Feyre launched herself over the desk and barreled into the queen.

The chair tipped backwards, and Aelin grabbed for the desk, shock widening her eyes, but she was too late—they hit the ground, wood splintering beneath them.

Within moments, Feyre had pulled the queen's dagger from the sheath at her hip and pinned her down, pressing the blade against her throat.

"Move or shout and I won't hesitate to slit your throat," Feyre snarled. A drop of blood traced its way down Aelin's scarred neck into the mess of blonde hair sprawled around her head. Like a crown.

"They'll have heard the chair," the queen responded, having twisted her features into a provoking smirk moments after they'd hit the ground. "They're coming here now, I'm sure—"

"Well then it's a good thing you locked the door," Feyre interrupted, gripping the blade's worn handle until her knuckles whitened. Her voice dropped nearly to a whisper. "I have lost everything. My family, my court, my home. My mate."

Something flashed in the liar's eyes then, smirk becoming a bit forced.

"I have nothing else to lose. I won't hesitate to kill you."

But before Feyre could ask her questions and demand answers, she found herself scrambling back into the wall, pointing the dagger at... at what the queen was becoming.

Golden hair bleached white, slender body contorted, calloused, scarred hands grew into enormous paws, teeth into fangs. Clothes ripped and pooled on the ground in tatters.

The white leopard snarled, teeth bared in Feyre's face, tail flicking with what Feyre thought must be impatience and aggression. The leopard lashed out, her paw batting the dagger right out of Feyre's hand, and she shot to her feet, not quite knowing how to react.

That same woman was there inside of the leopard, emotion and intelligence shining in her eyes as she growled.

"An interesting new development," Feyre muttered, sighing wearily. She was fae, then. And had magic not unlike Tamlin's.

The female sat, apparently satisfied with her message—that she wasn't planning on being threatened or pushed around by anyone. At her throat, red seeped into her white fur the slightest bit.

Shouts sounded down the hall, and the door handle rattled forcefully. Feyre glanced at the door, then at the leopard, raising her eyebrow. "Shall I open the door? Show all your allies what you really are?" She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, knowing full well that her threats were empty. Feyre wasn't going to expose the false queen—at least, not until she learned more about the situation.

The female huffed and prowled over to the door, tail flicking behind her.

The shouting grew louder now—it was that brash golden-haired male, yelling as he pounded on the door. "Aelin! Open the door!" The handle rattled again, and the leopard huffed in what Feyre assumed was annoyance.

Then she began to change again, and Feyre could only watch, transfixed, as white fur became unblemished porcelain skin, a shock of black hair growing from her head. Paws became dainty hands, legs lengthened, tail disappeared—until a human woman stood before her, completely naked and reaching for a cloak that hung by the door. At least she was facing away from Feyre, who quickly averted her eyes.

When she looked back, Aelin—though that likely wasn't her name—had covered herself, pulling the cloak tight around her body.

She unlocked the door and cracked it the slightest bit, whispering furious words Feyre was just able to make out. She was sure Aelin knew and was allowing her to listen in, so she moved closer, crossing her arms and once again marking all the exits in the small room. Just in case she would end up needing them.

"Do you want to expose me to everyone, Aedion? I'll tolerate your coldness towards me. Maybe I deserve it. But don't pick and choose when to care about me. And don't forget that I stand in for Aelin here—that my orders are as good as hers. Now send those men away and get inside."

There was no response from Aedion, but after the woman closed the door, she turned to face Feyre. Striking green eyes met her own. She was one of the most beautiful women Feyre had ever met—only Mor or Nesta could hold a candle to those features.

"Is this your true skin, then?" Feyre asked, watching as the woman headed to the desk and perched on its end, uncaring about the slip of white skin visible through a gap in the cloak's fabric on her thigh.

"No," she responded. "I don't remember my true skin. But I've lived with this face for most of my life." The words were calm, her voice higher, softer. This woman was worlds different than the fiery one she'd been speaking to moments ago—she seemed human, for one, and was resiliency and reason beside Aelin's smirking bravado.

Unsure of how to react now that the woman had admitted her secret, Feyre cleared her throat. "You—your name isn't Aelin, is it? And you aren't a queen, and you aren't Fae."

The human woman smiled, shaking her head. "My name is Lysandra. I am the Lady of Caraverre despite my lack of noble blood, and I am very much human."

Astonished, Feyre parted her lips to ask more. Humans didn't have magical abilities—not her own world, at least. But here—they did. Perhaps it was why they seemed to coexist to peacefully—why Ansel and her men hadn't been frightened of her during the time she'd spent on the ship.

But before she could ask another question, the door opened. It was Aedion, looking irritable and sullen after the words he'd shared with Lysandra moments ago.

His eyes darted around the room, taking in the broken wood, the papers and objects strewn about the desk, Lysandra's clothes in tatters, the thin slice on her throat, and the blood-rimmed dagger on the floor. Then they landed on Feyre, and his eyes narrowed, his sword out in a flash.

"Aedion, stop!" Lysandra ordered, moving forward to step between them—but Aedion had already moved, grabbing Feyre before she could scoop up Lysandra's discarded dagger and throwing her against the wall.

"If you ever touch her again, I will gut you," he snarled, pressing the tip of his sword into her abdomen, other hand around her throat.

Feyre reacted immediately.

She brought a knee up between his legs, one of her hands simultaneously slamming into his throat. The sword immediately clattered to the ground as he swore, staggering back and clutching at his neck.

Feyre moves away from the wall immediately, not intent on being cornered again, and grabbed the sword.

"You will never lay a hand on me again," she said, clutching the hilt to stop the shaking in her hands. She wasn't good enough at combat yet, especially when weaponless—she had been scared. Now she was trying not to let that fear show.

Feyre didn't think Aedion was intending to hurt her. But if he had been, she wasn't sure she would have made it out unscathed.

"By the fucking gods, Aedion!" Lysandra snapped. "What the rutting hell is wrong with you?"

She moved to Feyre's side, taking her arm through a slit in the cloak while giving Aedion a look that could kill. "If you can't control yourself, get out."

Feyre was grateful for Lysandra's warm and reassuring smile. Perhaps she had been aware how frightened Feyre had been moments ago.

"Sit, please," she said, leading her to one of the two remaining intact chairs in front if the desk. "I apologize on the general's behalf." Another cold glare at Aedion.

Feyre returned her smile, albeit a bit tightly, as Lysandra sat across from her.

The Lady took a breath, looking briefly at the hand which served to secure the portion of cloak concealing her lap as if it was foreign to her. As if she hadn't seen it in a long while. "I think I want to try and help you get home, Feyre. It's obvious that you've lost people you care for. I understand what that feels like." Her eyes flicked to Aedion, something like longing burning deep within. Feyre followed her gaze to the male, who seemed content to listen and stand guard by the door, staring straight ahead without acknowledging either of them.

Lysandra blinked and looked down briefly, hands clenched around the cloak, then continued.

"But to help you, I need to know more about you. I need you to tell me how you got here—And I need detail. Will you trust me?"

Lysandra's green eyes met Feyre's own. There was kindness there, hope. Brightness. Eagerness.

Feyre remembered the music in the street, the joy and laughter with which the Mycenians reveled despite the war that seemed to loom over them all. It had reminded her of Velaris. Skull's Bay was sorry in comparison, but... the people of both cities shared the same spirit.

Feyre was taking a risk. But she decided that she was going to trust these people—if not Aedion, then certainly Lysandra.

So, as an ache filled her chest, she parted her lips and began to tell them about the night that now seemed to have happened so long ago.