Chapter Text
It was her mother's scream that woke Anya that night. A strange sound. Shrill, barbaric, entirely unbecoming of the Lady of Spring. There was nothing musical about it, but the sheer unbridled terror in it would've been poetic under different circumstances.
Mother would've given her hell for shrieking like that.
And that was why Anya didn't scream.
Not because her throat had folded upon itself. Not because her heart drummed painfully against her ribs. Not because of the cold power spreading through the manor like an illness. Not because she could feel her family's lives snuff out one after the other in the mess going on outside her door.
None of it.
Or so she told herself.
She stayed buried in her blankets, ignoring the trembling in her limbs. The magic of the land surged through the manor walls, suddenly untethered—only confirming what she already knew.
Her father was dead.
Good riddance.
Anya took a shuddering breath.
Her door burst forth on its hinges, and night stepped into her room. Darkness spilled in, choking the moonlight streaming through the window. The temperature dropped, making her shiver under the covers. The shadows trembled with a fury she couldn't comprehend.
The male in the middle of it all did not move. Anya couldn't make out much besides the shape of him. Tall and lean, with shadows of great wings behind him, black as voids.
But his eyes…
The deep violet of wolfsbane. They glowed like those of a cat, shining perhaps with the light he'd drunk in.
A predator in the dark.
And she still didn't scream.
Because dying at fifteen as an immortal fae was bad enough without the shame of screaming and grovelling while at it.
Maybe they would speak of it one day.
Didn't you hear? The princess went without a scream. Smart lass.
So she laid where she was, almost fully buried in blankets, hoping he'd make it quick. Her claws grew long, almost involuntary, but Anya simply shut her eyes. She had heard enough about Tamlin's dearest friend to not try him. This was certainly revenge. And after what her father had done, she knew better than to expect mercy. He—
The door slammed shut. The darkness disappeared. The moonlight spilled back in.
Anya sat up straight, chest still pounding.
What?
In the mirror to her side, her startled reflection stared back—golden hair sticking to skin glistening with sweat, blue eye shining brighter in the dim light than the green one, clawed hands still shaking.
She blinked once. Then again. The noises outside had gone strangely distant, as though she were being held underwater.
It wasn't until the scent of Night disappeared entirely from the manor that she dared open her door.
Quiet.
The empty silence of a tomb.
Her bare feet made no sound as she moved, but the sound of her heart pounding echoed through the manor. The scent of blood pierced her senses.
What need there was for daematis to spill blood, Anya did not know. Most likely to make sure they suffered.
A tremor ran through her.
She didn't stop to look into her parents' room. Or Aurelion’s. Or Therion’s.
Her destination was elsewhere. The small room her father had ordered his youngest son into two days ago. It was him she had to find. Tamlin. So she could curl up next to her brother and scream till the Mother took pity upon her.
Or maybe not.
Anya wasn't entirely sure what she would do otherwise.
She was already halfway down the stairs when her breath caught in her throat. She froze, unsure if her mind was playing tricks.
“Tamlin?”
The blonde in question went still.
Alive.
His eyes didn't stray from the pool of blood in front of him, but his pointed ears perked up.
Alive.
His claws were still out, flesh and entrails still sticking to it. Blood drenched his arms all the way up to his forearms.
Alive.
A soft golden glow surrounded him. He felt more Spring than he ever had before.
Alive.
He looked up at last, eyes wide as saucers. The green in them had disappeared to the black of his dilated pupils. He stared at her for a long moment, as though he too were questioning himself.
“Anya,” he gasped, and that's all it took.
She flew down the stairs, a strangled cry escaping her before she could stop herself. She skipped the last few stairs and jumped straight into her brother's bloody arms. His bruising grip undid something in her, and her knees gave out. Tamlin sank to the floor with her as she sobbed into his shoulder, the terror and relief finally hitting her in waves.
Hasty words were mumbled into her hair as Tamlin thanked luck and the Mother and the Cauldron for sparing his sister, for ending this before the enemy could get to her.
Anya had been sobbing too hard to correct him then. And as the days and weeks and months went by, the need for it was also gone. The male who spared her had proven himself nothing short of a monster.
And yet, even after a century and a half of Rhysand's infamous reign of terror, the question still floated around at the back of her mind.
Why?
Anya knew something was afoot the moment Tamlin winced at her entry. Her brows drew together instantly.
“Is something wrong?”
Her brother didn't meet her eyes.
“Nothing I can't solve.” The dismissal in his tone made her nostrils flare. “Don't worry about it.”
Anya's lips thinned as she took another step into the hall. Behind Tamlin, Andras gave an imperceptible shake of his head. A clear sign to back off.
Like hell she would.
“Don't worry about it?” she hissed, making the High Lord of Spring clench his jaw. “You look like you're about to start flowering all over the place, and you want me to not worry about it?”
Tamlin's head snapped towards her, face tightening in rage. “Stop.”
Anya did not stop.
She moved closer, and though the male was a head taller, she managed to look down her nose at him.
“Tell me what's going on, Tam. Does it concern the men who went to the Middle?”
Tamlin flinched violently, caught off guard. Anya took a sharp breath. There was her answer.
“What happened to them?” she pressed as Tamlin made to turn away again. “Tamlin, speak to me.”
But he didn't. He simply refused to meet her eyes. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking hard enough she could see it from where she stood, and it only served to frustrate her more.
“Tamlin, I swear on the Couldron—”
“I'll fix it, ok?” Her brother's voice cracked. “They will be fine. I'll get them back.”
“Get them back from where?” Anya pushed, but Tamlin was already walking away, disappearing into the hallway.
When she made to go after him, Andras stepped in front of her—a solid wall of amber-eyed force. Anya had a sudden urge to rip him in two for standing in her way. Her lips curled up in a snarl, but the male's gaze did not waver. He took a look over his shoulder before bringing a fancy envelope out of his pocket.
He held it out, and Anya's breath stilled.
The seal was already broken, but there was no mistaking the insignia. Three grey peaks standing tall against a pitch black sky.
The Night Court.
“It came this morning,” Andras said gruffly, leaning closer. “Along with all of their medallions.”
“What the fuck?”
Anya's hands shook as she unfolded the letter within. The script of it was so elegant it infuriated her to look at it. It wasn't long. Hell, it wasn't a letter at all. Simply a note.
I found something of yours where it doesn't belong, Tamlin. Several somethings.
Do you want them back?
That was it. Unsigned. Informal.
But the message was clear.
Rhysand had their soldiers. And he wasn't going to make this easy.
“Were there no demands?” Anya asked, and Andras shook his head.
“Nothing yet.” Another glance over his shoulder. “It's driving Tamlin out of his mind. It's not like he can demand them back without causing more trouble.”
Anya's jaw clenched. “The Middle is neutral territory. What authority does Rhysand have to abduct our men from there?”
Even as she said it, she knew she was reaching. And Andras’ sidelong glance only confirmed it.
“The same authority we have to send our men there in the first place.”
Anya swore under her breath, crumbling the note in her hand. The dry ink somehow stained her palm, and she swore again before stuffing the letter back in its envelope.
“I need to talk to him,” she muttered almost to herself, pressing the letter back into Andras' hands.
She didn't wait for him to protest. Gossamer skirts flowed about as she made her way to the throne room, too soft for the situation at hand. Andras stalked after her, steps quick even as he called for her to slow down.
They were barely past the antechamber when the air went still. Cold.
An all too familiar emptiness—a starless night pressing in.
Anya's steps faltered, and Andras came to a halt right behind her.
“Is that—”
“Yes,” Anya answered, tone clipped.
She gave him a look over her shoulder, then pushed the throne room doors open.
Tamlin stood at the foot of his throne, claws out, already braced. A few sentries had their swords out.
And in the middle of the room…
The shadows shifted.
There he was.
As though shaped by the darkness itself.
Purple eyes sharp as steel. The half smile of a predator, one he wore to every meeting. And that infuriating ease with which he swaggered in where he didn't belong.
His eyes shone as they roamed over them all.
Behind Anya, Andras' breath hitched. A sentry took a step back, his grip tightening on his sword.
“Why the long faces?” the High Lord of the Night Court drawled. “You'd think somebody died.”
Tamlin growled low in his chest, but he did not move. Anya's own claws were out before she could stop herself.
Rhysand did not seem to care about either. He simply picked lint off his sleeves.
“They’re alive, you know?” he said, his unnervingly beautiful face twisting into an oily smile. “I’ve been remarkably restrained, if I may say so myself.”
Tamlin’s snarl echoed off the high ceilings, claws flexing at his sides.
“What are you doing here, Rhysand?”
The other male didn’t so much as blink. He tilted his head, as if the question genuinely puzzled him.
“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” he drawled, brushing yet another invisible speck of dust from his sleeve, invoking a violent need in Anya to rip them right off. “I assumed that was obvious.”
A beat. Silence stretched thin.
“I’m here to negotiate.” Rhysand's gaze slid lazily across the room before settling back on Tamlin. “Or… did you not want them back?”
The shift in Tamlin was instant—rage flaring hot and fast, lips curling into a snarl.
“Of course I want my men back,” he snapped. “You had no right to take them—”
“Take them?” Rhysand echoed softly, almost amused.
He took a slow step forward. A sentry made to stop him, but the male shrunk back before those star-bright eyes.
Andras' hand found Anya's wrist before she could move.
No one else dared to try.
“How dramatic.” A faint smile touched Rhysand's mouth. “I found them wandering where they shouldn’t have been. The Middle is such an… unpredictable place.”
Tamlin’s jaw tightened.
“They are my soldiers. They knew what they were doing.”
“And now,” Rhysand said lightly, “they are my guests.”
A flicker of something dark passed through his eyes. He clasped his hands behind his back, expression almost thoughtful.
“I’ve arranged for them to spend some time with my shadowsinger.”
Anya's stomach dropped. Beside the throne, Tamlin went ghostly pale.
Silence pressed into the room, heavy and suffocating.
A sharp inhale cut through it—too loud in the quiet. Anya wasn’t sure if it had come from one of the sentries… or from her.
It was no secret to anyone what the Night Court's shadowsinger was. The thing whispered about to frighten children into obedience.
Azriel with his scarred hands and golden eyes, always half shrouded in shadows. Deceptively soft for a male whom stories were built around.
If Rhysand had really sent their men to him—
“You're lying.” Tamlin's voice cut through Anya's thoughts, a bit too thin. “You have no right. You wouldn't risk that—”
“Believe whatever you like.” Rhysand's smile didn't change. “It doesn’t make it any less… unpleasant for them.”
Tamlin went still, his green eyes flashing with barely restrained rage. Anya could see the golden fur rippling along his arms, the way his fangs elongated. None of it fazed Rhysand.
“I’m offering you a simple exchange,” he continued, as if discussing something trivial.
Violent visions pressed into Anya's mind—his throat ripping between her teeth. Warm blood flooding into her mouth, the coppery taste of it coating her tongue. Those great wings of his tearing apart on her claws—
The images disappeared in a flash of black.
Anya blinked.
Rhysand's gaze flicked to her, just for a heartbeat, violet eyes narrowing.
Then they were back on Tamlin again.
Her brother was barely breathing through the rage swallowing him.
“You don’t get to walk into my court and make demands.”
“And yet,” Rhysand said softly, “here I am.”
He took another step forward, close enough now that the tension in the room felt like it might snap.
“Shall we try this again?” His voice dropped just slightly. “Or would you prefer I let them… settle in?”
Tamlin’s snarl deepened, a low, dangerous sound that rippled through the room. The marble beneath his feet cracked faintly as he shifted forward—just enough to make it clear what came next.
Anya didn’t wait to see it.
She stepped past Andras and into the room.
Rhysand’s attention snapped to her instantly—not surprised, not alarmed. Interested. That same faint, infuriating curve still tugged at his mouth as his gaze followed her every step.
At the throne, Tamlin went rigid.
“Anya—” he started, his green eyes sharp with warning. Don’t.
She ignored him.
“What exchange?” she demanded, eyes locked on Rhysand.
For a heartbeat, the male said nothing.
He just… looked at her.
Slowly. Deliberately. Like he was assessing something he’d already decided on. It boiled her blood, much like everything else about him.
Then his head tilted slightly.
“Ah,” he murmured, almost pleased. “The princess.”
Anya’s lip curled. “Answer the question.”
That smile sharpened—not wider, just more precise.
Rhysand finally turned his attention back to Tamlin, as if Anya had already served her purpose simply by stepping forward.
“I’ll make this simple,” he said lightly.
Tamlin’s claws flexed.
“Every single one of your soldiers,” Rhysand continued, almost lazily, “returned to you. Alive. Unharmed.”
Silence fell again—but this time it was different. Taut. Waiting. Whatever Rhysand was about to say, none of them were going to like.
“What do you want?” Tamlin ground out, his entire body wound tight, fur appearing and disappearing like the beast would burst forth any moment.
Rhysand’s gaze flicked back to Anya.
Lingering.
Calculating.
When his eyes found Tamlin again, they glittered.
“The little wolf stays with me.”
Each word landed soft. Final.
Anya didn't so much as blink.
“Two months,” Rhysand drawled. “Nothing dramatic—”
Tamlin lunged forward with a roar. His form shifted, fangs growing large as daggers as golden fur took over completely. Anya stumbled back as the floor cracked, thorny brambles bursting forth.
For just a moment, it looked as though he might tear Rhysand's throat out.
But he didn't make it.
The other male vanished into thin air.
Anya had only a heartbeat to process his absence before he reappeared again, right beside her. He was grinning now, and it only grew when he noticed her startle.
He clicked his tongue at Tamlin. “I'll take that as a no.”
Her brother growled again, but he didn't launch at Rhysand. Still, Anya made the bramble tighten on his legs. A plea not to let this get out of hand.
By some miracle of the Mother, he relented despite the rage in his eyes.
The demand echoed in Anya's mind again. Two months. In the Night Court.
It should've made her want to run right out, but Anya was a slave to her instincts, and her instincts were already packing her bags.
Traitorous.
And yet…
Seven men. Seven innocent soldiers being subjected to horrors she couldn't bear to think of. For their freedom—their life—she was the price.
A High Lord's sister, a noble in her own right. Rhysand couldn't harm her without consequence, especially not when their bargain would be bound by magic.
The choice wasn't a choice at all.
It would spare everyone and everything, except Tamlin's feelings. And that, she could live with.
She took a sharp breath, steeling herself.
Rhysand must've noticed, for his attention was on her again.
“Your High Lord seems reluctant,” he said mildly, watching her. “Which is curious, considering the alternative.”
A pause. A sidelong glance at Tamlin.
“Unless, of course, you’d prefer your men remain exactly where they are.”
“Shut your trap!” Tamlin snapped, the sound from his wolfish maw much like thunder rumbling. “She’s not going anywhere.”
“Tam.” Anya took a step towards him. “Shift back. We should discuss this.”
Tamlin's head whirled on her, emerald flames swirling in his eyes. “Nothing to discuss. You're staying here. And he's returning the soldiers.”
A soft chuckle from Rhysand made Anya turn back to him. He put his hands into his pocket, face gleeful. “Not really. This is the only bargain I'll be making.”
Anya lifted her chin. “You will do it, then? Return all our soldiers for me?”
“You have my word,” Rhysand drawled, his smile unwavering despite Tamlin's growl. “They will be returned the moment you step into my court. And you won't be harmed. Not by me, not by anyone else.”
“She's not going with you,” Tamlin growled again, eyes wild. The bramble at his feet disappeared into thin air. He stepped in front of Anya, blocking the other male from her view.
A sound of protest rumbled out of her, and she made to push past him when, suddenly, her brother stiffened. Not predator-still, no. This was the freezing of prey. His claws dug into the stones below, and his wolfish breaths went quiet.
Still. Too still.
In a flash, he was fae again. But it was not the male she knew. His face had gone pale, glistening with a sudden sheen of sweat. And his eyes… they weren't in the room at all.
Anya's breath hitched. She spun on Rhysand—and sure enough, the male's focus was fully on Tamlin, all earlier amusement gone.
“You!” Anya snapped at him. “What are you doing to him?”
Rhysand didn't reply. Didn't even turn to her.
He only tilted his head, and the sentries too began blanching.
“What are you doing to them?” she demanded again, voice rising as she stormed forward. Her claws itched to feel his skin rip beneath them.
Rhysand looked at her then, and her own legs betrayed her. They froze, no longer under her command.
“I'm not doing anything to them, pup,” he said slowly, ignoring her snarl. “I'm simply letting them see the… finer details of the soldiers' stay. So your brother may make an informed decision.”
He smiled again. An ugly thing—perfectly shaped lips curling over his teeth.
It made her heart stop.
“You— finer details—” Her eyes went wide, darting around at the trembling hands and the pale faces. Whatever he showed them had Andras trembling. Had a sentry dropping his sword. Had Tamlin losing his breath.
Anya bared her teeth at Rhysand. “Stop it! Get out of their heads!”
“Oh, I think—”
“No!” She cut him off, face hot with rage. “You want me to agree to your bargain, I will. But you have no right—”
Ink black power shot into Anya's veins, and her words were snatched right out of her mouth. She was about to do something, anything, when the look of utter disbelief on Rhysand's face made her falter.
“What?” he breathed out, the word half gasp.
Anya could almost feel his power retreating from the others, could see Tamlin regaining himself beside her, as she lifted her chin.
“You heard me.” Her voice came out surprisingly even. “I agree to your bargain.”
Rhysand inhaled sharply, eyes fixed on her.
“Anya, what—” Tamlin's words choked out on a gasp as a soft breeze blew into the room.
The magic in the air hummed. Anya watched with baited breath as black swirls bloomed to cover her index finger. It flowed down to her wrist, both along the back of her right hand and her palm, not unlike the make of an archer’s glove.
A bargain sealed.
“No,” Tamlin exhaled, face pale again. “No, no, what did you do? You can't just—”
“She's coming with me.” Rhysand did not raise his voice, but the words landed sharp. Final.
Something broke in Tamlin's eyes. Rage. Helplessness. Fear.
Anya put her hand on his arm, squeezing hard. “I'll be fine, Tam,” she said slowly. “It's just two months. I'll be back in no time.” Her eyes found Rhysand's, heart thudding in her chest. “And then we'll never have to deal with the Night Court ever again.”
“Oh, of course.” Rhysand’s smirk returned—though something in his eyes had shifted.
“Don't worry, Tam,” he said softly. “Your little wolf will be in good hands.”