A Court of Wings and Ruin A Court of Thorns and Roses Book 3

"Why should I be scared of an oversized bat who likes to throw temper tantrums?"

Amren's red lips parted in a wide, serpentine smile. "When you erupt, girl, make sure it is felt across worlds."

Lucien, to his credit, didn't back away a step. From Rhys, or me, or the Illyrians.

The Clever Fox Stares Down Winged Death. The painting fashed into my mind.

"I am High Lady of the Night Court," I said quietly to them all.

Even Eris stopped sneering. His amber eyes widened, something like fear now creeping into them.

"There's no such thing as a High Lady," one of Lucien's brothers spat.

A faint smile played on my mouth. "There is now."

"I suggest you drop my lady."

"You can't be too careful while sharing a camp with enemies," I said.

I could have sworn something like fear shone in her eyes. "Hybern is not our enemy," she said a tad breathlessly.

From her paleness as I left the tent, I knew my answering smile had done its job well.

Lying beside lanthe without slitting her throat was an exercise in patience and control.

But whenever the knife beneath my pillow seemed to whisper her name, I'd remind myself of my friends. The family that was alive - healing in the North.

I repeated their names silently, over and over into the darkness. Rhysand. Mor. Cassian. Amren. Azriel. Elain. Nesta.

Alis squeezed my hand. "Blood rubies or no, you will always have one friend in the Summer Court."

My throat bobbed. "And you will always have one in mine," I promised her.

She knew which court I meant. And did not look afraid.

"Feyre," Tamlin breathed from behind us.

I halted, aware of every eye that watched. "I'm fine," I whispered. "I'm sorry." I wiped at the blood dribbling down my cheek. "I'm fine" I told him again.

No one, not even Tamlin, looked convinced.

And if I could have painted that moment, I would have named it A Portrait in Snares and Baiting.

It was seawater from Tarquin's own gift that slipped from my eyes, down my face, and onto his golden skin.

The painting was a lie.

A bright, pretty lie, bursting with pale pink blooms and fat beams of sunshine.

I'd begun it yesterday, an idle study of the rose garden lurking beyond the open windows of the studio. Through the tangle of thorns and satiny leaves, the brighter green of the hills rolled away into the distance.

Incessant, unrelenting spring.

If I'd painted this glimpse into the court the way my gut had urged me, it would have been flesh-shredding thorns, flowers that choked off the sunlight for any plants smaller than them, and rolling hills stained red.

But each brushstroke on the wide canvas was calculated; each dab and swirl of blending colors meant to portray not just idyllic spring, but a sunny disposition as well. Not too happy, but gladly, finally healing from horors I carefully divulged.

I'd always thought death would be some sort of peaceful homecoming - a sweet, sad lullaby to usher me into whatever waited afterward.

I crunched down with an armored boot on the flagpole of a Loyalist standard-bearer, smearing red mud across the tusked boar embroidered on its emerald flag.

I now wondered if the lullaby of death was not a lovely song, but the droning of flies. If flies and maggots were all Death's handmaidens.

The battlefield stretched toward the horizon in every direction save the keep at my back.

When he brushed his wing against mine, just because he could, because he wanted to and we'd have an eternity of nights to do this, to see everything together…

A gift.

All of it.

He pointed with a healed hand toward the Cauldron. "Someone fish out dear Amren before she catches a cold."

"Be happy, Feyre," he said quietly.

And dropped that final kernel of light onto Rhysand.

That thing that rose and fell with each breath.

That echoed each heartbeat.

The mating bond.

It wasn't there. It was gone.

Because his own chest...it was not moving.

And Rhys was dead.

"I am glad we met, Feyre.

I smiled at her, bowing my head. "Me too, Amren. Me too.

“I will find you again in the next world—the next life. And we will have that time. I promise."

“I loved you from the first moment I held you in my arms. And I am...I am so Sorry, Nesta—- my Nesta. I am so sorry, for all of it."

“He calls himself the Prince of Merchants,"

Drakon rubbed his jaw. "I can't even begin to explain the convoluted story they told me, but..." He shook his head. "They're led by a queen named Vassa."

Then the Weaver, the Carver, and Bryaxis unleashed themselves upon Hybern.

Hybern's shield came crashing down. My magic snapped from me, cleaving through the world. Revealing the glamour I'd had in place for hours.

Before our front line….A cloud of darkness appeared, writhing and whirling on itself.

"Mother above," Azriel breathed. Right as a male figure appeared beside that swirling ebony smoke.

He said down the bond. I would have waited five hundred more years for you. A thousand years. And if this was all the time we were allowed to have…The wait was worth it.