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Dinner had been a delight, hosted by Nesta and Cassian in the House of Wind. Rhys and Feyre joined the mated pair, along with Emerie, Gwyn, and Azriel - the latter two glancing longingly at the other when they thought no one was looking.
The conversation was light-hearted, for the most part, which was a welcome reprieve following the chaos of the past six months. The trauma of Nyx’s birth, of almost losing her own life, her mate’s life, had started to settle and Feyre found herself laughing freely as Cassian teased her sister about the latest Sellyn Drake novel she was reading.
But towards the end of the evening, as Nesta’s Valkyries got up to leave and return home, she couldn’t help but hone in on Emerie’s shredded wings. The female did not let what had been done to her stop her - far from it. She was strength personified.
And yet, having access to wings of her own, to be able to fly freely because she was gifted a new body - gifted magic - when a true Illyrian-born like Emerie - through a violent twist of fate - had been denied the same Cauldron-given ability? Her birthright.
It made Feyre feel like an imposter.
What must they think of her, the female Illyrians. Watching her flaunt what she in all honesty had no right to possess, what had been cruelly taken from them.
She thought of the lengths Rhys’s own mother had gone to in order to keep them, how much he had told her she loved to fly. How much she herself loves to fly.
It had been banned, of course - Rhys saw to that on his ascension to High Lord. But they both knew it still happened.
Change was slow in Illyria, and centuries of tradition weighed heavily on a society that placed little value on females beyond cooking, cleaning, and bearing children.
Rhys noticed the furrow in her brow and a tendril gently caressed her mental shields, in comfort and in polite request. He frowned when she shared her feelings on the subject.
He didn’t disagree, but he hated to see his mate put herself down for something she had no control over.
Maybe that’s the problem , she spoke into his mind. Maybe we have more control than we think.
He was silent for a moment. What are you proposing, Feyre darling?
I think I’ll pay Lord Devlon a visit tomorrow.
I’ll come with-
No. Her eyes flashed at him, fierce and proud. They’ll never respect me if they think I’m too meek to face them alone and need to hide under your skirts.
That was one time , and it’s the height of Autumn Court fashion for males of high birth.
Rhys…
Feyre…
They need to see me, Rhys. Not just as your consort, or your mate - but as their High Lady.
It’s dangerous.
Her lips curled upwards. So am I.
The Illyrian training grounds at Windhaven were alive with activity as Feyre strode through the snow, the biting cold a distant concern compared to the fire simmering in her chest.
Warriors sparred with each other in the open fields, their wings slicing through the air with lethal precision. Others gathered in tight groups, their laughter and jeers a faint hum against the backdrop of clashing steel.
None of them seemed to notice her at first.
But when she reached the centre of the grounds, the whispers started.
“High Lady,” someone muttered. “What is she doing here?”
Feyre ignored them, her gaze locking on Devlon, who stood by the edge of the training ring barking orders. He hadn’t noticed her yet, too engrossed in berating a younger warrior.
In compromise, Rhys trailed behind her, silent and watchful, but out of sight amidst the tents. She felt his power simmering beneath the surface, ready to strike if necessary.
She didn’t want it to come to that. Not yet.
“Devlon,” she called, her voice carrying across the grounds.
The commander turned, his scarred face tightening as he spotted her. The warriors around him stilled, their eyes darting between him and Feyre. Slowly, he stepped forward, his massive wings flaring slightly.
“High Lady,” he said, inclining his head in a mockery of respect. “This is… unexpected. To what do we owe the honour of your visit?”
Feyre folded her arms, letting her gaze sweep over the crowd that had gathered. “I came to remind you of the laws of this Court. Specifically, the one banning the clipping of females’ wings.”
The tension in the air shifted, the murmurs growing louder. Devlon’s smirk faded, replaced by a hard, unreadable expression.
“That practice was outlawed long ago,” he said carefully. “Our High Lord saw to that himself. We obey your laws, High Lady.”
Feyre took a step closer, her eyes narrowing. “Do you?”
Devlon’s jaw clenched. “Of course.”
“Then explain to me why I’ve received reports of females—some as young as 8—still being clipped,” Feyre said, her voice sharp as steel. “Surely you too have heard whispers of it happening in secret? Away from the prying eyes of any who might put a stop to it?”
The crowd was silent now, every warrior frozen in place. Devlon shifted his weight, his wings twitching. “You can’t trust every whisper, High Lady. Lies spread quickly in these mountains.”
Feyre’s power stirred beneath her skin, crackling faintly in the icy air. She didn’t need Rhys’s magic to amplify her presence; the weight of her fury was enough. “So they’re all lies, then? You’re willing to stake your command on that?”
Devlon’s face darkened, his hands curling into fists. “I run this camp, High Lady. I know what happens here.”
“Do you?” she pressed, stepping closer. “Because if even one female has been clipped under your watch, it is not only a violation of our laws—it is a stain on your honour. And I will not tolerate it.”
Devlon’s wings flared slightly, a faint growl escaping him. “You come here and accuse us of treason, of dishonour, based on hearsay?”
Feyre tilted her head, her expression ice-cold. “Do you deny it, Devlon? Do you deny that you look the other way while others do the dirty work you refuse to stop?”
He opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, another voice broke the tense silence.
“Why does it matter?” a young warrior called out from the crowd, his voice laced with arrogance. “The females don’t fight. Their wings are useless anyway.”
Feyre turned sharply, her gaze pinning the male like a blade. “Useless?” she repeated, her voice deadly soft. “If you care to test that theory, perhaps I should part you from yours.”
The male’s face reddened, and he looked away, muttering under his breath. Devlon, however, stepped forward, his wings flaring fully now.
“That’s enough, High Lady,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “You’ve made your point. But this is Illyrian business. You don’t understand our ways—”
“Your ways are broken,” Feyre snapped, cutting him off. “And I will not stand by while you butcher your own people - my people - in the name of tradition.”
Devlon’s face twisted in fury, and Feyre felt Rhys’s power surge in response, his presence like a shadow at her back. She didn’t need to turn to know that his patience had reached its limit.
Stay out of it, she said sharply through the bond, her mental voice a whip crack.
He insulted you, Rhys growled back, his rage a thunderous roar in her mind.
They need to fear me, she replied, steel in her tone. Not just you. Me.
Devlon took another step forward, his fists clenching at his sides. “You think you can march in here and tell us how to live?” he growled.
“I think,” Feyre interrupted, her voice ringing with quiet fury, “that you need to remember who I am. Who we are. Rhysand may be your High Lord, but I am his equal. I am your High Lady. And you will respect me.”
Devlon’s face darkened. "And what will you do, High Lady, if we refuse? Will you unleash your magic on us, Cursebreaker?" He taunted her, earning him a series of snickers from the crowd.
The power radiating from her was palpable now, crackling in the air like a storm. The warriors shifted uneasily, their gazes darting between Feyre and Devlon.
“I will return in one month,” Feyre said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “If I find even one female with so much as a scratch—if I so much as hear a single word in favour of it—I will burn this camp to the ground. Do you understand me?”
Devlon’s wings lowered slightly, his defiance faltering under her unrelenting gaze. “Yes, High Lady,” he said through gritted teeth.
Feyre held his stare for a moment longer before turning on her heel and walking away, the crowd parting before her.
Once out of visual range from the warriors, Rhys fell into step beside her, his expression unreadable.
“That was…” Rhys began, his voice low and deliberate as they walked side by side, “... possibly the most terrifyingly attractive thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
Feyre shot him a sharp look, her brow arching. “I just threatened to incinerate an entire camp.”
“Exactly.” His grin was slow and wicked, his violet eyes dark with something that sent heat pooling low in her stomach. “If you weren’t already my wife, I’d have proposed to you on the spot.”
Her cheeks flushed, though she rolled her eyes. “Of course my mate finds death threats sexy.”
“Only if the female making them is you. I’m not as partial if they came from, say, your sister.”
She shoved him, and the teasing smirk on his face faded into contemplation as they continued.
They’d reached the edge of the camp, the snow crunching softly under their boots. Feyre slowed, the adrenaline from her confrontation with Devlon still coursing through her veins.
She glanced at Rhys, catching the way his gaze lingered on her, dark and hungry.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she warned, though her voice lacked any real bite.
“Like what?” He stepped closer, his wings shifting behind him, framing him in shadow. “Like I’m in awe? Like I’m madly, hopelessly in love with you? Or like I’m currently debating whether to take you back to one of those tents and—”
“Rhys,” she hissed, cutting him off, though her cheeks flamed at the suggestive tilt of his grin.
“I mean it, Feyre,” he whispered back, his voice thick with heat as he leaned down, his breath brushing her ear. “You were magnificent. And I am so proud of you.”
Her knees nearly buckled at the sound of his voice, but she managed to hold her ground, fixing him with a glare that was more playful than stern. “If you don’t behave, I might just make good on my threats and start with you.”
Rhys chuckled softly, his hand brushing her lower back as they resumed their walk. “After that performance, my love, I’d thank you for the privilege . ”