Nesta shifted in the darkness, shivering as she fruitlessly tried to ease the pain.

She was dying—of that, Nesta was certain. Every morning it became harder to open her eyes—she didn't even think she'd have the strength to crawl out of her small tent were she not shackled.

Before the apparent attack on Velaris, they'd come into the tent that she and Cassian had been sharing. They'd grabbed her while she slept, placing a blade at her throat and locking those ash-lined shackles onto her wrists. Cassian could do nothing, not with the threat of her death hanging over his head. When he tried, they'd stabbed her, deep in her thigh.

He'd escaped. She hadn't. She hated him for it—for loving her so much, despite how rotten and foul she was inside, that he couldn't risk her safety in trying to save her. It had been weeks now, and she'd resigned herself to the fact that he wasn't coming back for her.

She deserved it, anyways. For the way she'd acted. For her father's death.

She'd been feverish for days, usually only half-conscious when those Illyrian bastards brought her scraps to eat and ice or snow to chew. The only reason she was alive now was because they wanted her to be—and because the young female they'd assigned to see to her needs was kind. She always brought back food she'd managed to sneak away, or lit a tiny fire to keep Nesta warm at night, risking her own safety to try and help.

Nesta didn't think she could stand it if Nakia was hurt because of her.

It was so cold, and her head spun, her stomach roiling. She listened to the wind howl, licking her chapped lips, and closed her eyes in an attempt to stop the queasiness. Opening them again took a considerable amount of effort, and moments later, they fluttered closed. Nesta surrendered to the promise of deep, dreamless sleep.

She didn't think it would be so awful if she never woke up.

◌ ◌ ◌

When she opened her eyes again, it was dark. And Nakia was there—eyes wide, shaking Nesta gently, touching her forehead.

"You're burning up," she whispered quietly. "Can you stand?"

Nesta just blinked up at her, wondering why her ears were ringing. She felt distinctly as if she were watching herself from above.

"I don't think so," she managed to say, words coming out in a gasp.

She suddenly realized that her wrists were no longer burning.

The shackles lay discarded beside her.

"Nakia," Nesta whispered, "what are you doing?"

"Please, you have to stand," she only said in response, gripping Nesta under her arms and pulling up forcefully.

"Stand," she urged again, and Nesta managed to move her legs somehow, to get her feet under her body. She wasn't sure she could support all her weight, but she was standing. The cold had numbed her body enough that the injury wasn't causing her unbearable pain.

"What are you doing?" she whispered again, her words slurring as Nakia began to move towards the tent flap. Nakia didn't answer, but she attempted to pick up the pace, breathing ragged.

The girl was terrified. She was trembling, shaking as she somehow managed to support nearly all of Nesta's weight despite looking so deceptively small and weak.

"You have to be quiet," Nakia hissed through her teeth as she slipped through the tent flap and looked around. "The General is waiting for us."

Cassian. Was she talking about Cassian? Did he orchestrate this? Nesta was going to kick his ass. He had no right to put Nakia in danger.

The coast was clear. Perhaps there were only a few hours before the sun would rise. The guards were asleep, quiet as death. Had Nakia done it, or was it sheer luck?

Laughter drifted over from the other side of camp, and Nakia swore, speeding up again as she headed for the thick line of trees only meters away. They were so close.

And then she saw him—Cassian, looking a bit thinner, his leathers dirty and worn. He'd covered his siphons, presumably so the glow wouldn't attract attention. When he spotted them, his eyes widened with worry, and he gestured for them to hurry.

The laughing grew closer. Nesta could practically hear what they were saying—something about a High Queen, something about Feyre—

But then they'd reached Cassian, and he was pulling her into his arms, and she was swaying on her feet, spots of darkness growing in her vision. She felt herself go limp, her heart fluttering. She gripped at Cassian's leathers with frostbitten fingers when he picked her up, hissing something to Nakia.

Nesta wanted to shout at him for it. But all she could do was whimper, and then they were flying, and the wind was numbing her lips. She heard Cassian shout. She heard screaming, yelling—but the wind overpowered everything, and moments later, she could hear nothing at all.

Her eyes must have closed. She couldn't see the stars.

◌ ◌ ◌

Rhysand sat in Feyre's office, watching as Velaris smoked in the rising sun.

Reconstruction efforts were already under way for many of the damaged homes and buildings. It was painful to watch old scars reopen in his city—barely any time after Hybern's attack, his people were suffering yet again.

Without Feyre, Rhys felt he was missing a part of himself. He couldn't think. He couldn't sleep—and when he finally did, his body slumping with exhaustion, she was in his dreams.

He dreamed about water—great, roiling waves. He dreamed she'd disappeared under the surface. He dreamed of his mate in chains, starving herself. He dreamed of a woman with golden hair and striking eyes.

Sometimes, just after he's woken up, he felt as if she were right beside him—just within reach, just a breath away. But when he reached out to touch her, a chasm opened up beneath him, impossibly long and impassable.

She was still alive. She had to be.

But what if he was never able to find her?

"Rhysand," a voice behind him said, interrupting his thoughts. Mor.

He stood and turned to face his cousin, saying nothing.

"It's—Tarquin's sent a message, and Azriel's spies have reported something very strange happening in his court," she said, stepping closer to him.

"A fae female has appeared on his coast with an armada, claiming to be High Queen. They say she caries some sort of precious cargo with her."

That got his attention. He saw red hair, a cold smile, the bone on a string. Felt hands on him at night.

"And is Tarquin calling a meeting, or staging an attack against this female?"

Mor shrugged just slightly. "The message seemed to hold a certain degree of desperation, but he made no mention of an attack—only said that we were indebted to him after the aid he provided two weeks ago," she explained.

"What are we waiting for? Let's make preparations," Rhys said, stepping around her and into the hallway. He was glad for this distraction. They all were.

"Wait, Rhys—what about Varian? He... he'll be expecting her," Mor said quietly, touching Rhysand's shoulder.

"We'll just say she needed to stay behind to protect Velaris. Feyre, too," he added, not facing her.

"But—"

"That's final, Mor," he finished firmly, walking away as darkness swirled behind him.

Morrigan watched him go.