’d packed into his suitcase for her. He could ask his uncle to bring it for her, if he couldn’t deliver it in person.

Vassa snorted in rather un-queenlike fashion. “I met Ceres once or twice. Don’t let the sweet manners fool you. She’s as fierce as her husband, maybe more so.”

“Hopefully I’ve learned a thing or two about dealing with fierce females,” Uncle Lucien said, drawing an affectionate arm around his daughter’s shoulders.

Vassa gave Sibyl a sly smile that Nyx immediately recognized. He’d seen his aunts Nesta and Gwyn smile at his female cousins like that many times, and the older Valkyries at their newly trained sisters, like some secret knowledge had been transmitted, that there was a unity, a bond between them, one female to another. He suddenly understood why Sibyl so enjoyed coming to the human realm, despite having no human relatives left here to visit, despite the miasma of sorrow and hardship that hung over the land. There was some part of Sibyl that was not like her mother, nor her gentle grandmother for that matter, but that resonated strongly with this spirited human queen, this fiery warrior and survivor. Nyx wondered how much time the two had spent together, and what they might be able to learn from each other, and thought that Uncle Lucien had been wise in his choice of friends both for himself, and in having a mentor for his daughter.

Then Vassa turned back to Nyx. “So, you’re another fire wielder.”

Nyx nodded, his eyes straying back to Vassa’s wings. He didn’t want to pry, or ask uncomfortable questions, but he was dying to know about Koschei — what the sorcerer had really been like, how she’d gained control over her firebird form, whether she was even really human anymore. Whether she still flew with those wings. The sight would be glorious.

I could probably make my wings do that, if I practiced. It would take combining his Spring power of shapeshifting, and his Autumn fire, which would take great concentration, but the thought of having firebird wings was an enticing challenge.

But such thoughts felt disloyal, for Nyx’s Illyrian wings were part of his heritage, what connected him to his parents and ancestors, what he shared with his uncles and most of his cousins. Those wings had near-killed his mother, and Aunt Nesta had sacrificed her powers on account of them. He had already turned his back on his Illyrian heritage, foregoing training in the camps and the Blood Rite — wouldn’t transforming his wings be the ultimate rejection?

Sibyl poked him, jolting him out of his reverie, hissing low to him, “Close your mouth, you besotted idiot.”

“I’m not,” Nyx hissed back, flushing with embarrassment. In Sibyl’s mind, he added, Don’t be gross. Her husband’s right here.

He’d probably be into it, she teased. They still pester my father to join them, sometimes, knowing full well he’s happily mated.

Nyx straightened, determined not to react to that far-too-explicit information, and answered Vassa forthrightly. “I inherited all my mother’s powers, what she received from all the High Lords of Prythian.” 

“Ah, yes. Feyre Cursebreaker is your mother. You look so much more like your father, I’d almost forgotten,” Jurian drawled, extending an arm to draw Vassa back onto his lap. She sighed and acquiesced, vanishing her wings so that she could lean fully against him. “I remember your mother from Under the Mountain. Now that was a sight for sore eyes.”

Uncle Lucien’s eye clicked, as though expressing its disapproval, and Vassa whirled around to glare at him. “Gods, Jurian. Is nothing off limits?”

“Maybe we don’t have to dwell on that,” Nyx said tightly, knowing full well what Jurian had gotten an eyeful of, and working furiously to rein in his temper.

Jurian snorted, fending off Vassa’s attempts to slap him, eventually snagging her wrists, then dodging as her wings snapped back out and whacked at him, forcing him to release her. But he turned back to Nyx, unperturbed. “Little lordling, you’re about to go visit Tamlin. If you can’t handle a few jokes, I don’t want to think about what you’re in for when you face him.”

“Tamlin doesn’t joke. That would require a sense of humor,” Vassa huffed.

But Nyx understood Jurian’s meaning. Many things might be said by the High Lord of Spring, and Nyx had to be careful how he reacted. “I’m fully aware of Tamlin’s history with my parents.”

“Are you? All of it?” Jurian needled him.

Sibyl came to his defense. “Nyx saw it all in the Veritas orb.”

Jurian pressed his lips into a tight smile. “Is that like some magical all seeing eye?” He pointedly winked at Nyx. “I’ve got one of those too.”

“Mine’s prettier,” Nyx blurted, drawing it out from the pocket realm that he’d placed it in, and everyone reflexively leaned forward to gaze at it.

“Well, you’re not wrong. That is stunning,” Jurian said, extending a finger to graze its surface.

Vassa smacked his hand away, snapping, “Stop putting your meaty fingers all over everything.”

Jurian grinned broadly, and pinched her side. “Why, sweetheart, that’s not what you were saying last night —“

“Well!” Uncle Lucien exclaimed, popping up from his chair so rapidly that it toppled over. “Who wants dinner?”

“I don’t think I have an appetite anymore,” Sibyl groused, pointedly looking at Jurian.

Jurian’s smile only grew wider. “Have I offended you, Princess?” 

“Oh, when you offend Sibyl, you’ll know,” Nyx said. He almost wished it would happen, just so he could see her knock Jurian on his ass.

“Jurian. With me,” Uncle Lucien said firmly, and the general gave an exaggerated sigh, but then got up, planting a smacking kiss on Vassa’s flushed cheek before bowing gallantly to Sibyl, then winking again at Nyx, before Uncle Lucien got annoyed enough to drag him away by the arm.

How did he stand it, living here with these two? Things with Aunt Elain must have been truly miserable.

Vassa settled back into the chair, stretching out her wings and sighing contentedly. “At last, we’ll have some intelligent conversation. Tell me about your travels. You were in Summer, were you not? And I heard you went to Winter, too? How is dear Viviane?”

Sibyl launched into a rapturous description of their visit, bypassing their uneventful respite in Summer, for Vassa had visited the Summer Court on multiple occasions before her curse had been broken, as it was close enough to the human realm that she could spend hours there in her human form, then fly home when dawn broke over the horizon. Instead Sibyl lingered over the descriptions of Winter’s snowy landscape, the ethereal aurora borealis that danced ribbons through the darkened sky, and all of the wildlife and people and places.

It had all passed by Nyx in a blur, for they’d met a bewildering array of dignitaries and entourages, enduring solemn toasts and then raucous feasting, and it had been all he could do to stay focused on greeting them all politely, enduring their furtive glances and double takes, then the sudden enthusiastic crowding around when someone finally thought to ask what his sapphire medallion meant, why the son of Rhysand Mind-Killer should be wearing a Winter Court heirloom.

Then Nyx had been inundated with gawkers and well-wishers, eager parents with eligible daughters, and more than a few tearful survivors of Under the Mountain who remembered his mother’s sacrifice to free them. They’d all wanted to take his hand, or pat his shoulder, and Nyx had been grateful as hell when the High Lord and Lady had finally made an appearance, drawing off some of the fawning attention.

“You visited the site of the massacre?” Vassa was asking Sibyl in a hushed tone. “And the people tolerated his presence?”

“Welcomed it,” Sibyl said, sliding onto the couch next to Nyx. “Nyx and Daddy are heroes to them.”

“Which is ridiculous,” Nyx sputtered. He would have been a hero had he saved anyone, not just read through some old testimonies and letters.

Sibyl nudged him with her elbow. “Khione was happy to see you again.”

Nyx grimaced. The young Winter princess was nice enough, and had a sort of stark beauty about her, but she was as young as Catrin, and just as devoted to her own court. “What about Boreas?” he shot back, desperate to take the spotlight off him.

Sibyl waved a careless hand. “Oh, him. Whatever.”

Vassa leaned forward, her turquoise eyes bright. “You have a suitor?”

Sibyl shook her head emphatically. “I thought I liked him, but Vassa, he bores me. He just likes to hear himself talk.”

“Oh honey,” Vassa trilled, “they all like to hear themselves talk. Except this one here,” and she flung out a golden-brown hand towards Nyx, her lips curving upwards. “Definitely more dark and brooding.”

Sibyl shot Nyx a look that said, See? I told you.

He cleared his throat. “Queen Vassa, you knew our grandfather?”

Vassa’s face lit up with excitement, though there was a sadness in her eyes. “I did indeed. He was a good friend, almost like a father to me.”

“So that would make you, like, our aunt,” Nyx blurted.

Vassa looked almost offended. “I am far too young to be your aunt.”

In fact, Nyx’s aunts had only been in their twenties when he was born, but he decided to refrain from saying so.

“Vassa’s got the best stories,” Sibyl said, smoothly directing the conversation towards less awkward territory. “Tell him the one about the bandits.”

“Oh! That is a good one,” Vassa exclaimed, and launched into a tale from when they’d been traveling on the continent, returning from Koschei’s lake, and how Uncle Lucien had fought off a team of extremely unlucky robbers, who had been expecting weary human travelers and not a fire-wielding faerie warrior. That story led straight into the next one, about how Jurian had had to share a tiny bed with Grandfather Archeron at the first inn on their journey, and they’d spent all night arguing over whether the window should be open, and then another about how Vassa had won the assistance of an entire crew of mercenaries by beating their leader at a drinking contest…

Nyx listened, and chuckled at the Band of Exiles’ antics, and sent out a thought for his lost grandfather, who’d been restored to such health and vitality that, had he lived past the final battle, he could have still been here to join in their storytelling and merriment. Nyx supposed he ought to thank Tamlin for that much, at least, whatever else the male had done, and made a mental note to say so, if he did manage to get to Spring.

He gazed out the window, imagining he could see all the way to the Spring Court, though they were some distance from where the Wall had once been. He wondered how often his uncle would sit at these windows, and mourn Andras, and the home he’d once had. Nyx couldn’t imagine ever living away from Prythian, felt stretched and squeezed and pulled back towards it, and the thought of going back to it made him happy — even if that meant facing down Tamlin.

Then Sibyl was next to him, tugging him up from the couch, and Nyx’s melancholy drifted away, replaced by the warm camaraderie of joking and friendship over the dinner table. And when they all said goodnight, and Nyx retreated to the couch, expecting to toss and turn, he slept soundly, after all.

Chapter Text

“Prickly,” Nyx murmured, stepping gingerly along the uneven ground, following Uncle Lucien and Sibyl as they embarked on the winding garden path that led towards the manor.

“The sentries, or the flowers?” Sibyl whispered back, frowning as her flowing white gown snagged on a thorny bush.

“The wards,” Nyx clarified, though the sentries and flowers certainly were prickly, too. He waved a hand, corralling his minuscule amount of Spring Court magic, gently willing the thorns to retract. They did, just enough for Sibyl to slip by without tearing the fabric of her dress.

“They are oppressive,” Sibyl said, nodding to him in thanks. “It’s like they’re seeking out intruders, instead of just creating a defensive perimeter.”

The sentry at the head of their group turned around, his round face reddening. His hand was hovering near his sword, though carefully not touching it, which would be a provocation, and he seemed to be struggling to keep his comments in. All the guards and serving-folk they’d encountered had been skittish and sullen, torn between spitting out rude comments and threats, and scampering away in fright at their guests’ mere presence. Nyx knew he was the one, in particular, that was putting them on edge, so he had carefully maintained a bland expression, kept quiet while Uncle Lucien did the talking, and kept his own hands relaxed and dangling at his sides.

Not that he needed to use his hands to grab for weapons, or wield his powers, for that matter. But they didn’t need to know that.

Sibyl sighed, then brushed a non-existent stray hair away from her ear, their established signal that they should conduct their conversation silently. So Nyx obliged, establishing the mental connection between them. How did your father ever stand it?

It wasn’t always like this, Sibyl answered. The stronger wards are new, a post-war innovation. They’re designed to keep track of each person’s whereabouts. No one can enter or leave the territory, or move any distance, without the magic being aware of it.

Nyx knew he shouldn’t have expected anything different. Wouldn’t his own parents enact similar security precautions, were Tamlin to enter Velaris? Still, it made him wonder why he’d been permitted to step foot in Spring at all, if he was regarded with such distrust and suspicion. And if Tamlin’s own folk noticed the stifling magic over the land, if it bothered or disturbed them, they kept their dissatisfaction well-hidden. Perhaps it even comforted them, given how badly their villages and farms had been ravaged by invaders.

Nyx suddenly understood how Tamlin had been able to keep his marriage and daughter so well hidden. If no one could pass in or out of his borders without being subjected to this aggressive magic, he would be able to keep an absolute hold on everyone who might spill his secrets.

Uncle Lucien strolled ahead of them, chatting amiably with one of the sentries in earnest conversation, inquiring after a bewildering variety of people and places. It was easy to forget this had once been his home, that these people had been as close to family as he’d been permitted. If his uncle was perturbed at the suspicious glares he got from some of the fae they encountered, he was happy to ignore it in favor of the folk who greeted him warmly, clapping him on the back like a long-lost friend.

Where are we going, again? Nyx asked Sibyl.

His cousin snorted, Of course you weren’t paying attention.

I was, he protested, but truly, it had been difficult. Despite the devastation of the War and years of neglect, he felt that everything here was flush with life, bursting with vitality and energy, and his own magic felt tingly and unsettled because of it.

Lunch at the manor, Sibyl reminded him. Then a tour of the villages along the marshes. 

Nyx hadn’t studied the geography of the Spring Court, and had no idea where the marshes were, or why they would visit those places in particular. But he guessed that Tamlin would want to show off the best his court had to offer.

And the High Lord? There had been no sign of him yet.

Daddy's going to meet with him after we eat. We might see him at dinner? Sibyl didn’t sound too thrilled about the prospect.

The manor loomed ever closer in Nyx’s vision, and he broke off with the questions so that he could properly admire it. He’d been to much grander residences, palaces and mansions, but he thought the Spring Court manor was uncommonly well-situated. It was nestled among groves of trees and bountiful fields of farmland, perfumed with a bewildering array of flowers.

So many colors, and arrangements of petals, and they all seemed to call for him, compete for his attention. Some of the blooms were softly glowing, others emitting a sheen so bright that Nyx could almost hear it sparkling in the sunshine. He reached out his fingers, and the nearby buds unfurled and stretched out their petals, the stems gently curving towards him.

The round-faced sentry turned around again, brows furrowing in disapproval, but then his gaze seemed to soften. “This way,” he said, extending a thick hand towards the grand gated entrance, as though there could be any other path forward.

Then there was a rustle, and a giggling laugh from the bushes, and the sentry’s face went pale and sweaty. “Pardon me, I’ll just be a moment,” he said curtly, then stepped away from them to trudge towards the source of the sound, hissing, “Princess, you’re not meant to be seen. Your lady mother —”

“Everyone’s busy, and it’s not fair,” came a plaintive high-pitched voice, and Nyx couldn’t help but smile at it. “I never get to meet Daddy’s guests.” 

“Princess,” the guard said, with clear frustration, “you know it weren’t my decision. But it’s for your own protection.”

“We’ll go on ahead,” Uncle Lucien suggested smoothly, sensing the guard’s increasing frustration. He threw Nyx and Sibyl a mocking grin. “I remember when you two were that age. You were notorious.”

“Who, us?” Sibyl asked, all innocence, as though she and Enyo hadn’t made a regular habit of running amok at their parents’ estates, getting up to far more mischief than little Kore probably did.

Nyx followed them, tossing out over his shoulder, “I knew Spring would be lovely, but no one mentioned talking bushes. What delightful magic!”

There was an outraged squawk from the talking bush, and Nyx chuckled heartily as he stepped inside.

* * * *

“And the cotton is all grown in the surrounding fields,” the Lady Ceres said, smoothly stepping around a mud puddle that Nyx’s boot promptly splashed in. He felt ungainly, clumsy next to the polished Lady of the Spring Court, but if she noticed or disapproved of his blundering about, she did not deign to acknowledge it. “The weavers dye the colorways themselves, inspired by the festival calendar or their own personal artistic vision, and then it’s brought here to the village center…”

Nyx left Sibyl to nod politely at this ponderous explanation, part of a never ending stream of bland talking points that were what passed for diplomatic conversation. He thought the weavers looked reasonably happy and well-nourished, and to him that was much more telling than the quality of their fabric. He wondered whether they were being shown the one village in Spring that was suitable to receive visitors, or if the rest of the Court was just as content and prosperous.

Ceres had been a gracious host, receiving them in the manor with very proper manners, reciting the formal welcome to each of them in turn, then seating them by rank at the banquet table. Herself at the head, as the representative ruler of her court and family, then Uncle Lucien and Nyx as the direct heirs to their courts, which put Sibyl at the foot of the table. Nyx had wanted to object to this, feeling rather like Sibyl was being slighted, but a warning look from his uncle told him not to make a fuss about it.

Ceres held herself regally, befitting her rank as Lady — not High Lady, Nyx noticed, but didn’t dare mention it — and was uniformly greeted with grateful smiles and sweeping bows and curtseys wherever they went. But for Nyx there was cowering fear, or resentful glares, and he could well guess the reason. He wondered when the last time had been that either of his parents had stepped foot in Spring, and what unpleasant confrontation had been the result of it.

Nyx cast his mind out in a leisurely exploration, careful not to get too intrusive. The fae were flummoxed by the presence of these foreigners, the cursed spawn of the Night Court especially, but they trusted the Lady, and tolerated his presence.

Then Sibyl elbowed him, and he realized he’d zoned out of the conversation. 

“Oh, that sounds lovely,” Sibyl replied eagerly. “Of course we would like to see the Pool of Starlight. Isn’t that right, Nyx?”

“Sure,” Nyx said immediately, but then shifted on his feet, suddenly feeling a deep sense of unease. This was his one chance to establish better relations between his court and Spring, and wandering from one lovely tourist attraction to another was not going to accomplish one bit of good. He guessed that Ceres had been deployed to distract him, to keep him away from the manor, while Uncle Lucien and Tamlin did the real negotiating, just like Boreas and Khione had done for their parents while visiting Day. Perhaps it was sensible to keep the daemati away from the sensitive negotiations, but Nyx hated it, all the same.

“Before we do that, perhaps first we could see another village?” he blurted. “I have heard that some places are in need of assistance. Perhaps I might be of service?” He wanted to see the real Spring Court, the places that weren’t perfectly curated.

Ceres pressed her lips into a tight line. “This itinerary was approved in advance by the High Lord himself, in coordination with our local leaders. I would not wish to cause any disruptions to the routines and labor of our villagers, if they were not first consulted. They have suffered much, and should not be disturbed.”

“Indeed,” Nyx said. It all sounded plausible, though he suspected that the objections would all melt away if he could just find the right angle. “Would it help if I glamoured my wings? Perhaps my presence would then be less conspicuous.” 

“A generous offer,” said Ceres, not unkindly. “But the use of such magic might disrupt our network of wards. I’m sure that would not be your intention, but you must understand that we cannot risk it. The security of the people is our top priority.”

Nyx nodded. It was a valid concern. Perhaps it was a bit paranoid, thinking that he would seek to undermine their overzealous defenses, but they really had little reason to trust him.

He thought of the clay lump in his pocket, the gift from little Kore that could transform with a touch of magic, and suggested, “I’ll shapeshift, then. With my Spring Court magic. It's the High Lord’s own power, so that shouldn’t disrupt anything.”

Ceres’s lovely face was frozen, as though she couldn’t process the idea that Nyx possessed some of her husband’s power. He suddenly wondered whether that meant that her own daughter had gotten less power than she ought to have, just like Enyo had lost out because of her own mother’s sacrifice. Could it be that Boreas and Khione had gotten less from their father? Would every heir in Prythian be cheated out of some of their magic because Nyx possessed it?

He tried again, knowing that he was pushing too much, especially since they had an audience that wouldn’t appreciate him contradicting or needling their Lady, but he felt like he had to at least make the offer. “The magic in me belongs to this land. I would like to return it.”

Murmurs went up in the crowd around them, the folk whispering in disbelief to one another. Was this son of the Cursebreaker, who had used their High Lord’s power against him, really willing to give it back?

Ceres’s gaze on him softened. “I am not certain that is possible, but we thank you for the sentiment.” And though no aspect of her appearance changed, from the tightly braided coronet of cornsilk-golden hair to the perfectly arranged gown and elbow-length gloves that she wore, it seemed that she looked freer, more comfortable, like something in her had untightened. “There are places in our court that suffered greatly, where the passage of time has not eased all burdens. It is… not very scenic.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Nyx quickly assured her, and Sibyl nodded vigorously in agreement.

Ceres seemed to take in the mood of the crowd, most of whom seemed eager for her to accept the offer, but still hesitated.

Sibyl said diplomatically, “We could consult with the High Lord? Obtain his leave?”

Nyx chimed in, “Of course, it should be as the High Lord wills it,” silently thanking the Mother for Sibyl’s quick thinking. The Spring Court seemed obsessed with order, with tradition and proper etiquette and protocol, with carefully controlling the flow of magic and directing the efforts of its citizens, and as its Lady, Ceres seemed very invested in upholding her husband’s authority.

Ceres beamed at them, pleased with this suggestion, as though they had both passed some sort of test by mentioning it. “I am authorized to act in the High Lord’s stead. We need not interrupt him at his business, but we will proceed to Sirannon while the daylight lasts.”

“That won’t be a problem, with Nyx and me around,” Sibyl said, and they exchanged a knowing look before each releasing a small amount of their Day Court power, glowing softly in the Sun’s warm radiance, producing excited gasps and murmurs from the crowd around them.

Nyx could have sworn he heard a distinctly high-pitched squeal of delight, though when he angled his head to get a look, he saw only a bright emerald green butterfly hovering near a patch of flowers.

Chapter Text

The village was even worse than he expected.

Nyx had known there would be ruins, that survivors might bear scars or mutilations, but he was utterly unprepared for the deep despair, the aura of death, that clung to this land and its inhabitants. Sirannon had once been a cultural center, a commune for artists and musicians, who cultivated crops in the bountiful valley carved out by the river, while plying their wares in the open-air markets to travelers from all over Spring, and retreating into the forested hills to paint, or write their tales and songs, in peace and quiet.

Sibyl’s hand slid into his, and he squeezed her fingers. They exchanged no words, or daemati messages, for none were needed. They could both feel the pulsing black magic that lingered in the land, that echoed soundlessly in the air.

The village itself was still in shambles. Most of the physical rubble had been cleared away, with only the occasional brick wall or outline of a house foundation to indicate that there had once been a structure. The few fae that remained had constructed thatch-and-wood enclosures on the outskirts, avoiding the village center and their former dwellings, for they could not bear to live amongst the murdering-place of their kin and close neighbors. Nyx marveled that they could bear to stay at all.

Sibyl apparently did too, for she murmured, “Why do they persist here? Surely there are places that would welcome them.”

Ceres said, “Many did flee, at first, for their own protection. But we must return. It is our sacred responsibility, as the Mother wills it.”

Nyx glanced out towards what had once been the river, a choked-off morass of bright green algae and thickly growing tall spiky grasses. It was a muddy basin of poison, not a water source for villagers, and smelled foul, like rotting and decay. He resisted the urge to throw a shield of air over himself, to block out the putrid stench of it. You’re just visiting, people live here, he reminded himself. If they can deal with it, so can you.

“Our connection to the land is the source of our magic,” Ceres said, leaning down with an elegant sweep of her arm, and around her, the yellowed grass bloomed into a more wholesome green, with a few wildflowers even poking up cautiously around her feet. “We cannot abandon it without abandoning ourselves. That is why the people return, though it would be easier in a sense to live as refugees elsewhere.”

“The land is suffering,” Nyx said softly. He felt it, somehow, as an empty ache inside him.

“And the people as well,” Ceres said.

Nyx was startled to hear her speak so plainly, but he supposed the stark reality of this place spoke for itself.

He could feel the villagers, huddled in their dwellings, not daring to come out, even with their Lady present. Their fear was heavy, overwhelming, and laced with bursts of revulsion and terror that flooded through Nyx like jolts of lightning. If he stretched out his daemati senses at all, he was inundated with their memories, with screaming and running, the snarls and grunts of fighting, the hissing of monsters, the sickening thuds of weapons, the screams of females carried off by soldiers, the wailing of younglings —

“What has been done?” Nyx asked Ceres, desperate to help, to do something.

“Many things. Land reclamation. Concentrated magic. Purifying ceremonies,” Ceres said. “The passage of time has eased some of the worst effects, and the folk here work diligently every day to reconnect with the land and its power.”

Sibyl’s eyes were glassy with tears. “All of that, and decades have passed… Then what happened here must have been a true horror.”

“It was,” Nyx said quietly.

Ceres’s eyes narrowed. “Many villages suffered this fate. Order and sense were utterly overthrown, the folk lost and confused and consumed with bitterness against their High Lord. There were no soldiers who would listen, no organized defense whatsoever. They fled in terror, or if their escape was blocked, were forced to fight Hybern’s hordes and highly trained soldiers with hoes and rakes, and kitchen knives and garden shovels, and pots of boiling water.”

Nyx’s cheeks flushed. This was an indictment of his mother, of her infiltration of the Spring Court and her efforts to undermine Tamlin. She had rightfully resented his collusion with Hybern, his scheming to bring her back here against her wishes. He wished he understood her reasoning better. Surely this had not been the intention.

But Ceres’s mention of water drew his attention back to the swampy muck that had once been the river. “What is this village’s source of water?” he asked.

Ceres blinked, startled at the abrupt change of topic, but said, “The groundwater and the river are irrevocably tainted. They must go up into the foothills, to collect from the mountain springs.”

No wonder they can’t really recover. He could hear it in the thoughts of the hidden faeries, how the poisoned water seeped into the crops, rained down from the air, damaging any more permanent structure they tried to build, wearing down their clothing, their hair and skin. They had long given up on purifying the water, finding that the toxic algae always returned with a vengeance, and that any faerie who lingered too long in their efforts near the water became violently ill.

“I could try to restore the river,” he offered.

“It is a kind offer. But if even the High Lord’s magic could not infuse it with health, I am not sure what your efforts would accomplish,” Ceres said.

Nyx struggled not to take offense. He was not a High Lord, but he did have powerful magic. Were these Spring faeries so distrustful, so insular, that they wouldn't even accept assistance when it was desperately needed, and freely offered?

He took a breath, then tried to muster a logical answer. “If an outside source of magic tainted these waters, then perhaps the same is needed to clear them?”

Ceres considered this. “Perhaps. Or it might deepen the problem. We must not risk it.” 

Sibyl stepped closer to the Lady of Spring, murmuring, “Is there harm in letting him try? Surely he could not make it worse?”

The Lady of Spring snapped, with unusual vehemence, “We have learned the hard way, Lady Sibyl, that there is nothing that the Night Court’s meddling might not make worse.” 

There it is. Now we’re being honest.

But Nyx’s heart ached to hear it, and he had to clamp down on his despairing and angry reaction.

Ceres’s mouth clamped shut, and she took a reflexive step back, as though she’d realized she’d insulted Nyx and his family, and was bracing herself for retaliation.

Nyx took his own step back, forcing his hands to go slack at his sides. He must not appear threatening.

Though he was irritated at Ceres for insulting his family, he was furious at the sight of this ruined village, at the horror and depredations that had traumatized these people and poisoned the land’s magic. There was no way he could leave this village without doing something, or the folk would rightly say that he was useless, that he had looked on their suffering and just walked away.

Sibyl’s nostrils flared, as though she might make a retort in Nyx’s defense, speak up as a member of the Night Court family, but he speared a thought towards her. Sibs. Let me handle this, he pleaded.

He could feel his cousin’s hesitation, how she was wrestling with the same instincts that were warring inside him. Her own father had a history here, both happy and unpleasant, and still held guilt that he hadn’t been able to prevent the court from toppling, that he’d chosen to leave to pursue his mate over staying to help his best friend.

“Please,” he said to Ceres, making his voice soft and gentle. “Let us consult the folk who live on this land. Ask them what is needed, and if I have the power to do it, I will try what they suggest. If they wish me to do nothing, I will depart. But my family had a part in the tragedy that happened here, and I would make it right.”

Ceres’s pallid face regained some of its color, and she spoke more softly as well, seemingly reassured that he wasn’t about to lash out at her, and seriously considering his words. “You have diagnosed the problem correctly. What they need is fresh water, relief from this poison,” she said, gesturing towards the ruined, blocked off river. “Nothing can dispel it.”

“I can infuse fresh water into the river, with my Summer Court magic,” Nyx suggested. “That might wash it away, or at least make it less concentrated.”

“That may not be sufficient. And it would risk spreading the curse out further,” Ceres said. “If it rises from the water —“ She broke off, not needing to finish that sentence.

“I will shield the area,” Sibyl said, producing a little bubble of air at her fingertips to demonstrate. “Contain any damage.”

Ceres closed her eyes for a moment, as though considering any other possible objection. “Very well. You may proceed.”

Nyx inclined his head to her, then strode down to the riverbank, deploying little flames to burn away the thicket of thorny grasses blocking his access, and sank down so that he could kneel beside the poisoned water, trying to feel out where to start his efforts. Decades of eroded topsoil had piled into the waterway, probably from the lack of crops and trees that could hold it in place, and he focused his power there, sending water to try to carve out an opening so that the river could flow freely from its source again.

Then a whiff of the toxic fumes made him dizzy, and he swayed a little before casting out his own bubble of air to shield himself, sighing with relief when he could breathe freely again. Behind him, he could feel that an audience was gathering, that the folk were cautiously interested, but still deeply fearful, and his heart clenched to think that he might not succeed. He had to keep going.

The water bubbled and churned, the pure clean water of his Summer Court power mixing with the older stagnant cesspool, and Nyx flung in a burst of his healing magic, as though he might coax the greenish tinge from the basin out, like an infection. But it grew back stubbornly, releasing another cloud of foul-smelling air, and he coughed and sputtered as he flung out air to contain it.

Come on. Something, work.

He added more water, then more air, then more healing magic, then all of those all over again, growing increasingly sweaty and frustrated. His insides ached, and his stomach roiled, and he fought to stay focused despite the exhaustion that was creeping in. There had to be some way to flush it all out, cleanse the water once and for all. He had to clean it, or this land would forever be poisoned, these people doomed either to exile and estrangement from their power, or to struggle with sickness and blight for years to come.

Ice, fire, water, air — what else was there?

Suddenly, Nyx knew the answer.

He reached inside himself, to the power that he never, ever liked to use, the power that would surely trigger every ward and raise every alarm across Spring, and lifted his tired, shaking hands.

And the greenish scum coating the river water disappeared into a glittering gray mist.

Nyx sank back, panting, staring with hope and terror as the river rumbled and churned past him, pushing through the built-up sediment, running clear and clean, sparkling and bubbling in the afternoon sunshine.

Then Sibyl dropped her air shield, and the dull murmuring behind him exploded into a cacophonous roar, cheers of excitement and sobs of relief, and praises to the Mother and prayers to the Cauldron, and more than a few hissed questions about the Cursebreaker’s heir, which Ceres was doing her level best to answer. Her tone sounded happy, profoundly relieved, and Nyx allowed himself to feel the same.

Nyx let his head droop, and his shoulders slump, as the water rushed past him, spraying him with a fine mist that felt cooling and refreshing. He scanned the waters, looking for remnants of the poison, determined that it must never grow back, never plague these people for one more moment.

Then there was a delighted squeal, and a solid thud against his back, right in between his wings, and skinny arms thrown around his neck. “You did it!”

“Hello, little butterfly,” Nyx laughed, and the princess’s squealing giggle rang in his ears. “I suppose I did.”

“Kore?” her mother barked in alarm. "Kore!"

“You’re not supposed to be here, are you,” Nyx said, trying not to wince when the little girl shifted, tugging painfully on his hair. “Maybe you should — oof, watch the wings,” he interrupted himself, when a little foot kicked at his lower right membrane. “That hurts, Princess.”

“I like wings,” Kore declared, poking at his wing more cautiously with her bare toes. “I can make wings, too.”

“So I saw,” Nyx chuckled. “And size changing. That’s advanced, isn’t it?” He had no idea whether his shapeshifting extended that far, to shrinking and growing, and didn’t want to find out the hard way that it couldn’t.

“Kore!” Ceres hollered. “Get over here this instant!” 

“I’m sure it’s all right —“ Sibyl said placatingly.

“You are not a mother. You can’t understand,” Ceres thundered.

Nyx angled his head, trying to get a look at the little girl perched stubbornly on his back. “You’d better go to your mother. We don’t want any trouble.”

“But I’m always in trouble,” Kore pouted, her knee digging into his side as she fidgeted.

Then there was a deafening roar, and she shrieked, pressing herself tightly against him, tightening her arms around his neck, strangling him. Nyx didn’t dare turn around, or deploy a shield, which would put a barrier between Kore and her parents. Instead, he went utterly still, willing his heart to beat steadily, and gently dislodged Kore’s grip from his throat so that he could get air in.

“What happened? You let him use magic?” Tamlin’s voice growled, rumbling the ground beneath them. “Cursed Night Court power, here on my lands. And what is my daughter doing here?”

“Tam, wait,” his uncle’s voice said urgently behind him, and Ceres pleaded, “Husband — High Lord — I didn’t know —“

“Daddy,” Kore whispered, and then she slid down Nyx’s back, turning around, bracing a little hand on his wing talon to steady herself. “Daddy, you scared me.”

Tamlin’s snarling abruptly ceased, and for a moment, all was still and quiet.

“Don’t do that, Daddy,” Kore said, her voice trembling. “I don’t like it.”

Though Nyx was careful to keep facing away, to avoid provoking the High Lord or escalating the incident, he imagined that her chin was wobbling, that little tears might be slipping down her cheeks. Nyx curled his hands into the mud of the riverbank, trying to contain his fury at it.

“She’s all right, darling,” Ceres said, in a hushed tone. “She wasn’t harmed.”

“That is not the point,” Tamlin gritted out, but his rage had abated, draining away as abruptly as it had exploded outwards. His presence grew closer, and Kore’s gasping breaths evened out, and he murmured, “I didn’t mean to scare you, sweetheart. I thought you were in danger.”

Nyx could now hear Uncle Lucien talking, and Sibyl answering, and folk from the crowd starting to chime in, though their words were all a confused jumble above the roaring in his ears. Dispelled the curse — salvaged our river — used his magic —

“Come here, daughter,” Tamlin said gently, and Kore let go of Nyx’s wing to run towards her father. Nyx turned fractionally, just enough to see her fling herself at her father, Tamlin gathering her up into a warm embrace. His eyes squeezed shut as he lifted his daughter, and she twisted her hands into the strands of his loose hair, talking excitedly as though nothing had happened.

Nyx rose and turned from the river, finally taking in the scene behind him. His eyes landed first on Uncle Lucien, who was unusually disheveled, like he’d tried to throw himself in front of Tamlin and had been roughly pushed aside. Then Nyx’s gaze turned towards Sibyl, who was pale but smiling, then to Ceres, who was frozen as a statue, a strained smile plastered across her face. Only then did he notice the crowd that had gathered, mostly stooped elderly folk with a smattering of young adults, not much older than himself or Sibyl, whom he figured had been those too weak or too young to flee during the invasion, and a few older, stronger fae who perhaps had recently returned to the village.

They all watched him, tracked all his movements with a nervous anticipation, and not knowing what else to do or how to reassure them, he bowed to them all.

That broke the tension. They all rushed forward, the older ones limping, the younger ones running, and Nyx was engulfed in the crowd of them, accepting their profuse thanks and exclamations with a startled smile. One of the younger males was bold enough to grab for his hand, as though to shake it, and yelped with alarm when he found it was mud-coated. Nyx suddenly registered that his pants legs were muddy, that his hands were caked with the stuff as well, and they all laughed, and Nyx along with them, though his ears burned with embarrassment.

The crowd abruptly parted when the High Lord stalked over, pausing only to deposit little Kore back with her mother, who bent down to fuss over her daughter, alternately kissing and scolding her, and insisting that she retract her brilliant green butterfly wings, so that she might appear in public with proper decorum for a courtly heir. Nyx extended his own wings further, a little defensively, for why shouldn’t an heir have wings to fly with?

He wrenched his focus away from the princess and her mother, and forced himself to face Tamlin forthrightly, even as he could feel his uncle step up behind him, ready to intervene if things got heated. The High Lord’s hair was a little mussed, from where Kore had plunged her hands into it, and it made the overall impression of him less menacing, less intimidating than it might have been.

“You resemble your father in looks,” Tamlin said. “But not in actions. The Rhysand I know would never kneel, especially not in the mud. He considers such things beneath him.”

“My father is not here,” Nyx said evenly, using the response he and his uncle had practiced, prior to winnowing to Spring this morning. “I’ve come to represent my court as a whole, not my particular family. Your quarrels with my parents are personal in nature.”

Tamlin made a scoffing noise that set his teeth on edge. “Everything is personal with Rhysand and your mother.”

“Then it is good that I am here, instead of them,” Nyx said, straining to stay patient.

“It is good you are here. Sirannon thanks you,” an older female called out from behind them, and several others joined in.

Tamlin’s gaze lowered to a spot on the grass between them, and he seemed to struggle for a moment before saying, “Indeed. You have all of Spring’s gratitude for your efforts.”

Nyx said, “I was only doing what is right.”

Tamlin looked back towards his wife, who now came forward, her hand firmly clamped around her daughter’s, saying, “The hour is late. We will talk at dinner.”

Kore pouted, tugging her hand partly out of her mother’s grip. “I want to eat dinner too.”

“Hush,” Ceres whispered. “You’ll eat with your maidens —“

Kore stomped her little bare foot. “I want to eat with you and the guests. I always get left out of everything.”

Nyx couldn’t help but chuckle, even as her mother quietly scolded her for her unladylike behavior. It seemed to have the opposite effect to the one intended, for Kore stuck her tongue out at Ceres, then folded her arms crossly and proclaimed, “Fine. Then I won’t eat or practice piano. Ever again!”

Ceres’s ears grew red, and she opened her mouth, perhaps to deliver some diatribe or threaten a consequence. But then Tamlin said, “Daughter, attending a state dinner is a big responsibility. Now act like a big girl, and show us that you can handle it.”

Kore nodded stiffly and straightened, arranging her posture and hands into a startlingly good imitation of her mother’s formal manners. Nyx stifled the urge to burst out laughing at it, especially when she turned and winked at him.

“I’ll winnow us back. I think Nyx needs a good rest before dinner, or he won’t be able to handle it either,” Uncle Lucien said, and Nyx could only nod in agreement.

Well, this should be interesting.

Chapter Text

“So, what do you think of our court so far?”

Nyx looked up from his dinner plate, startled by the question. The Lady of Spring was smiling blandly at him, fork poised in mid-air between her plate and her lips, but he detected the challenge in her eyes, the provocation. Even after his show of goodwill, his efforts to help, his motives were still suspected.

“Everything feels so alive,” he said truthfully. “It’s like the land is awake here. The trees, the flowers. Even the water.”

That, apparently, had not been the answer she was expecting, for her expression slackened into surprise. “Indeed it is. As the Mother wills it.”

Sibyl’s foot poked Nyx under the table.

What? Did I say something wrong? he asked her.

Not at all. Just didn’t know you studied poetry.

Don't tease, he complained. I really meant that.

The High Lord of Spring cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly, as though he was trying to get words out, or trying to keep them in. He had said very little to anyone, but sat stiffly at the head of the table, occasionally glancing fondly at his daughter or wife, and perhaps once or twice at Uncle Lucien, and carefully not acknowledging Nyx or Sibyl at all.

“The flowers are my friends,” Kore pronounced solemnly. “They all have names.”

“Do they now?” Uncle Lucien asked, beaming at her.

“Of course,” Kore said, as though it were obvious. “You just have to ask them.”

“Now, daughter, we don’t play pretend at the dinner table,” Ceres said.

“It’s not pretend,” Kore pouted. “They really told me!”

Sibyl said kindly, “My mother loves to garden, and learn the names of all the flowers.” She looked at her father. “I’m surprised you’ve never brought her here.”

Uncle Lucien’s expression was pained. He had wished to bring Aunt Elain here, after he discovered that they were mates, but she had been whisked off to the Night Court instead. Then Spring had been thoroughly destroyed, and his relationship with Tamlin estranged. But now, perhaps?

Ceres’s smile did not meet her eyes. “It would be delightful to host her for a visit.”

Tamlin looked faintly alarmed at the idea of having another Archeron sister visit, even if it was kind and gentle Aunt Elain, but managed to give a tight nod, then returned to his dinner.

Nyx had taken a few more halting bites of his own dinner when Kore, who’d been staring at his uncle for long minutes, suddenly blurted, “What’s wrong with your eye?”

Her mother gasped. “Darling!”

But Uncle Lucien laughed, waving a hand. “It’s all right. Younglings are curious.” He propped his forearms on the table so that he could lean forward, giving her a better view, and his mechanical eye clicked and buzzed obligingly, as though showing off how it functioned. “Nothing’s wrong with it, actually. It sees just fine.”

Kore’s mouth had dropped open. “You look like you were attacked by a monster.”

Uncle Lucien’s gaze briefly rested on Tamlin, whose eyes were fixed firmly on his plate. Did he still feel guilty, all these decades later, for what his friend had suffered on his behalf? “So I was.”

Kore gasped. “Did you kill it?”

“Your daddy did, actually.” Another furtive glance towards Tamlin.

Nyx blinked at that, realizing that he’d forgotten that part of the story. That it had been Tamlin, and not either of his parents, who had struck the final blow against Amarantha. He’d been the only High Lord whose powers were returned to him, so of course it had to be him, but this framing made him seem almost heroic.

Of course that’s what he’ll teach his daughter. And he would surely leave out the part about the frail human woman who’d bargained for his life and freedom. That would raise too many awkward questions.

Nyx thought back to that silly argument on Solstice, how Aunt Mor had assumed that Kore would take after her parents, learn only what they taught her. He’d bristled at that notion, at the implications it had for his own situation, but now he saw the truth in it. Kore was rarely exposed to outsiders, and then only in small doses. She would revere her father as a hero, and view Nyx’s parents as the villains, and never even encounter people who thought otherwise.

Ceres said, with a brightness that seemed wholly false, “We need not speak of such unpleasantness. There are no monsters left in Prythian now.”

Tamlin muttered under his breath, “Almost.”

“No one that can harm us,” Ceres said firmly, making a show of patting Kore’s back comfortingly, despite her daughter looking more curious than nervous. “Here in our court, with Daddy protecting us, we are safe and secure.”

When is this dinner over, again? Sibyl complained in Nyx’s mind. They’re insufferable.

Nyx said, “Prythian has made great progress since the War ended. As long as we stay unified, we’ll be able to band together, fight off anyone who might pose a danger.”

Tamlin and Ceres both looked stony, unwilling to disagree openly, but clearly displeased with that assertion. Nyx hadn’t had a chance to ask his uncle how the negotiations had gone while they’d been out in the villages, but from the way his mechanical eye was clicking ominously, he could guess well enough.

Kore’s eyes were wide and round. “I don’t like fighting.”

“Neither does anyone,” Tamlin said softly.

“Anyone civilized,” Ceres added pointedly.

Nyx bit the inside of his lip, and looked studiously at little Kore instead of her parents, so that he wouldn’t be tempted to say something obnoxious. Did Ceres know who Tamlin was? Did she think she’d civilized him?

“And yet when civilization is threatened, warriors are called upon to defend it,” Sibyl said evenly, poking Nyx with her toe again, this time in reassurance.

Kore was staring at Sibyl in wonder. “Are you a warrior?” she asked breathlessly.

Sibyl's pale skin took on a fiery glow. “When I have to be. To protect my court, my people and family.”

Nyx’s dinner suddenly tasted bitter on his tongue, and he put his fork down, not able to eat another bite of it. “But there are many ways of doing that that don’t involve weapons.”

“All the realms have suffered much. We all deserve peace and prosperity,” Uncle Lucien said, throwing Tamlin a pleading look.

Tamlin snapped, “Tell that to the Summer sentries armed to the teeth at our border.”

Ceres stood up abruptly, and reached for her daughter’s hand. “Well, sweetheart. It’s time for bed.” 

“But I wasn’t finished,” Kore protested, yanking her hand away. In fact, she’d touched almost none of her food, but had arranged the round cuts of bread and pats of butter to make a pair of eyes, with a mushroom nose and a spinach mouth. Nyx had the feeling that, if there hadn’t been guests present, she would have been scolded for it.

“You can have a midnight snack later,” her mother said. “I’ll send up cookies —“

“I want to stay now,” Kore wailed, swinging her legs out and kicking the table leg, making all the plates and glasses rattle.

“Darling,” Ceres gritted out to Tamlin, “tell your daughter she must obey. This was your idea to have her attend dinner, after all.”

Tamlin cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Now, daughter. You heard your mother.”

“But I don’t wanna.” Her lower lip quivered, and she stared up at her father for long moments, giving him a plaintive look. But when Tamlin just looked at her sternly, she sighed in exasperation, and rose from the table, stomping towards the door with Ceres following close behind her, bending down to whisper something in her ear. She turned around, still hunched and sulking, and spat out, “Fine. May-the-Mother-bless-you-and-keep-you. Goodnight.”

Then she stormed out.

Uncle Lucien waited until her footsteps had retreated until he started to chuckle. “Oh, Tam. I should have warned you about daughters.”

“Excuse me? We are delightful,” Sibyl said pointedly, elbowing her father.

“Very delightful,” Uncle Lucien agreed, rubbing his arm.

“Sons aren’t much better,” Nyx said. “Or at least that’s what your mother’s told me.”

Uncle Lucien smiled wistfully. “She would know, having seven.” But then his eye clicked towards Tamlin again. Was he remembering the brothers who’d chased him here, and died for that aggression? Or was he thinking of Eris, and the trouble he was causing?

Tamlin said stiffly, “I’ve heard that your mother is pregnant again. Is she… well?”

“Very,” Nyx said, then saw the High Lord’s pained expression, and added, “thank you.” 

After an awkward silence, Uncle Lucien said, “Kore really is delightful. Very spirited.”

Tamlin’s smile was genuine, his whole demeanor softening as he said, “She tries her mother’s patience. But she is a joy, truly.”

Ceres came back in then, her face pinched, and slid gracefully back into her place at the table. “I apologize for my daughter’s rude behavior. She is unused to the protocol for formal dinners, being so young, but that is no excuse.”

“It’s really fine,” Uncle Lucien assured her. “These two were once terrors.” And he grinned mischievously at Sibyl and Nyx.

“Not Nyx. He was always dead serious,” Sibyl said. “Always scolding me for things I wasn’t supposed to be doing, like a babysitter.” Then she laughed in delight. “Oh, how the tables have turned.”

Nyx scowled at her, but couldn’t deny it. “I’m not that irresponsible.”

“Not at all,” Uncle Lucien said, coming to his defense. “Certainly not compared to Tam and me, in our youths. Or so I’ve heard. Tam’s youth passed long before I was born.”

Tamlin’s piercing green eyes rested on Nyx, as though he was searching for some fragment of memory. He’d been friends with Nyx’s father, once, when they were both younger. Nyx idly wondered what sort of trouble they’d gotten up to, if it was anything like the rowdy way his father and Illyrian uncles had been together. What would prim, proper Ceres have thought of it?

“As though you’re one to talk,” Sibyl drawled to her father. “You’re an old crow, compared to Mama and me.”

Ceres’s mouth dropped open in shock, as though hearing a daughter speak so to her father was positively scandalous.

But Uncle Lucien laughed heartily. “Do you see how it is, Tam? I’ve gone straight from being little Lucien, the baby of the family, the runt of the Vanserra litter, to an old crow.”

“At least crows are wise,” Nyx chimed in. “And not everyone can be a bat, you know,” he added, stretching his wings out a little.

Sibyl and Uncle Lucien both cackled at that, while Tamlin just shifted uncomfortably.

Ceres said, “Forgive my ignorance, but I was under the impression that Illyrians didn’t appreciate such comparisons.”

Some of them didn’t, especially from haughty High Fae like the Lady of Spring, but — “If that’s the worst thing we’re ever called, we’d be lucky,” Nyx shrugged. “Besides, bats are useful creatures. I hear they’re excellent pollinators.”

Sibyl nudged him under the table. How much have you had to drink? You’re downright talkative.

Nyx beamed innocently at her. You’re always telling me to participate more, pay attention.

Then he looked down at his own plate, and nearly yelped in surprise to see that his broccoli had sprouted new leaves. But then he heard a muffled giggle under the table, and he understood.

Sneaky little one, aren’t you?

“So, you have powers from all the courts of Prythian?” Ceres asked him, and he straightened, chagrined that he’d let his attention wander, even if he’d had a good reason for it. “That must be quite a burden.”

Was that sincere? He couldn’t tell, and didn't want to delve too deeply into it. “I manage,” Nyx said. “I spend a lot of time practicing.”

“You really are a mix of both your parents, then,” Tamlin said, with something in his voice that Nyx couldn’t quite identify.

Nyx looked at him forthrightly. “Aren’t we all?”

“Some of us more than others,” Uncle Lucien said, seeing Tamlin’s darkening expression, and perhaps thinking about Nyx’s own complicated family. Or his own. “Brothers and sisters might be quite different from one another, even if they shared the same parents and upbringing.” 

Tamlin’s jaw unclenched. “We both know that well, don’t we.”

Uncle Lucien nodded.

“I lost my dear sisters when they were younglings,” Ceres said softly, biting her lip. “When we were forced to flee from our home, during the War.” Her eyes fluttered closed, and Tamlin reached for her hand, stroking her fingers gently.

Nyx’s stomach sank. He could guess what those circumstances must have been, and who might be blamed for them. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Ceres inclined her head in acknowledgment, but said no more.

Sibyl said sympathetically, “No family is untouched by war.”

“Is that so,” Tamlin said sourly. “It seems that some families manage to do fine.” His eyes flicked back to Nyx, and his gaze was fiercer, almost accusing.

Nyx tried not to bristle at the insinuation. Yes, his family had been lucky — but they almost hadn’t been. They’d all been willing to risk their lives, had suffered injuries and near-misses. And his father had died on that battlefield, after all. And hadn’t Amren sacrificed all her deep, unfathomable power? And hadn’t his own grandfather been slaughtered at the King of Hybern’s hands?

But none of that would sway Tamlin.

He’d had nobody, once the War ended. He’d had no family or friends he trusted to console him, or help him rebuild, and his court had been in utter shambles. However much of that had been due to his own actions, he hadn’t been lucky, and had not done fine at all.

Uncle Lucien said, “Hybern made a mess of this land. First through Amarantha, then the War —“

“Do not speak that witch’s name at my table,” Tamlin thundered, and Nyx’s heart jolted at the sudden anger.

Ceres’s fingers grasped at the sleeve of Tamlin’s jacket, and she murmured something soft and soothing that Nyx couldn’t catch.

“As for Hybern, that wicked king is long gone, his whole cursed court with him,” Tamlin said, his voice lowering to normal volume. Nyx wondered if Kore was still under the table, if she’d ever been in the room when her father exploded before. He seemed so cautious around her, so patient, but evidently his control still had limits.

“To be replaced by more wickedness, if my brother has his way,” Uncle Lucien said, his mechanical eye clicking rapidly.

“As though you do not ally yourself with wickedness now,” Tamlin scoffed.

“Not this again,” Uncle Lucien grumbled.

“You may be younger than I am, Lucien, but your memory is ailing,” Tamlin said. “You were quite willing to forget all manner of crimes when it was convenient.”

“Uncle has not forgotten anything,” Nyx dared interrupt. “I’ve seen his memories.”

Tamlin’s face paled, and he gripped the arms of his chair, fingers lengthening into talons. “So you do have that cursed ability. I had wondered.”

“I do,” Nyx said. “You may recall that I guided your wife to your lost daughter with it. And,” he went on, still irritated at how Tamlin had spoken to his uncle, “I seem to recall a story that you sought out Hybern’s help when it suited you, and justified it by planning to betray them later.”

“Not helping,” Sibyl hissed at Nyx.

A muscle feathered in Tamlin’s jaw. “I suppose that pretending to collude with an enemy for your own selfish reasons is only fine when your parents do it.”

“Did I say it was fine?” Nyx asked testily.

Tamlin blinked. “Will you not defend them?”

Nyx forced his voice to come out clear and even. “They don’t need me to defend them. They can answer for themselves.”

“They don’t have to answer for anything. That is the issue,” Tamlin persisted. “They have never been held to account for their crimes.”

Nor you for yours, Nyx almost retorted.

But he swallowed that retort down, asking instead, “And who should they answer to? You?” Suddenly a thought occurred to him, as though a puzzle piece had been pressed into place, revealing the design that had been hidden. “Is that what this alliance with Eris is about?”

Tamlin’s mouth snapped shut.

“That’s it, isn’t it,” Nyx said, rising from his chair, careful not to kick the hidden Kore as he stepped back from the table. “I didn’t understand it. Why someone who claims to desire peace and love justice, who double-crossed Hybern, who resisted all of Amarantha’s offers to grant you power — why you would take the risk of allying with them now.”

“Get those daemati claws out of my mind, boy, or there will be trouble,” Tamlin snarled, baring his teeth.

Nyx barked a harsh laugh, though there was no humor in it. “You’re not that hard to read, High Lord. I’ve not used my magic.”

Sibyl was up from the table as well, her hands wreathed in fire. “Do not threaten my cousin.”

There was a muffled shriek from under the table, and this time Nyx did reach out with his thoughts. It’s all right. We won’t fight, I promise.

“Tam,” Uncle Lucien said, his voice pleading, urgent. “Stand down.” He reached out a silent hand to his daughter, who accepted it, though her flames didn’t diminish.

“Will Eris make you High King? No, I doubt it,” Nyx went on, ignoring the talons lengthening and sharpening at Tamlin’s fingertips, the hint of horns poking up through his hair. “He wouldn’t share that much power. Only when he becomes High King of Prythian and Hybern, he’ll prosecute all your enemies.”

“Don't you dare come at me with that tone,” Tamlin growled. Not a denial.

“Eris will never be High King. Not ever,” Uncle Lucien said quietly, still appealing to the part of Tamlin that could hear reason. “No one will accept his rule. Even if they wanted a High King of Prythian, he would not be trusted.”

Nyx looked at Ceres then, who had moved to stand behind her husband, hands clamped on his shoulders, quietly supporting him, while preventing him from lunging, shifting to his beast form. She had chosen a different path than Nyx's own mother — opting to maneuver and control the High Lord, rather than split the power with him. Perhaps Tamlin had left her no other option. Or perhaps she thought herself more powerful this way, for through Tamlin she wielded all the power, instead of just half of it.

“Hybern killed your sisters. How can you contemplate allying with them?” he asked her. There has to be more to it.

“Do not speak to her,” Tamlin barked at him.

But Nyx’s mind was spinning, contemplating the possibilities. Perhaps Ceres hoped that her own daughter would one day wield power as she did now? But how could she, if Spring refused to acknowledge a High Lady? Surely Ceres meant to have a son with Tamlin who would inherit his magic. If Kore was to rule, she would have to marry…

“Did Eris promise you a marriage?” Nyx asked, knowing he was going too far, risking Tamlin’s ire, and deciding that he didn’t care. “A son for your daughter?”

Ceres’s face drained of color. It was all the confirmation that he needed.

“Nyx,” Uncle Lucien said quietly. “We should go.”

“Just a moment,” Nyx agreed. “I have one more question.”

Tamlin said, through clenched teeth, “Make it quick.”

“Would you tell Eris that I’d like to meet with him? You know, when you report to him about me, and all my powers. That is why I’m here, isn’t it?”

Tamlin slammed the table with his hands as he leaped to his feet, roaring, “Get out. Now, before I lose my temper.”

And before Nyx had a chance to answer, Uncle Lucien had vaulted across the room to snag his arm, and Sibyl was on his other side, and they were winnowing away, Kore’s high pitched wail ringing out behind them.

Chapter Text

“You two go on ahead. I’m going to swing by the library before dinner,” Nyx said, frowning at how low the sun was already settling over the horizon. There was no way he was going to get any actual work done before closing time, but at least he could put in an appearance, let Phaedrus know he’d been busy traveling, and then catching up with work, and not just skipping out on his ward-casting lessons.

“Are you sure? We could wait for you,” Sibyl offered.

Enyo nodded, looping her arm through Sibyl’s. “I think he’s sick of us. We’ve been talking his ear off. He hasn’t strung two sentences together the whole time we’ve been out.”

Had he been unsociable? He hadn’t meant to be. Enyo had been so full of news, stories from her time supervising the Blood Rite, that he’d been happy to just listen. And if he’d zoned out a little, if his thoughts had strayed back towards his own recent travels, surely they’d forgive him.

“Not at all,” Nyx protested. “I’m enjoying your company.”

“Come on, Nyx, you’re almost as quiet as Uncle Az these days.” Sibyl said. She paused to acknowledge some passers-by who were murmuring about the princess, giving them a delicate wave. They flushed and bowed to her, then surprised Nyx by inclining their heads to him as well, as though they’d recognized him, before scurrying off down the sidewalk.

Sibyl turned back to him, her coppery brows furrowing accusingly. “Ever since we’ve gotten back from our trip, you’ve been even more broody than usual.”

Enyo eyed him appraisingly. “Are you still pissed off about what happened with Tamlin?” She poked his shoulder with the edge of her wing. “Don’t let that piece of shit get to you. He’s enemies with our family for a reason.”

Nyx’s shoulders slumped a little. He shouldn’t have expected anything different. His father’s feud with Tamlin had extended for centuries — why had he thought that a one-day visit would change anything?

“It’s actually the wife that worries me,” Sibyl admitted. “Vassa was right to warn us. Ceres was all politeness and proper manners, but when it comes down to it, I think she’s the one who’s still holding grudges, who really wants the alliance with Eris. As soon as she left the room, Tamlin asked about Aunt Feyre, like he still cares about her. But once Ceres was back, he was singing a different tune again.”

This is why Uncle Lucien and Sibyl are the diplomats and not me. They notice everything. “Ceres lost her sisters during Hybern’s invasion of Spring. She’s not wrong to be angry.”

“She could be angry with her husband. He was the one who invited them in, in the first place,” Enyo pointed out.

Sibyl snorted. “That is never how it works, and you know it.”

Nyx shifted uncomfortably. He hated the idea of anyone holding a grudge against his mother, of the idea that she’d been made the sole scapegoat for Spring’s descent into ruin. She had played a role, and that didn’t sit right with him, but who would be able to judge the facts fairly? Especially when all Prythian had a stake in the outcome? Even the view from his Veritas orb would be unlikely to sway anyone’s opinion.

“This is my last night here, I don’t want to waste it on Ceres and Tamlin,” he huffed in frustration.

Enyo quipped, “But you’ll spend it in the library?”

“That is why I came to this court in the first place,” he said defensively. “To study in Helion’s libraries, and learn about magic.”

“I thought it was to see us,” Sibyl needled him, though she was smirking as she said it.

Nyx must have looked flummoxed, for both of his cousins burst out laughing. “Stop being so gods-damned serious,” Enyo scolded him, then gave him a shove towards the direction of the majestic Great Library, almost as large and ornate as the High Lord’s palace. “Go run your errand. We’re getting ice cream.”

“Right before dinner?”

“Yes, father. We won’t spoil our appetites, we promise,” Enyo said tartly, and then the two females strolled off together, bending their heads and chuckling, probably at his expense.

Nyx sighed and pivoted, determined to get on his way before his magic tutor departed for the evening. He stalked purposefully down the street, consumed with the swirl of his thoughts. The humid air of the Day Court felt heavy, like it was pressing down on him, as though it knew he was preparing to depart and felt betrayed by the decision.

He passed by more faeries, some of whom passed by him without comment, others nodding to him or murmuring greetings. He returned the kindness, wondering when that had happened — when the folk here had learned to recognize him.

“If it isn’t Nyx Archeron.”

He drew up short, turning in the direction of the sound.

The male who’d addressed him was leaning against a marble column, brushing the front of his richly brocaded vest with long, slender fingers. He straightened, then crossed his arms across his chest, amber eyes blazing. His long red hair was braided back simply, swept back from his pale freckled face, and he wore no adornment except for a single gold earring. But even with no crown, and even though many years had passed since Nyx had last seen him, it was plain enough who he was.

“Does Uncle Lucien know you’re here?” Nyx asked, warily scanning the sidewalk and nearby buildings, wondering who was observing this encounter, why it was happening in public and not in the privacy of the palace.

The High Lord of Autumn chuckled. “You don’t mince words. Excellent.”

“So it’s a no then.”

Eris’s lip curled. “I’ve seen my brother plenty. I’m here to see you. You asked for this meeting, did you not?”

“I did,” Nyx said, tilting his head towards the gardens, which were less crowded at this time of day, more suitable for having a frank conversation.

Eris gave a terse nod, falling into step beside him. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you. And I can see the reports were not exaggerated.”

“Likewise.” He would not take the bait, would not deign to ask. Whatever game Eris thought he was playing, the rules would surely be stacked in his favor.

Eris tipped his head back, laughing softly. “Aren’t you a male of few words? So unlike the rest of your family.”

Had that been meant as a compliment? Nyx didn’t dare try to untangle all the implications of that statement. He’d made his own peace with how much he resembled his parents, and how much he represented them and their actions, both heroic and villainous, and he wasn’t about to let Eris’s needling stir it all up again.

They had arrived at the entrance to the public gardens, and Nyx extended an arm, indicating that the High Lord should walk in ahead of him. Eris did, putting his back to Nyx without hesitation. The sky turned a brilliant reddish-orange, the first rays of the sunset coloring the tips of the leaves and the flower petals.

Then Eris turned back to him, a hint of smirk playing on his face. “Your visit with Tamlin was remarkably successful, by Night Court standards. I hear you didn’t even threaten to kill him.”

“I don’t do that,” Nyx burst out, forgetting to keep his casual, unworried tone. He took a breath, forcing himself to regain his calm demeanor. “What would be gained by such a provocation?”

“You could ask your dear Aunt Nesta. The last time she was in Spring, she made a death-promise to Tamlin. It was quite the spectacle,” Eris said, getting a dreamy look in his eyes. “Ah, she was something, in those first years after the War. A true force to be reckoned with. Pity that she relinquished her fire, though for you it was fortunate.”

Nyx shrugged at this, refusing to allow Eris to see the guilt that still tugged at him.

“I don’t suppose Nesta has the power to kill Tamlin now. But he has not forgotten,” Eris blithely went on, unconcerned with Nyx’s lack of answer. “Your family has a habit of trailing threats and destruction wherever they go. Perhaps Tamlin is simply the first to realize it.”

“Their history with Spring is complicated,” Nyx said defensively. “As for the rest, I recall that you were eager to ally with them, when it suited you.”

Eris dipped his head in acknowledgment. “So I did. My position at the time was precarious, between my own late father’s scheming, and enemies at our border.”

“Enemies that you’ve now joined with, I hear.”

Eris gave a soft hiss. “If you are referring to my wife and consort, you are mistaken. She is not of the old king’s bloodline. Her people were oppressed for many centuries, their magic suppressed. With the War came liberation, a chance to right the wrongs of the past.”

It did sound righteous, when he put it like that, but — “I don’t see why that should affect Prythian. Isn’t that Hybern’s own affair? Shouldn’t we stay out of it?”

“Not if we want a peaceful and prosperous neighbor. Not if we want to establish lasting connections, rather than fight wars every five hundred years.”

“You say we like we’re all agreed.”

“You are young. I don’t expect you to understand,” Eris said, waving his hand dismissively.

“But of course you understand, wise High Lord,” Nyx said dryly. “How fortunate that you are here to bestow your wisdom upon me.”

Eris looked startled for a moment, then started to chuckle. “By the Cauldron,” he drawled, “if you don’t sound just like my dear little brother. You could do worse in your choice of mentors.” He took a step towards Nyx, looking him over, as though really seeing him for the first time. “A pity that we’re adversaries.”

There was no safe reply to give to this, so Nyx just blinked at him, trying to keep his expression stony, and probably failing.

“I knew this marriage would ruffle feathers,” Eris said. “I knew prejudice against Hybern would be an obstacle. Many have chosen to continue hostilities, despite my offering to mediate. But you can choose differently.” His eyes blazed with a hint of the vast firepower at his command. “You will have many choices to make, very soon.”

“You’re asking me to betray my parents?” Nyx was incredulous. Eris must be very confident in his position, if he’s willing to speak so boldly.

“Betray,” scoffed Eris. “What a notion. We need not deal in such absolutes. You lack subtlety, Nyx Archeron, if you think I am asking you to renounce your parents. I am only suggesting that we need not be enemies.”

“And who suggested our courts were enemies, in the first place?” Nyx asked. “Was it not you who promised Tamlin vengeance against my family, for supposed crimes against him?”

Eris’s smile was cruel. “I didn’t promise Tamlin anything.”

“Ceres, then.”

Eris’s smile froze on his face.

“I wonder what your future son will think of your arrangement,” Nyx said, wondering if Eris’s new Hybern princess was already pregnant, if he’d promised Kore an actual husband and not some figment of his imagination. Though of course there would be sons, for the Vanserra family tree was full of sons. “I wonder if Kore will even like him.”

Eris said, as though it should have been obvious, “Any son of mine would have much to offer. Contributing to our noble bloodline, bringing our courts together, would be a worthy position for the Spring Court princess. Not all females are as obstinate and short-sighted as some that I could mention.”

Did he mean Aunt Mor? Or Aunt Nesta? Or both?

“You shouldn’t dwell so much on past disappointments, or your new wife will get jealous,” Nyx said.

Eris’s laugh was smooth and cultured, but high-pitched — nervous, maybe. “My new wife is a force to be reckoned with, as would befit one of her rank and station.”

“Yet she is not a High Lady. Strange, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. She rules her own vast territory,” Eris said. “Crown Princess trumps High Lady in rank, anyway.”

“As does High Queen,” Nyx observed blandly.

Eris blinked rapidly, but then tsked, “Why is everyone obsessed with that possibility? Despina has no desire to rule all Prythian, only to support me in my efforts to govern Autumn fairly. All I seek is a Prythian at peace, with itself and with Hybern, with justice done for all.”

Nyx wondered what Eris’s definition of justice was, or peace, for that matter.

“There is an imbalance of power in Prythian. One court among the seven that holds a more vast territory than any other, that hoards the Dread Trove and other Made weapons, and bargains with death gods and monsters,” Eris said. “There are no checks on their power, no recourse if they decide to march forth to conquer.”

“You’re not seriously suggesting that my parents want to conquer Prythian,” Nyx snapped. Don’t get riled up. That’s what he wants, to get you off-balance.

Eris sneered, ”Trusting blindly in your father’s good intentions, and your mother’s for that matter, is a fool’s bargain. They have already amply demonstrated that they will kill any innocent, wreck lives and livelihoods, for their own selfish purposes.” 

A hot rage flooded Nyx at this characterization. Yes, his parents had done terrible things, but they had not wantonly destroyed and killed for their own ambition. How easy it was for Eris to twist the truth, weaponize the past for his own benefit.

“Like your purposes aren’t selfish,” he finally said, when he had mastered himself enough to speak calmly. “Like you haven’t committed cruelties to save your own skin. And wouldn’t commit more, if you had the opportunity.”

“I see you have made up your mind already,” Eris said, shaking his head. He conjured a tiny flame in his hand, letting it spark and dance on his palm. “You may one day regret being so hasty.”

Does he think that little flame will impress me? Or is he hoping I’ll respond in kind, show off my own powers, give him a better feel for my magic?

“Prythian will have no High King or Queen,” Nyx said matter-of-factly, resisting the urge to send out a splash of water, or a puff of wind, that would make those flames sputter. “No one should have that much power to wield over others.”

“Now you sound like idealistic Tarquin,” Eris said. “Perhaps we should all be equal, with no one’s power mightier than anyone else’s. But that is not what the Cauldron decided. Some of us were born to rule, chosen by the magic of the land. You included.”

Nyx said, “I don’t claim to know the Cauldron’s heart.”

“Why not? Your family has an unusual connection to it. Your mother, and her sisters,” Eris said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that connection extends to their offspring.” 

Awareness prickled at the base of Nyx’s spine. Did Eris see him as a potential rival, an obstacle to his ambitions, someone who could wield the Cauldron’s power against him? Did that include his cousins, too? And his soon-to-be born baby sister?

There is an imbalance of power in Prythian. Was that what Eris had meant by it?

Nyx itched to reach out with his daemati senses, but he wasn’t stupid enough to think it would work on an opponent like Eris. Surely Eris would be able to shield, to detect any attempts at infiltration, especially since Nyx had announced that he was a daemati at Tamlin’s dinner table. He had to assume that they’d shared it all with Eris, that he’d come prepared to shield against anything Nyx might throw at him.

Nyx had never tried to hide his powers, exactly, but now he felt exposed, laid bare in a way that made him feel vulnerable. Eris would be seeking to learn about all of them, their strengths and vulnerabilities.

“This is starting to bore me, High Lord,” he said, trying to appear bored, indifferent, as he’d seen his own father do on many occasions. If his heart was pounding, if his mind was spinning, he tried not to show it. “If you have something to say, then say it. Otherwise, I’m expected elsewhere.”

Eris snapped his hand shut, extinguishing the flame. “A shame. For I find you very interesting, indeed. But no matter. We shall meet again.”

Then he was gone, winnowed away.

Nyx breathed out a long sigh of relief, then resumed his walk towards the library, suddenly very glad he was about to head home, indeed.

Chapter Text

Nyx jolted when his aunt entered the room, and he stopped pacing to make a beeline for her. “Well?”

Aunt Elain laid a kind hand on his arm. “Not just yet. It takes many months to grow a babe, and many hours to deliver her.”

Nyx nodded, swallowing down his nerves, determined to maintain his composure. Things were anxious enough without him adding to it.

But Aunt Elain saw through his efforts. “It’s proceeding as it should. Take comfort,” she told him, then motioned towards the comfortable couches of the sitting room, to the others who were lounging there, watching their interaction and pretending to be nonchalant about it. “Dear Nyx, you must relax. You look like you’re a soldier on patrol. It’s a birth, not an invasion.”

Nyx barked a laugh, despite the tension building up inside him.“What do you need? I can get it.”

“I’m just going for more towels.” When she saw his confused expression — surely his father could grab towels from some pocket realm, or send Nuala or Cerridwen to winnow them in with little effort — his aunt smiled softly at him, then leaned in closer. “You’re not the only nervous one, you know. I needed a walk, so that I can be calm and settled when I go back through that door.”

“Ah,” he said, very glad that she’d decided to stay a bit longer, not doubting that her presence would put his mother at ease, both during the labor and then in the days afterwards. He watched his aunt walk off, pausing by the couches to give the rest of the family her update. Yes, the labor was moving along nicely. No, it wasn’t time to push just yet. No, Rhys hadn’t fainted yet, either —

Then Nyx jolted, finding his cousin Catrin at his side. “Will you sit,” she hissed at him. “You’re making us jumpy.”

“Sorry,” Nyx stammered, allowing her to lead him towards the group, though the last thing he wanted to do was sit uselessly on a couch while his mother was in labor. His hands and magic itched to do something, to safeguard both mother and baby. He wished that healers could just winnow babies right into the world, rather than this messy fraught business of laboring and pushing.

“Come talk with us, Nyx,” Aunt Emerie said, patting an empty spot on the sofa next to her. It was odd to see her without Aunt Mor by her side, but Mor had been in the birthing chamber throughout his mother’s labor, her healing magic at the ready in case it was needed. It comforted Nyx, though it worried him that such a precaution might be necessary.

She’s survived worse before. He didn’t want to think about just how much.

Nyx settled uneasily onto the sofa, carefully tucking his wings in so that he wouldn’t jostle Aunt Emerie, or poke Aunt Nesta, who was curled up in the chair beside her. Catrin piled back onto her own comfortable chair, and swiped her novel up from underneath her, dangling her legs over the armrest as she flipped back through the pages to find her bookmark.

Aunt Elain, meanwhile, had resumed her path towards the closets where the linens were kept, maintaining the illusion of being busy. How often did they all do that, Nyx wondered — hide behind work, find reasons that sounded good to others, rather than just outright seeking the respite they needed? 

Meanwhile, Aunt Gwyn had gotten up and was approaching Aunt Elain, and Nyx averted his eyes as the two females began a quiet, earnest conversation. He resisted the urge to speculate on what they might have to talk over, but he now knew enough to hazard a guess.

“I can’t imagine my mom going through this,” Catrin said, jolting Nyx back to the conversation flowing around him. “With two of us, no less.”

“They do say the second baby is easier,” Aunt Emerie said.

“Gods, it had better be,” Nyx blurted, then flushed deeply. His own birth had almost ended in tragedy. And how many more bargains with the Cauldron could they make, if his mother’s life was again in peril?

Aunt Nesta’s head lifted up from her own book, and their eyes met. They exchanged a look that there were no words for, and none were needed. There was a deep gratitude, and an understanding, that Nyx felt at the core of his being, and as he looked into his aunt’s steely eyes, he knew she could feel it.

Nyx had always been grateful for Aunt Nesta’s sacrifice, but had never been able to fathom why she’d done it. How she could feel such fierce love for his family, and be so confident that he was worth it. But now, with his mother laboring in the next room, he understood it intimately. He knew he would not hesitate to do the same for his mother, or his new baby sister, if it came to that.

Aunt Mor’s head poked out from the doorway. “Nesta? She’s asking for you.”

From inside the chamber, Nyx’s mother groaned low, her voice ragged, and his heart spiked with panic. Why did she make that sound? Did something bad happen?

Aunt Nesta’s hand brushed his shoulder, giving him silent comfort, and then she was up from her seat, striding briskly towards the bedchamber, and then the door swung shut behind her, muffling the loud cry his mother made.

Nyx’s fists clenched and unclenched, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. “I can’t just sit here, I’m going to burst,” he complained. “Can’t they at least take her pain away?”

Aunt Emerie shook her head. “I heard them offer. But some females prefer to feel it.”

“Seriously?” Nyx couldn’t fathom it. Who would want to feel that kind of pain?

“Your Aunt Gwyn was the same way,” Aunt Emerie shrugged. “She said it gave her more control, to be aware of what was happening at each stage of the labor.”

Catrin shuddered without looking up from her book. “That would not be me. I’m not good with pain.”

Nyx refrained from commenting. He had no right to chime in on the question, for he would never know what it was like to be faced with such choices, to put his body through the rigors of childbearing. It was daunting beyond imagination, to think of the risks that females undertook, and he marveled at it. Bearing a babe is a Blood Rite more fierce than ascending any mountain.

Catrin let her book flop down to the floor. “Who wants cookies?”

Nyx waved a hand, declining the offer. His stomach felt twisted up in knots, like anything he ate would fail to settle. He wouldn’t be easy until after this was over, his baby sister born and healthy, and his mother recovering.

Aunt Emerie said, “See if there’s any of that wine left, too,” and Catrin nodded briskly, heading for the kitchens.

Then Aunt Emerie turned to Nyx, her face suddenly solemn. “Nyx, I need to thank you.”

“What, me?” His brows scrunched together. “For what reason?”

His aunt leaned forward, rustling her wings a bit as she did so. Nyx suppressed the urge to wince at the scarring, which looked jagged and painful. The fact that her wings had been clipped at all was a travesty, a shameful failure that his father and uncles rightfully felt guilty over, but she had fought back, making the damage even more severe. And that, to Nyx, was the worst tragedy of all — the way that her independent spirit, her insistence on bodily autonomy, had brought down even crueler, more punishing treatment. How many females in Illyria still endured such horrors?

“What you said to Nesta on Solstice. She told me about it, after you left on your journey.” Aunt Emerie’s brown eyes sparkled. “It means a lot, to all of us, that you support her.”

Nyx was flummoxed. “Why wouldn't I? Why wouldn’t everyone?”

“I’ve asked myself the same thing. Why, when things got so very bad, the people who love her didn't do more about it.” His aunt’s shoulders slumped a little, from guilt, perhaps. “She did not tell us the full circumstances of her… residence in the House of Wind, but between Gwyn and me, we eventually put it together. By then she was already mated to Cassian, and had her daughter, and said she was fine with the way things had worked out. But if we’d known at the time, I’d like to think we would have confronted the issue head-on, done more to support her.”

Nyx swallowed thickly. “You would have been going up against the High Lord and Lady, and their top advisors and enforcers. That’s no easy matter.”

“No, but we are Valkyries. We don’t stay silent in the face of injustice,” Aunt Emerie said solemnly. “No matter who is committing it.”

Nyx could only nod admiringly at that sentiment. Especially because he could feel how deeply she meant it.

“But in the rush after the Blood Rite, and Nesta’s mating ceremony, and then Gwyn’s, and everything that came afterwards, a lot of things got pushed aside. Everyone was invested in moving on, being a big happy family, and Nesta didn’t want to disrupt that. Not after they’d finally accepted her as one of them.”

The thought made Nyx even more queasy. “I didn’t want to believe they could do all that — confine her in the House, and make her hike, and all the rest of it.”

Aunt Emerie’s expression looked pained. “It was so jarring at first, realizing that I was there and I didn’t see the injustice. But they were always kind to me, and in front of me. It made it easier to ignore the parts of the story that didn't make sense. And Nesta was careful never to directly criticize the family to us. Even when your father threatened to kill her, and she was taken away for a week, she only told us that they had had an argument.”

Bile burned in the back of Nyx’s throat. Both of his parents had admitted to him that they’d done much that might be considered bad, but there had always been a reason — some vital purpose or greater good that would come out of it. But threatening to murder a family member for revealing a secret? It made him want to charge into the next room and drag his father out, confront him all over again.

“I know he wouldn’t really kill her,” Aunt Emerie said, noticing his angry reaction and seeking to soothe him. “But he was angry enough that both your uncles believed him, and evacuated her from the city.”

Nyx glanced towards the closed door to the bedchamber, where his aunt was now with both of his parents. How could she stand to be in a room with them, to forgive so completely?

And how could his own mother have come to terms with it — that her mate had threatened to kill her sister?

“Tamlin’s family killed Aunt Branwen,” Nyx said hoarsely. “Father knows what it’s like to have a sister murdered. How could he even utter those words, even if he didn’t mean them?”

“The whole situation makes me furious, even now, when I think about it. You know what my father did, to my mother and me, and the thought of any friend of mine experiencing even a shadow of what I did — well, your uncles now know how I feel about it. Your parents probably do, too, though Nesta hasn’t wanted them confronted directly.” Nyx could well imagine this fierce Carynthian warrior taking them all to task for their treatment of his aunt. “And when I heard about Mor’s role in it, well, let’s just say that there’s a reason the two of us didn’t get together sooner.”

Nyx really didn’t need to know the details, but said diplomatically, “I’ve always thought things seemed tense between them.”

“They’ve come to a truce about the past, with apologies made, and an effort to do better. I think Mor still struggles to understand, sometimes, when your aunt or Enyo acts difficult. Mor just wants everything to be bright and happy, to not waste time on negativity.”

“Enyo would say she’s being fake,” Nyx pointed out. Enyo had said that, on more than one occasion. Then he remembered he was talking to Aunt Mor’s partner, and he flushed. “I mean —“

But Aunt Emerie laughed. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Enyo is not shy about her opinions.”

“Understatement of the century.”

She chuckled. “There’s some truth to both sides, you know. They’re just so different in personality, almost complete opposites, and that puts them at odds. They’re all adults, and they can handle it. Without the insults or the power plays.” She tsked, shaking her head. “That’s the difference now. Nesta is in a better position. She’s part of the Valkyries, and part of the family, and nothing can change that. Even if she still feels like she has to get along with folks, or try to please them.”

“I hate that,” Nyx burst out. “She shouldn’t have to do anything. She’s already done too much.”

Aunt Nesta had loved him as an infant, long before he’d ever done anything to earn it. Just as he loved his baby sister already, and she wasn’t even out of his mother’s body. He would love her no matter what she was like — even if she was difficult.

“I agree with you. They all should have known better,” Aunt Emerie said. “That’s why your willingness to stand up for her really matters, even if she really is content to leave the matter be. To have someone in your position standing up for her, being her ally — it means a lot. To all of us.”

“My position?” Nyx asked stupidly.

Aunt Emerie nodded solemnly. “You are powerful, Nyx. We all felt it, on Solstice.”

Nyx flushed with embarrassment. “I made a scene. And I hurt people’s feelings.”

“You made amends. No one holds it against you,” she reassured him quickly. “But we had not realized just how strong you’d become.”

Nyx was flummoxed as to how to answer. He had felt it too, like the balance was shifting, but had been too distracted to really reckon with it.

“I guess I really am the heir to this court, then,” he said, feeling a sinking sense of unease as he uttered the words, as the implications settled heavily into him.

His aunt’s brows rose. “Did you doubt it?”

“I…” He cast about for the words to explain it. “Maybe I was hoping it wasn’t true.”

“Hoping what’s not true?” Catrin cut in, brandishing a bottle of wine and several glasses. Aunt Gwyn was right behind her, with a huge plate of cookies and muffins, and Aunt Elain was behind them with a steaming pot of tea on a tray.

“You’ve outdone yourselves. Let’s eat,” Aunt Emerie declared, saving Nyx from having to answer.

There was a flurry of movement as chairs were rearranged, as a table was pulled over, so that all of them could lean comfortably and partake of the small feast they’d put together. Nyx ate nothing, but watched and listened as his aunts and cousin tucked into the cookies, and poured drinks and chatted, and smiled and joked. Aunt Elain regaled them with stories about the High Lord of Day and his court’s antics, and Nyx occasionally chimed in when he knew of the people she mentioned. She fit into the group more naturally than he might have expected, given that he’d never seen her interact much with any of them before.

He speared a thought to his cousin Catrin. You were gone an awfully long time.

She took a sip of her wine, and smiled brightly at him. You looked like you were having an intense conversation. And I was too curious about what Mama and Auntie were saying.

Spying?

Maybe? Her voice chuckled wickedly. Come on. Don’t tell me you weren’t tempted.

Not really.

Fine. Don’t admit it. I guess that means I won’t tell you what they talked about.

Nyx just sipped from his tea, ignoring the provocation. His mind was far too full of his own doubts and worries to really focus on it. He’d just told Emerie that he didn’t want to be the heir to this court — something he’d long known, somewhere inside him, but had never outright admitted before —

Fine, Catrin huffed. They were talking about Papa.

Of course they were. Nyx wasn’t surprised in the slightest.

Aunt Gwyn laughed at some joke or other, her hand fluttering up to finger the delicate rose necklace she always wore.

Did you know that necklace was meant for Aunt Elain? Catrin asked him. It was her Solstice present.

Nyx’s eyes shot to his aunt, who was blithely taking bites of her own dessert, then back to the necklace. It did seem more like Aunt Elain’s style, though he was so used to seeing it on Aunt Gwyn that it really seemed to suit her, too.

Gods, is that awkward, he said in his cousin’s mind.

Sooo awkward. Especially since that necklace was the first gift Mama ever got from Papa. She was so touched by it, because they’d been friends, but she didn’t know how much he really liked her.

Nyx’s heart squeezed a little. Maybe your dad didn’t know, either.

Well, it explains why he’s bought her so many necklaces over the years, even though she says she doesn’t need them. Maybe now she’ll actually start wearing them. Catrin rolled her eyes. Here I thought things were weird enough for her, having Mor around, after he pined for her for all those centuries.

Nyx didn’t doubt that his uncle really loved Aunt Gwyn — he’d seen how just bringing her up in conversation could bring a smile to Uncle Az’s face, when the male so rarely showed any emotion. Had he ever felt that way about Aunt Mor, or Aunt Elain?

Maybe I should warn him to stay away from the house for a while, he joked to Catrin.

She snorted delicately. I don’t think fleeing to the continent would be far enough.

Nyx chuckled at that, but then remembered that Uncle Lucien had almost done just that, and then the joke seemed far less funny.

The door to the birthing chamber opened, and Aunt Nesta stepped out, gently shutting it again behind her. She smiled at them all, announcing, “She’s just starting to push. Shouldn’t be long now.”

Nyx got up, giving her his place at the table, babbling some excuse about how he wasn’t hungry anyway, and he wandered towards the windows, gazing out at the expanse of Velaris without really seeing it. Then he turned back towards the group, seeing that Aunt Nesta had settled in, and was talking animatedly.

Then Enyo burst into the room, and Sibyl right behind her. Both of his cousins were exclaiming about their outing in Velaris, and firing off questions, and the conversation grew louder and more raucous as everyone began chiming in. Then there was more jostling and shuffling as the group grabbed more furniture, and made room for them at the table. Nyx smiled to see it, then turned away towards the window.

He speared his thoughts out towards the birthing chamber, towards his mother and father, and Aunt Mor and Madja. Soon they would be making even more room, for another family member.

And he couldn’t wait.

Chapter Text

Nyx leaped up from his seat, nearly upending the table and all its contents, to shouts and exclamations from the family assembled there. “Sorry,” he threw out over his shoulder, but he was already rushing for the door to the birthing chamber, heedless of everything except getting inside. His hand shook on the doorknob, but he wrenched it open, greeted by a high-pitched cry, piercing and ragged, that both thrilled and terrified him.

Then he froze, suddenly realizing that he was about to barge in to a very private scene, that his mother might be undressed, or bleeding, and would not appreciate him intruding. “Is she,” he gasped out, before all words failed him entirely.

Nyx, come in, and shut the door behind you, his father’s voice murmured in his mind, and he did so at once, reaching behind him to pull the door gently. She’s ready to see you.

He rushed forward, then thought to ask, Will you tell the others? I think I frightened them.

His father chuckled darkly, and then he was in front of Nyx, grasping his hands, his hair mussed and sticking up in random directions, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Your mother was perfect,” he said reverently. “Magnificent.”

And then he was yanking Nyx forward, hugging him tightly, and they were both sobbing.

Nyx knew his mental shield had collapsed, but he was too full of every emotion to try to contain it. The fear that he would lose his mother, that this birth would end in tragedy, had weighed heavily upon him over the last several days, though it had been gathering like a storm cloud in the back of his mind for far longer. He’d known his father was feeling it too, even more so, but hadn’t known how to broach the subject. Speaking their fears aloud gave them shape and form, like a Bogge who would strike only if acknowledged as real, but now the dam had burst open, and they were both flooded with relief and joy and sorrow.

“Nyx,” his mother called out, her own voice rough with exhaustion, and then he was rushing to her, nearly tripping over Madja’s legs as the healer knelt at the end of the bed. He registered that Mor was there, too, in the background, that she was moving to comfort his father, but he only had eyes for his mother, and for the bundle of blankets she cradled in her arms.

His mother was propped up against a pile of pillows, her skin shiny with sweat and glowing faintly, her cheeks reddened and streaked with tears, and she was clad only in a thin camisole that was yanked down over one shoulder so that she could bare her breast for feeding his sister. Nyx kept his eyes carefully fixed on her face, and not on Madja tending to the lower half of her, and she looked up at him, eyes gleaming.

“Oh, Nyx,” she said, reaching out a tattooed hand for him to grasp, and he did, clinging to it like a lifeline. He wanted to embrace her, but he didn’t want to crush her or jostle the baby, or disrupt the healer’s efforts, so he knelt by the side of the bed instead, pressing her hand into his forehead, struggling to reel himself back in.

“I’m fine, I promise,” his mother said, her voice gentle, only a hint of reproach in it. “I always told you I would be.”

“I know,” he said. And he really had, but he hadn’t believed it until now. He raised his head up to look at her, fully taking in how radiant she looked, and also how exhausted. “Did you labor through the night, Mama?”

She nodded, her eyes briefly fluttering closed. “And all of yesterday, too.”

He jolted at that. “I didn’t know —“ Had she been suffering all that time? Why hadn’t he sensed it?

“Don’t look so worried. I didn’t suffer,” she assured him. “It takes time for labor to get going, Nyx. The contractions were really far apart at first. I had to actually take a potion to speed things along.”

“But isn’t a second baby supposed to be easier,” he stammered.

Everyone in the room laughed heartily at that. “Oh, Nyx. You have no idea,” Aunt Mor trilled.

His mother squeezed his fingers. “Sweetheart, my labor with you was far too early. And you were stuck, and —“ She broke off, waving vaguely at her abdomen. “You were not born the usual way. Madja had to cut me open.”

He shuddered, feeling the tears starting to flow again, for the thought that he’d caused that, however unwillingly, made his stomach churn. His mother tsked as she reached out her fingers to wipe at his cheeks. “I’d endure it all a thousand times. Don’t ever doubt that.” His father came to her other side, caressing her brow, and she leaned into his touch. “Both of us would.”

Nyx looked up at his father, who was nodding solemnly in agreement, just as lost for words as he was.

Madja stood up then, wiping her hands on a towel, though Nyx could see that they were still covered — with what, he emphatically did not want to know. “Everything looks good, High Lady,” she pronounced. “I’ll give Mor instructions for you, for the coming days of recovery. But my main advice is to go very easy, move slowly, and if you feel any pain, slow down or stop.”

“Thank you, Madja,” Nyx’s mother said softly, letting her head tip back onto the pillows.

“Darling, you’re tired,” his father murmured. “You didn’t sleep last night, and you’ve been laboring all day. Let me take her so you can rest.”

“You’re tired too,” his mother said. “You didn’t sleep last night either.”

Nyx didn’t doubt it. He’d felt twinges of his father’s deep anxiety, seen the dark shadows leaking from under the door and could guess what they meant. His own birth had been traumatizing for everyone, and as much as he knew that, they had all lived it. It was strange, knowing they’d all been through it together for his sake, yet he was the one who didn’t remember it.

“I’ll take her,” he offered, curiously eyeing the bundle in his mother’s arms. He had no idea what to do with a baby, but his father and all his uncles had managed, hadn’t they?

His mother beamed at him, then jerked her head towards the bathing chamber. “Go wash your hands, then you can meet her.”

He nodded, shoving up from the bedside, feeling strangely light, almost giddy with excitement, and headed for the bathing chamber. He plunged his hands into the hot water, willing his muscles to stay steady, getting himself ready to hold the baby.

Then he glanced up at his own reflection, and frowned at the mirror, turning his face one way and then the other. His face looked just the same as always, with the same sharp cheekbones and jawline, the same nose and mouth and all of it, but he also thought there was something new, something different. A wiser, sadder look about the eyes, or a faint glow to his skin, that hadn’t been there before.

He traced his finger along the steam on the mirror, wondering if he was just losing it, if the excitement and terror over the birth hadn’t messed with his mind. Or maybe he really did look different, less like his parents than he’d thought, or just more like himself, and whatever magic or power he embodied.

A baby’s plaintive wail split the silence, and then he was rapidly drying his hands off, and striding back into the bedchamber, settling into the armchair so that the baby could be laid in the crook of his arm.

“Asteria,” he murmured. Starry one.

It fit her perfectly, for when her beautiful large eyes opened at his low rumbling voice and regarded him, they were a bright purple, like their father’s, with stars and galaxies dancing within them. They were set widely into a smooth pale heart-shaped face, and her hair was thick and raven-black, just like his own had been.

Just like the portrait of Aunt Branwen.

And his shields must have still been down, for his father responded. Oh, Nyx. It’s startling. Here, I’ll show you.

And there she was, in his father’s memory. Nyx nearly exclaimed aloud at it. He was peering at another little baby, this time through his father’s eyes, though in the background of the memory there was angry arguing — his grandfather’s deep bellowing voice, thundering through the room, and his grandmother’s meeker pleading for him to calm down, that they would one day sire another son, that Branwen would not end up like other Illyrian females, and she hadn’t known she was carrying a daughter —

His father yanked the memory back, and his mind went suddenly, mercifully quiet.

Nyx couldn’t imagine what it must have been like, to have parents who argued like that, to have such an overbearing and miserable father. That such a wondrous event as a birth could be ruined so thoroughly seemed like such a waste.

Nyx gave thanks to the Mother that his parents weren’t like that. They genuinely loved and cared for one another. And though there was much that he fervently wished was different, much that they still had to make amends for, they had given him a beautiful start in life, and would be doing the same for his sister. Asteria.

He turned his mind back towards his father. You didn’t name her after my aunt.

We wanted her to have a fresh start. To make her own name, rather than having to live up to a memory, or be haunted by it. His father’s anguish was palpable as he added, I know your Aunt Gwyn feels differently, that Catrin’s name is an honor and a blessing. Maybe there’s no one right answer. But I can’t imagine looking at her, and calling her by Branwen’s name. I have to keep them separate. I want to feel joy when I look at her, and I want to see only her. Does that make sense?

It does. And I think Asteria’s name suits her perfectly, Nyx reassured his father.

Asteria’s eyes had fluttered closed again, and he saw that she already had long eyelashes, and then his gaze wandered down to her little chubby hands, and when he traced the velvety skin of her palm, her fingers reflexively closed around his finger, clinging on tight.

“She likes you,” Aunt Mor giggled.

“It’s just a reflex,” Nyx said, though he hoped it was true.

* * * * *

The next days that followed were a whirlwind — celebrating and enduring many congratulations and comments, punctuated by the baby’s crying, followed by restless nights in which the baby cried more, and his parents stumbled about, and feedings and diaper changes and more feedings and more diaper changes. His mother slept uneasily, exquisitely sensitive to any noise the baby made, real or imagined, even just the little gasping breaths Asteria made while she was sleeping. She slept often, and cried more often, and fed from his mother, then burped and spit up and messed her diaper and cried, and did it all again, and again. They all took turns, passing the baby from one person to the next, pressing her bare skin to their bare chests as Madja had suggested, so that the warmth and softness might lull her, so that she could be calmed to their beating hearts. But it was bouncing that really soothed her, bouncing and rocking, simulating the way she must have felt bouncing about when she’d been inside her mother’s belly.

Nyx resisted the urge to reach out with his daemati senses, thinking that a little infant’s mind must surely be overwhelmed already, that there were too many sights and sounds and smells that she was trying to process. She had to learn what everything was, what was part of her body and what wasn’t, what it felt like to taste milk and breathe air, and he marveled at how hard it was to grow and learn, just how much there was she’d have to know.

And Asteria had magic — strong magic already. He could feel it, how purely the darkness rose within her. He knew they were all marveling at it, murmuring about it when they thought he couldn’t hear. Wondering whether the magic was shifting, choosing a new heir already, so soon, though Nyx’s own power hadn’t diminished. If anything, it had grown.

Eventually, the extended family began to return to their work, their usual routines, though they still popped in every chance they got, offered to hold the baby so his parents could shower, or his mother could see Madja about her lingering soreness, or just to get their fill of the baby’s sweet presence.

Nyx was relieved that the house was emptying of guests, though he felt adrift, too, for his own stint at the Day Court had ended, and he didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing now. Not that he could focus long on anything, for he was up at odd hours rocking Asteria, or holding her while his parents tended to their own needs, or tossed and turned in his bed while she wailed somewhere in the distance. He could always feel when she was distressed, and he wondered if it was her own nascent daemati power, that she was flinging her thoughts out wildly, and he was receiving them.

He was just waking up from a rare deep sleep, groggy as hell and dreading the thought of having to scrape himself up out of bed and face another round of crying-eating-diapers-burping-crying-rocking again, when there was a knock on the door. He almost barked at whoever-it-was to go away, but he swiftly mastered that reaction when he realized it was Nuala.

“Sorry to bother, Nyx. Sibyl and her parents are getting ready to leave, and I thought you’d want to come say goodbye.”

That got him moving. He swiftly was up and down the stairs, inwardly sighing with relief when no high pitched wail trailed after him.

“You really look like a prince of darkness,” Sibyl chortled when she saw him. “Or of nighttime. Or sleeping.”

Nyx knew he was rumpled, which was bound to happen when he slept in his clothes, and decided that he didn’t care. “We are the Court of Dreams,” he replied solemnly. “I was just making sure we live up to our name.”

Uncle Lucien beamed at him. “Damn right.”

Aunt Elain swatted at her husband, who caught her hand and pressed a kiss to the center of her palm, making her giggle. “Rogue.”

“Right again, my love, as always.”

Sibyl rolled her eyes dramatically. “The pair of you. Incorrigible.” Then she tugged on Aunt Elain’s hand. “Come on, let’s go say goodbye to Aunt Feyre.”

His uncle extended an arm towards the back of the house, the furthest door that led out to the path by the river. “Walk with me for a minute?”

Nyx nodded his assent, and then they were outside, strolling in the crisp spring air. He felt revived, being in the sunshine and among all the new growth, the first buds on the trees, the first birds returning after their long migrations. The grogginess left him, though he still felt tired, and he thought that he might lay down in the grass after their last guests departed, perhaps lay out a blanket for the baby so that she could join him. Perhaps she’d get more uninterrupted sleep that way, and wake up less cranky.

“Have you heard anything from Tamlin?” Nyx asked, grimacing as he recalled their quick flight from Spring. They’d never had the chance to properly discuss it, in the whirlwind of the last several weeks.

“Not a thing. No responses to letters.” Uncle Lucien shook his head, his mechanical eye clicking, as though it were tsking in disapproval. “This isn’t the first time, so don’t read too much into it.”

“After that little chat I had with Eris, it’s hard not to,” Nyx said, grimacing.

“You held your own. Probably much to his surprise,” Uncle Lucien said kindly.

“I still don’t understand what he wanted, though. Or what he meant by making choices.” Nyx shook his head. “Did he really expect I’d go against my parents?”

“It’s what he did,” Uncle Lucien pointed out. “He spent centuries biding his time, building up support among the common folk, the courtiers. The soldiers, especially. Carefully maneuvering behind the scenes, all while maintaining Beron’s trust in him. He maintained a separate alliance with the Night Court for years, and as far as I can tell, Beron never found out about it. Perhaps he thought he could take you under his wing, instruct you in how to do the same.”

Nyx was horrified. “I don’t want to kill my father. Or sneak around behind his back.”

“Your father’s not Beron. And thank the Cauldron for it,” Uncle Lucien said. “But it’s not uncommon for heirs to get restless.” He looked at Nyx appraisingly, mechanical eye buzzing softly. “Then again, you are an uncommon heir.”

“I don’t know what I am,” Nyx confessed. “Now that Asteria’s born, especially.” He looked at his uncle hopefully. “You were born in one court, but you’re heir to another. When did you feel that you were different?”

His uncle thought for a moment. “You know, I’m not certain. I was very young, so I can’t pinpoint one moment. I just always knew I was different than my brothers, before I had the words to explain it. My magic felt different, too, which was damn confusing at the time. And I quickly learned not to bring it up, or show off un-Autumnlike powers, or risk retaliation. From Eris, especially.”

Nyx winced sympathetically. His magic was so much a part of him, in all of its different aspects, that he couldn’t imagine how painful it would feel to suppress it.

“Now I know Eris was trying to protect me. He was the only one, other than Mother and maybe a few of the healers, who knew for certain that I wasn’t Beron’s. At the time, I just thought him an asshole.” Uncle Lucien barked a bitter laugh. “How different things could have been, if he’d only trusted me with my own damn secret.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“Because it was also his secret. And secrets are leverage,” Uncle Lucien said. “Don’t forget how old Eris is, how long he’s been playing this game. He does nothing without careful consideration, without weighing how he personally benefits. It’s how he survived for all those centuries.”

Nyx thought of the High Lord raging in his father’s memory, and wondered how much worse a father Beron Vanserra was, how crafty and cruel his sons became in order to survive it.

“Eris thought I might betray him, because he wouldn’t hesitate to do the same, if it seemed necessary to him,” Uncle Lucien went on. “He assumes the worst intentions in others, and sadly, he’s often been correct.”

“But is that because of his own actions?” Nyx wondered.

Uncle Lucien chuckled. “A question for your Veritas, perhaps.”

Nyx sighed. “I don’t suppose that centuries of scheming is easy to give up. But I’d rather not be part of it.”

“Unless you plan to move to the continent, or give up all your powers tomorrow, I don’t know if you can avoid it,” his uncle said. They had come to a large stone bench set back from the path, and they both sank down onto it, gazing out at the glittering Sidra, the late afternoon sun shining brightly on both of them, as though it were basking in their presence rather than the other way around.

His uncle seemed to notice at the same moment he did, for he said casually, “I don’t know how you do it. Juggle all those powers. I find it hard enough to sort out two courts’ worth of magic, and you’ve got all seven.”

“It’s confusing as hell,” Nyx admitted.

“You should talk to your mother about it. Once things calm down,” his uncle suggested. “Though your power is rather stronger than hers, she could still give you advice on how she manages.”

That startled Nyx. “You think my power is stronger than Mama’s?”

“I don’t think. I know.” His uncle leaned back, affecting a casual pose, as though he could soften the seriousness of their conversation. “And don’t think for a second that Eris didn’t notice how strong you’ve become.”

“Great,” Nyx deadpanned.

Uncle Lucien smirked, but his face slackened as he stared off into the distance, deep in thought. “Didn’t he recently visit your parents?”

Nyx nodded. “That was the night I went back to visit Velaris. But I didn’t end up going to see them.”

“That may have been a good decision,” his uncle said. “Seeing you with your parents would have given him all sorts of information. You should try to avoid that, if you can. Don’t give him a means of comparison, or a way to tease out the weaknesses in any of your relationships. Give him nothing to exploit, no angle to work on.”

Nyx leaned back, letting his eyes close. “This sounds exhausting.”

“Try living with him.”

“Absolutely not.” Even joking about it made Nyx cringe.

His uncle chuckled. “Seriously, you did fine. Don’t let him get under your skin. And don’t assume he speaks for Tamlin in all matters, or that their interests will always align.” He stood up, and Nyx rose with him. “We’d better get back, or I’m going to get a scolding.”

“Don’t you always?” Nyx teased him.

“I do.” His uncle grinned roguishly, betraying exactly how much he enjoyed it.

They started back off, up the river path, in comfortable silence. Nyx both looked forward to and dreaded going back in, not knowing what manner of chaos would greet him. It all hinged on whether little Asteria would take a full nap, or wake up too soon wailing and overtired, and which of the adults would be most alert and ready to wrangle her.

As they approached the back door to the River House, his uncle turned back to him. “Don’t forget you’ve got an open invitation to the palace. Come anytime, no advance notice necessary. You’ve been missed, you know.” He clapped a hand on Nyx’s shoulder. “The scholars have been asking about you. Even the grumpier ones.”

Nyx’s brows rose. “Really?”

“Really. Think on that, the next time you’re elbow deep in diapers and need a break.”

Nyx laughed, and they strode into the house together.

Chapter Text

“Watch out!” Nyx squawked, narrowly maneuvering around Sibyl and Enyo, and plunked the bread pan down on the countertop, delicious-smelling steam rising from it.

“You watch out, Asteria is baking,” Sibyl said sweetly, and Nyx looked down, sighing in exasperation when he saw that his little sister was perched on the floor, legs splayed out with her own little cooking bowl in between them, happily tossing handfuls of flour into the air. She was covered in the stuff, some of it wet and sticky and dried on her hands and forearms, some of it scattered in her hair like newly fallen snow.

“Isn’t that right, Eri?” Enyo cooed, affectionately brushing more flour from the back of Asteria’s dress. “You’re baking bread!”

“Bed,” Asteria solemnly pronounced, lifting her hands and then vigorously shaking them, raining down more fragments back into the bowl on the floor, but mostly on the floor.

“That’s right, bread! Did you hear that? She said it!” Sibyl exclaimed, looking up at Nyx in delight. “She’s so smart!”

“So she is,” Nyx grinned, though he cringed when he thought of how much there would be to clean up later, both on his sister and on the kitchen floor. “If you have to have her on the floor, could you maybe not be in my direct path? I’ve got hot pans, and if something spills or splatters —“

“All right, all right,” Enyo said. “Come on, Eri, let’s go in the other room, and stop bothering Nyx.”

“Nish,” his sister beamed, holding out her chubby arms to him, and although there were a million things he was supposed to be doing, and he didn’t fancy the thought of her grubby hands spreading floury muck all over his skin and clothes, he caved, plucking her from the ground and lifting her. She nestled happily into his arm, but squirmed so that she could reach his face, and he tried not to flinch as she poked at his nose and cheeks, giggling all the while.

“What time is everyone coming, again?” he asked, wondering if he would have time to shower beforehand, especially when the baby clapped both hands against his shoulders, coating him liberally in flour.

“Far too soon,” Enyo said, stepping up next to him, holding out her hands to accept the baby back from him. He obliged, trying to hand Eri off, but she began to whine, kicking her little legs. “Nish,” the baby complained, her pouty lips drawing down into a scowl. It was a look they all knew well, usually meaning that she was about to start bawling, and no one wanted that, especially on Solstice.

“Come on, Eri,” Sibyl said brightly, coming up on his other side, smoothly sliding the mixing bowl into the sink and then vigorously brushing her hands off. “Should we read a book?”

“No book. Nish,” Eri pouted, sinking her little fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

Enyo and Sibyl exchanged a significant glance, each urging the other to come up with a suitable distraction. But they were both saved by Aneirin, who poked his head into the doorway. “There you all are. We’re going to go sledding, and Cat asked me to —” He broke off and really took them all in, his stoic expression melting into a mirthful smile. “It looks like you started the fun without us.”

“Fun,” Eri cooed, kicking at Nyx excitedly in her attempts to get to Aneirin. He dutifully strode forward, extending one siphoned hand, and the baby grabbed at it with both hands so that she could bring it closer to her face.

“Watch out, she’ll probably —“ Nyx began, but Asteria was already pressing her wet mouth to the siphon. “Sorry. She does that with everything,” he finished lamely, biting his lip. Sibyl and Enyo didn’t bother to suppress their own bursts of laughter.

Aneirin looked faintly horrified, but managed to school his features, gently dislodging his siphon from Eri’s strong grip, then grabbing Enyo’s sleeve and rubbing off the slobber on her. She squealed in protest, and the sound distracted the baby, who gave her own rousing shriek of delight, as though it was part of the game.

“Well, Eri? Should we go play with Rin and Cat? Want to go play in the snow?” Sibyl asked, seeing the opportunity to redirect the baby’s attention. And Nyx, who really needed to finish baking, and scrub the flour from his skin before the party started, sent an image into the baby’s mind, trying to entice her.

It worked, thank the Cauldron. “Snow,” Eri pronounced, pointing imperiously at the window.

Rin scooped up the baby, talking softly to her, so that Sibyl and Enyo could brush themselves off and wrangle jackets and hats and mittens, and Nyx could aim a bit of his magic at the pots and pans languishing in the sink from a day’s worth of cooking, and especially at the messy floor, slippery with flour. When he glanced up at his sister again, she was playing with one of the straps on Rin’s Illyrian leathers, burbling an unintelligible string of syllables to keep up her end of the conversation.

Then Catrin bounced in, already wrapped up and warm, wearing her cat earmuffs from last year’s festivities, and Eri cried, “Kitty!”

“Hey, little star,” Catrin greeted her excitedly. “Are you ready to go play?”

Eri waved her hands excitedly in the air, trailing little swirls of glittery darkness.

“Wow,” Rin said, staring in surprise. “I didn’t know she could already do that.”

Cat elbowed him. “That’s what you get, for staying away in Illyria. You miss everything.”

Just for a moment, Rin’s face clouded over. It really did bother him, Nyx knew. Though Rin prided himself on being a true Illyrian warrior, and was committed to his training and his fellow soldiers, there were trade-offs he’d had to accept. He often missed out on family events, bogged down as he was with training and patrols and goings-on with his regiment. If it rankled Aneirin that Uncle Cassian always seemed to be back in Velaris, rather than stationed permanently in Illyria like the soldiers he ostensibly led, it was never mentioned. But Nyx wondered, as his cousin got older, if he would become disillusioned with Illyria or the warrior lifestyle, if the pull of Velaris and time with the family would become too strong.

Cat had turned to Nyx, wrinkling her nose as she took in his disheveled state. “What happened to you?”

“Eri happened,” he shrugged. He was used to it. Life with a youngling was a never ending series of messes and disruptions, and he was only thankful that she was now sleeping through the night, so that at least he and his parents didn’t have dark circles under their eyes, didn’t stumble out of bed never knowing what time it was or which meal they were supposed to be slogging through. “I’m going to finish up in here and go shower, so I’ll see you all in time for the party.”

“Where’s Nuala and Ceri?”

“I told them to take the rest of afternoon off,” Nyx said, “so they can go get ready for the Solstice celebration.”

Cat’s mouth curved up into a smile. “They’re coming to the party?”

Nyx nodded, warmth settling into him at the thought of it.

“Potty,” Eri intoned, and they all laughed again.

* * * *

When the last guests had finally departed, and the River House was again quiet, Nyx slumped back onto the sofa, his mind spinning. The evening had been a whirlwind of talking and laughter, with much exclaiming over his sister and her antics and her pretty party clothes that she promptly got filthy, and Eri contributing much shrieking with excitement and flinging of wrapping paper. It was her first Solstice, and they made it merry, even letting her choose a gift from the exchange pile that Nyx had specially put in there. It was his old copy of The Light of Gwydion, which had always been one of his favorite books as a youngling, and Eri had eyed it with interest, then put the corner in her mouth and chomped enthusiastically.

Nyx had tried not to wince at that. “She has good taste, already devouring books,” he’d shrugged, to groans and laughter.

They’d had to move the dining table into a bigger room, and add another section, so that they could accommodate all the guests — all the usual attendees, plus Nuala and Ceri, and Sibyl and her parents, too. The seats were all shuffled and mixed around, and they had added a kid’s table, as Aunt Elain had suggested, except Uncle Cass and Uncle Az had been the ones to end up sitting at it, each taking turns feeding Eri the pureed slop that she mostly slathered on her plate and cheeks, occasionally getting in a bite of it in her mouth, each time flashing her four sharp new teeth proudly at them.

The talk at dinner, and before and afterwards, had been light and pleasant, of goings on in Velaris and Rhodes, staying away from political matters. It was a relief, but also a worry, for there was not much new to report, and that worried Nyx. It meant that Eris was biding his time, or managing to conceal his actions and scheming, and that one day they would be unpleasantly surprised by it. But there was no point in worrying about it, at least not on the night of Solstice.

The night had ended young, for the baby had to get to bed at a reasonable hour, and was daemati enough that she would be able to sense the party continuing on downstairs without her. Aunt Nesta and her Valkyries were headed back to the House, eager for her to show off the new winnowing spell that she could invoke to transport them, which had been Nyx’s Solstice present to her.

Modifying the House’s wards had required challenging magic, and had required many trips back to Day to consult with Helion and various of his scholars, even old Epicurus himself, whose frightened suspicion of Nyx had settled into a wary sort of interest. But it was worthwhile, for the advanced lore and spell-work Nyx had mastered, but even more so for the genuine delight it gave to Aunt Nesta, and the quiet joy it brought to the other Valkyries, Enyo especially. It was a statement, a declaration of her freedom, an answer to a question that had remained unasked for far too long.

“You’re sure you won’t come out to Rita’s?” Aneirin had asked him quietly, as the rest of the cousins all got their coats and boots on. “You used to love dancing.”

“Still do,” Nyx had assured him, “just not tonight. But you and I should catch up soon, Rin. And not during the snowball fight.”

Last year’s snowball fight had ended in disaster, and although Nyx trusted his Winter Court magic to stay settled if he willed it, he was anticipating a rigorous competition. He’d finally convinced his father and uncles to build a second birchin, so that the females could participate if they wanted to, and he just knew that his female cousins were going to team up and pummel the males, as payback for all the years they hadn’t been invited.

“Come out to Illyria. Meet the soldiers. Get the lay of the land,” Rin had suggested.

“Maybe I’ll go out when Enyo does?” He couldn’t imagine leaving Asteria for long, but a few days here or there wouldn’t make much difference…

Rin had winced. “Maybe not with Enyo. You know how the males feel about her.”

“That’s exactly why I would go with her,” Nyx had countered. Not that Enyo needed his support, but why shouldn't she have it? “If those tough warriors can’t handle a little challenge, then they’re not as tough as they’d like to think.”

“She antagonizes them unnecessarily,” Rin had insisted.

Nyx had known exactly what Enyo would say to that — poor Illyrian babies — but declined to say so.

He had only said, “Enyo thinks it’s necessary,” and they had parted soon afterwards, leaving the matter dormant, but unresolved, between them.

Nyx did worry about where it was all heading, the tension between the two warrior traditions, especially now that Illyrian females here and there were leaving their camps to come train in Velaris, to join the Valkyries rather than serve their fathers and brothers. The males, rightly, saw the threat their traditional way of life, though they wrongly blamed the Valkyries for it, rather than putting the blame on their own repressive attitudes. What female would choose an Illyrian camp as her home, whether or not she wanted to be a warrior? It was a serious problem that deserved serious attention, and they’d put it off for far too long.

Nothing was going to get solved in one night, not when the problems in Illyria had been brewing for centuries, and Rin and Nyx certainly weren’t going to fix anything singlehandedly. No outsider really could, not even a High Lord, an heir, or… whatever Nyx was.

Nyx tipped his head back into the couch cushions, savoring the peace and quiet. His little sister was sleeping soundly, and Uncle Lucien and Aunt Elain were settling into their guest room nearest to the gardens, and his own mother was catching up on some well-deserved rest.

You’re still awake.

He lifted his head just enough to see his father perched in the doorway. Barely, he answered honestly.

Same here. I’ve forgotten how hard the first years are, his father replied, striding into the room to settle down on the couch beside him. We haven’t had an infant in the family in quite some time. 

Nyx only vaguely remembered his cousins’ births, especially Enyo’s, since he had only been a toddler, but he certainly remembered the chaos and bustle of the years when they were all little. What he didn’t remember was all the hard work that went into keeping a youngling fed, clean, and happy.

Was I a difficult baby? he asked his father.

Honestly? I don’t have many memories of those early days. I was a wreck after you were born. He chuckled ruefully. I was a wreck before you were born, too.

Nyx thought he could imagine, at least somewhat. He had been intensely anxious about Asteria’s birth, about his mother surviving, even though all indications had been that everything was fine. But his own birth had been far different. The sense of impending doom, the anxiety and dread, must have been overwhelming.

How did you handle it? he asked.

I didn’t handle it. I fell apart, his father admitted. The prospect of losing your mother, again, was too much to bear. It was only small comfort that I would die with her —

Wait. What? Nyx straightened. What do you mean, you would die with her? Father — Papa, surely you wouldn’t —

I would, Nyx. We have a bargain, your mother and me. We vowed to leave this world together. His father’s voice was thick with sorrow. We made it right after the War ended.

No. You can’t. You can’t leave me. Leave us, Nyx said desperately. Either of you, but if one of you dies — that means we lose both of you at once?

I know. Believe me, I’ve regretted it many times.

Nyx wasn’t sure he was breathing. What would have happened, if Aunt Nesta hadn’t intervened?

I’m not sure. I don’t think the power would pass to an infant. Perhaps the magic would have chosen Mor, or someone in her bloodline. Or if your grandfather sired other offspring.  bastard children, over the centuries, perhaps it would have gone in that direction. It would have been a mess, whatever happened. His father sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. I’m eternally grateful to your Aunt Nesta, for so many reasons, but the fact is that she saved this entire court from plunging into chaos. Even those who hate us, and our rule, owe her their gratitude.

Nyx loosed a shuddering sigh. The weight of that near-miss was almost too much. The Night Court surely would have been plundered, by other courts or by Hybern or any number of other enemies. Illyria might have broken away, or the Hewn City, civil war declared. Who knew how many thousands of innocents would be doomed, all due to that ill-conceived bargain?

And even now, what if death came for his mother or father, and the bargain claimed them both? He was woefully unprepared to rule this court, assuming the power even passed to him.

You’ve got to do something. Break the bargain, he begged his father.

Don’t think I haven’t tried. I’ve consulted scholars. Helion himself. No one’s found a way to do it that wouldn’t jeopardize our lives even further.

Nyx’s hope flared at the mention of Helion. Maybe I could help you try. I know those libraries, those scholars in Day. I could ask Phaedrus, or Epicurus. He’d have to be vague about why he was asking, for while old Epicurus had come around to tolerate Nyx with some friendliness, he would be far less likely to want to help the Deceiver himself…

His father regarded him fondly. It wouldn’t hurt to look, as long as you’re discreet about it. I trust you.

Nyx’s heart warmed at that simple sentiment. He trusted himself too, and his magic. And he couldn’t think of anything more urgent than saving at least one of his parents, if he could not save both of them, ensuring that Asteria grew up with all the love and support that he had.

I’ll be discreet. But Papa? I think you should go to the Day Court with me. I think you should talk to the people there, the ones who were harmed during the occupation.

His father shifted uncomfortably. I don’t think Helion would want me to make a scene.

Nyx could well imagine that there would be a scene, based on some of the reactions people had had to him, when they’d mistaken his identity. But he said, I still think you have to do something. Or they’ll spend decades and centuries still hating you, and they won’t be able to heal or move on.

His father was silent, so Nyx plowed ahead. I think it’s what Prythian needs. All the courts, not just Day. People lost their children, their mates, parents and siblings. You know what it feels like. You and Mama.

Nyx’s father bowed his head. I do know. I do, Nyx. I just — I did too much. Hurt too many. Where would I even start?

How about Helion’s libraries? They were ransacked during the occupation. Suddenly an uncomfortable thought occurred to Nyx. The scholars said much knowledge was lost. What if the information on breaking bargains was destroyed during that attack?

Nyx’s father took a shuddering breath. Then I will suffer the punishment. It is a harsher fate than I ever could have imagined, if I doom your mother because of my actions. He lifted his head, and his violet eyes were bleak, full of despair. I will go with you to the Day Court. Pay to replace every book that was burned. And for new books that haven’t been written. Helion can double the number of scholars in his employ.

Nyx nodded. It was a start.

You will visit the other courts. I know you’ll be welcome, even in places where my presence would cause problems. Find out what each court’s needs are, what still is not recovered. We will repair whatever we can.

It was a good plan, and yet Nyx knew it still fell short. For what of those whose lives had been taken? There was no repairing the death of a mate, or a beloved youngling. And there were many more whose trauma surely haunted them, who’d starved, or suffered violations. There might be some who demanded his father’s head in the name of justice, and what would he say then?

I’ll do what I can. But what if it’s not enough? he fretted. What if I fail?

Nyx, you have no idea how proud we are. How much your mother and I admire you, his father assured him. I can think of no one better to represent our court, who has a better chance of success than you. And if you don’t perfectly succeed, you will have tried. That is all anyone can ask for.

Nyx nodded wordlessly.

His father patted him on the shoulder. You’d better get off to sleep. You’ll need all your wits for this mission. Put up a sound shield around your room tonight, so Eri doesn’t wake you. You’ve been taking on too much with her, anyway. Save some of that energy for your own younglings.

Nyx wanted to protest that he didn’t mind, that he knew his sister wouldn't be a baby for long, and he certainly didn’t plan on siring any younglings of his own anytime soon. But sleep did sound nice, and he did want to be at his best for this mission.

He’d have to put off his trip to Illyria, but Rin and Enyo would understand. Saving his parents, and helping them to make amends, had to take precedence.

It’s a good thing Uncle Lucien is here, he told his father. He can help me strategize, how to approach each High Lord, and who else I should try to talk to.

His father chuckled softly. He’ll be thrilled to miss the snowball fight. He looked downright skeptical when I described it.

Nyx’s lips quirked up. He couldn’t feel too badly about missing the snowball fight, either, especially not after the mess he’d made of things last year. You don’t want a fire-wielder in the snowball fight, anyway. He might not be capable of getting frostbite.

Shouldn’t that disqualify Sibyl, then? And you, for that matter?

I wouldn’t attempt to bar Sibyl from the event, unless you want all the female cousins raining hell on your head, Nyx warned. His father dipped his head in acknowledgement — no one wanted that. As for me, I always held back. It didn’t feel fair to use my powers.

Then I’m doubly glad you’re going on this mission. You shouldn’t have to suppress your powers, or hold back any part of the gifts you were given. His father stood up, tugging Nyx up with him. Now go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.

Nyx smiled, then headed for his own bedroom, mind buzzing with thoughts, but tried to push everything aside except for the thought of resting, and refreshing himself for tomorrow. He had work to do.

And he would be ready.