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Feyre would die soon. The thought had finally crossed her mind a month ago as she caught sight of herself in the chilly bathwater. The water rippled with her movement, but she could still make out the sharp angles of her face, the dark circles under her eyes.
Tucked away in a remote, run-down cabin in the woods, Feyre was hungry and alone. Her family had been here not so long ago. They all had left their manor in the nearby town before the soldiers marched through to meet the oncoming fae warriors. Her sisters had gathered as much food as possible while Feyre led her limping father to the abandoned shack. For many days after, whenever Feyre searched the woods for rabbits to eat, she could see plumes of smoke rising over the village like grim, swirling ghosts unable to rest.
Today, she had woken up tangled in her warm nest of blankets and pelts. Her hands had been tucked beneath her chin, shoulders to her ears. The fireplace had long since gone cold, a blanket of ash where the last of the wood had been. She’d need some kindling to start the fire again for breakfast.
She stretched and rubbed the sore muscles of her shoulders. These days, Feyre was always sore, always having some nagging ache that reminded her that she was slowly fading away. Her stomach growled.
Feyre was lucky only to have herself to feed. Six weeks ago, she sent her sisters and father on the last caravan to the continent. With only three spots left in the wagon, her father had insisted she go in his stead. But Feyre was stubborn and had stayed, choosing to wait until the bitter cold or the invading fae had claimed her.
Feyre rummaged through the kitchen area, finding procuring jars and wrappings crammed into the cabinets. She discovered the last of her jerky, far less than she remembered having, and some bones for a broth. This wasn’t enough. She searched the cabinets one more time, sorting through each jar carefully in case she missed something. She rubbed her temple, remembering some dried rabbit, but maybe she had eaten it. These days, her memory seemed to be fading along with her.
Sunlight peeked in from under the window curtains, and Feyre pulled it back, munching on the remaining jerky. It was clear out, a rare sunny day. It wasn’t warm enough to melt the snow, but it would keep her warmer when she ventured out today. If the woods were still too dense, she could try her luck in the village. Perhaps the looters hadn’t managed to strip it bare yet.
After starting the fire once more and heating snow in the iron pot her family had left behind, Feyre took a bite of her jerky and ran her fingers along the edge of the table where she had painted foxgloves many weeks ago. The oil colors had been a gift from her sisters. Elain had brought it with them when they had escaped to the woods and had hidden it in her dresser drawer to give it to Feyre for her birthday. But when she learned that Feyre was not coming with them, Elain brought it out for her then.
Feyre had cried that final night together as she painted the dresser they had shared when they first moved in. Nesta, her oldest sister, had complained that the single bedroom now stunk of paint, but Feyre had caught her tracing the swirling flames on her drawer more than once before she left.
But now, Feyre was alone, and to stave off hunger, she had painted every inch of the cabin. She had started with the rickety oak dining table and then moved to the stones of the fireplace, then the cabinets, the wall. She would paint until her eyes were heavy and then start over again the next day. Time began to blur, and Feyre would wake up covered in warm blankets that she didn’t remember crawling into with paintings she only barely remembered painting- a field in spring, a vast blue ocean, a rainbow city, the night sky, and the twinkling stars. Feyre attributed the gaps in her memory to the lack of food. She rationed what little she had every day. It was never enough, and her stomach would protest by nightfall. But she painted. The eyes of her family. A fox in a flower bed. Giant sweeping wings stretching from one wall to the next.
Now, only the black and white paints remained. As she waited for the water to boil, Feyre continued her final piece: a portrait of herself in grayscale—what she remembered of herself, at least. Even without a mirror, she could tell how frail she had become, the bones of her wrists and hands now prominent. She imagined she looked wild, like she had crawled out of the woods a feral creature and holed herself away for the winter.
Feyre picked up the brush and swept it across the wall before her. Her knees ached as she knelt. Hair was easy; she could see it in her mind’s eye. But her freckles? The speckles in her eyes? She couldn’t remember those details. When she closed her eyes, she could envision her reflection in her late mother’s floor-length mirror. But whatever she painted would be an approximation. Maybe one day, when someone found her body, rotting and withered away, they would realize that she was the girl in the portrait. Her memory would live on in someone’s mind even if she never had known them. The thought brought her comfort.
Breakfast came and went, and Feyre’s stomach still complained, so once the sun had finally climbed the sky, she donned her too-big boots and woolen cloak. At least she would be warm. Grabbing her bow and the few arrows she had crafted a week ago, Feyre set out to see what she could find. If she could survive the winter, she’d be fine. But it was still early in the season, and she was already out of food.
Warm to the bone, Feyre stepped into the cold. Her breath clouded in the frigid air, and the winter nipped at her face. She rubbed her skin with her mittens, pulled the scarf her sister Elain had made over her nose, and headed to the village.
Even under the crisp snow, the evidence of the war was still present. As she approached, the trees turned dark, burnt by fire. The air still held a heavy tang of magic that tasted bitter against her tongue. Homes had crumbled in the attack, and the closer she got to the center of town, the more damage she saw. Broken arrows and weapons, damaged armor, bones. Would the homes of the wealthier families still be standing?
Feyre crossed through the center of town on high alert. The smell of fresh corpses tickled her nose as her eyes swept over the blood-streaked ground. There had been a recent skirmish here. She stuck to the walls, running between ruined buildings and hiding in the dark alleyways. Her heart was loud in her ears, and she feared that one of the immortal soldiers would hear her. There were fae fighting on both sides, some wanting to continue the enslavement of humans and others fighting for their rights. She hadn’t learned to tell the difference and didn’t want to take her chances.
When Feyre arrived back at the cabin, the sour feeling of defeat settled heavy in her stomach. She kicked off her soaked boots and hung her coat on a nail she had hammered into the wall. There was no way around the matter. She could try again tomorrow and the day after, but eventually, she’d become too weak to go out, and then all she’d do was tend the fire until her body gave out. This would be the first of her final days. Shame burned in her. A part of her had hoped that something would have changed.
She wiped the tears in her eyes away and changed into dry clothes. Her portrait watched her. That woman was her and yet not her. Portrait-Feyre smiled brightly, joyous and content. She was well-fed and spent her days painting and laughing with her family. She had found a place to belong. Real-Feyre longed to trade places with her other self, but magic wouldn’t save her now. She started the fire once more and tucked herself under the blankets for a nap. With no more paint, there was nothing to do but wait.
Time passed, and Feyre found nothing when she went to hunt. She grew weaker and more tired until the most she could do was burn what she had left to stay warm. And then she’d fall back into the abyss of sleep.
Upon waking, Feyre didn’t immediately notice the man standing in the cabin's living area. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stilled when she saw him. He was tall, with warm brown skin and hair as dark as night. He stood before the portrait, clad in unfamiliar black leathers. Feyre pushed herself up, looking for her knife, and the man turned around and met her gaze with sparkling violet eyes.
He was beautiful. More handsome than any man she had seen before. Her breath hitched as they took each other in. She wondered when he had come inside, how she hadn’t heard the door unlatch, or the hinges squeak as it swung open. And then she realized he wasn’t human. Not with that silence or those eyes.
“You’re fae,” she said, blood running cold. He smiled.
“I am.” His voice was silk against her senses.
He was taller and stronger. He could overpower her easily, but she wouldn’t go down without a fight. She sought out her hunting knife. It was still on the table. She was determined to get at least one good slice in before he ripped her head from her body.
“Are you here to kill me?” Feyre asked. The man - the fae, didn’t answer and turned back to the portrait she had painted. The joyous thing she had created from the remaining paints.
“This is new,” he said, stroking her portrait’s cheek. Feyre swore she could feel the ghost of a touch on her face. She placed a hand on her cheek, and nothing was there.
“Yes,” she said. Feyre let out a sigh. Maybe he wasn’t here to kill her after all. Or perhaps he liked to toy with his victims. He turned back to her.
“My name is Rhysand,” he said. “I’m not here to kill you.”
Feyre almost believed him. But his posture was too casual, and he was covered in warring leathers. He had no weapons that she could see on him, though she wasn’t so naive to think he wasn’t armed. Fae were armed by nature of being immortal, cruel beings. And there was one in her home.
Rhysand pulled out one of the two chairs at the table and sat on it, laying his hands on the surface near her knife. Feyre watched him with curiosity. His movements were too graceful, too eerie, but she took the opportunity to climb out from under the blankets and approach him.
“Why are you here?” she asked. She took the chair opposite him and tried not to flush under his intense stare. His name sounded familiar, but she couldn't place it. Had her sisters mentioned him before?
“I’ve been watching you,” he said. “For some time now. Your family is gone.”
“They left for the continent months ago.” she offered. “It was my choice to stay.” She swallowed hard as Rhysand considered her. She should have been more concerned, but it felt like someone had put a blanket over her brain, muffling her urge to grab the dagger lying in front of her. His silence was uncomfortable.
“I’m going to die soon,” she said, not sure why she felt the need to tell him. She stared at her hands. Her fingers were thinner than she remembered. “There’s nothing left to eat. Nothing in the forest or…” She wasn’t sure what possessed her to say that. Maybe he would spare her? Or he would end her now, so the hunger didn’t wear her down until she perished, emaciated in the cold. That would be a kinder fate.
“Do you want to die?” he asked as though he could read her thoughts. Feyre looked back at the man, but he was now standing beside her, looking down into her eyes. She flinched, but he smelled of citrus and the sea, and it made her feel like she was somewhere else - somewhere less cold and less terrifying.
“No,” she breathed. She stood up to touch his cheek, and his eyes closed for a moment. Something in her chest stirred, not uncomfortable, just different. “I want to live,” she said. He took her hand in his own and held it there. His skin was warm against hers.
“The fae army will be here any moment now. They will slaughter everything in their way. Including you, Feyre,” he whispered. She trembled at his words, but he kept her hand there. “I can save you,” he said even more softly.
“How,” Feyre dared ask, fearing the answer would be her end. He said nothing. Feyre propped herself, ignoring the ache of her joints. It was far too late for her, and they both knew it.
“I wish I could take you to where I live. You’d be safer.”
“And where is that?” Feyre asked.
And then in her mind she saw a town, colorful and bright, with so many fae everywhere laughing, smiling. No one looked starved or sad or on the verge of death. She saw a giant river of vibrant blue, tall townhouses, art, then a view from above as though she was soaring above the rainbow city.
“Wait,” Feyre said, and she turned to the rainbow town she had painted on the wall weeks ago. It was the same as what she had just seen now. The same painted townhouses with pointed brown roofs and matching windows. “Have I seen this before?”
“Yes.” Rhysand’s voice was pained, shoulders sagging at the admission.
“I…” Feyre paused, her head aching. “Do I know you?”
“Yes. I’ve been here, day after day, keeping the worst of the fighting from you.”
“But why?” Feyre wrapped her arms around herself and turned away, bile rising in her throat. The gaps in her memories, the vibrant dreams she had turned into paints. Was this all from him?
“You found me when you were hunting one day. You brought me back and healed me,” he said, grasping her shoulder. Feyre pulled away from him.
“But you couldn’t be bothered to take me away from here?” she said, voice smaller than she had ever known.
“You wouldn’t let me, darling,” he said. His voice was so gentle it was painful for her. “Kicked me out of the cabin for it. You said I was too weak, and you were right.”
“Why can’t I remember it?” she spit out. “Did you erase my memories? Why did you take them?” Rhysand’s face had gone pale, and he reached out but hesitated to come closer.
“If the fae found you and knew you had aided me, they would have tortured you.”
“Wouldn’t they torture me anyway? Aren’t they on their way here right now?”
“Yes,” Rhysand said. “And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I came to warn you. To offer another option.” Rhysand didn’t offer an explanation. He didn’t need to. Feyre looked him over, the man - the fae - before her. It didn’t matter if she trusted him or not. He was her only option.
“Fine, but I want you to tell me everything,” she said. And somehow, she knew Rhysand could not deny her.
Feyre brought him before the fire, and he sat there, telling her the story of his home, of his friends and family. He dove into her mind and showed her the Courts, the endless seasons, the brilliance of the dawn and the day, and finally, how the stars twinkled and fell across the sky once a year, souls traveling to the next life.
“Will I become a star too?” she asked him after he had finished. She had laid down in his lap. It felt like the right thing to do.
“Yes, Feyre,” he whispered.
“Good,” she said. “I’ll see this world one last time before I’m gone.”
“I suppose so.” Rhysand ran a hand through her hair. It was gentle, like a lover’s caress. She wondered, as sleep drew near if this had happened before. If Rhysand had held her just like this. And finally, the gaps in her memory filled themselves in: Her dragging him into the cabin and nursing him back to health. The paintings on the walls. The shared meals. Fingers laced together. Rhysand’s smile. The laughter. The joy. That Feyre had existed.
“I’m glad,” Feyre said once she remembered. “That I wasn’t alone. That I’m not alone now.”
“Me too,” Rhysand whispered. The fire crackled, warming them to the bone.
Feyre closed her eyes and let herself drift to sleep in his arms, darkness overtaking her senses. She dreamed of him once more - the two of them in that beautiful town, surrounded by friends and laughing. They danced under the falling stars.
She felt something touch her mind, as soft and tender as a kiss. She welcomed the feeling, and then the world ended.