Chapter Text
From the moment Cassian followed Rhysand into the Archeron manor, Nesta found herself unable to look away.
It was not a conscious decision. In fact, she resented it almost immediately. There was nothing subtle about him, nothing refined or restrained in the way he carried himself. He entered the room broad-shouldered, scarred, and entirely unconcerned with the impression he made.
Somehow, he drew her eye.
He drew her mind more absolutely.
Power clung to him in a way that felt almost physical, filling the space with a presence that was difficult to ignore. Nesta had encountered arrogance before, had met men who believed themselves formidable. Cassian was different. There was no need for him to prove anything. The strength he carried was evident in the way he moved, in the careless confidence with which he occupied the room.
It unsettled her. Not because she feared him, but because she could not dismiss him.
Even after he spoke, after he insulted her at her own table with a bluntness that bordered on deliberate provocation, she found her attention captured. She had returned his sharpness with ease, her words cutting and precise, but the exchange did not end there.
It lingered in her mind.
He lingered.
Long after he had left, she found her thoughts circling back to him with an insistence she could not explain.
It irritated her more than anything else.
—
“They are not what I expected,” Elain said later that afternoon, her voice soft but thoughtful.
She sat near the window, the fading light casting a gentle glow across her features. Her hands rested neatly in her lap, her posture composed in a way that had always come naturally to her.
Nesta remained standing, leaning lightly against the wall, her arms crossed.
“No,” she replied coolly. “They are exactly what I expected.”
Elain glanced at her, a hint of uncertainty in her expression. “You don’t mean that.”
Nesta did not respond immediately. Her gaze drifted, not focused on Elain, but rather to the memory that had been intruding upon her thoughts all day.
Cassian.
The way he had leaned back in his chair as though he belonged there. The sharpness in his eyes, hidden beneath an almost careless demeanor. The rough cadence of his voice, unpolished and unrefined, yet strangely compelling.
It made no sense.
He was everything she should dismiss, and yet she could not.
“I do,” she said at last, though the words felt less certain than she intended.
Elain studied her for a moment before continuing.
“I think they’re good,” she said. “Rhysand seemed kind. And the others, there was something honest about them.”
“They are powerful,” Nesta said, her tone sharpening slightly. “And people like that are dangerous.”
“They saved Feyre.”
“And what do they expect in return?”
Elain hesitated, then lifted her chin slightly. “Not everything has to be a transaction.”
Nesta’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It always is.”
Silence settled between them, stretching just long enough to become uncomfortable. Then Elain spoke again, more firmly this time.
“I would like them to return.”
Nesta blinked, caught off guard by the certainty in her tone.
“I think that is a bad idea,” Nesta said shortly. “We would be in danger.”
It was obviously unnecessary. Rhysand alone wore more wealth than her entire household could claim, his very presence a reminder of the vast disparity between them. A single piece of clothing from him would have paid for an estate grand enough to receive the mortal queens. Nesta was not certain why she needed to risk her life, Elain’s life, to offer up her living room.
“I think it is necessary.”
The quiet insistence in Elain’s voice was more startling than anger would have been. Elain rarely pushed. She rarely contradicted Nesta so directly.
It put her immediately on edge.
“I do not wish to host them,” Nesta said, her voice flattening.
It was the truth; or at least, it should have been.
Because even as she spoke, that same strange pull stirred within her. A quiet, persistent awareness that drew her thoughts back, against her will, to one person in particular.
Cassian.
“I want to,” Elain replied.
The words were soft, but unwavering.
Nesta studied her carefully, unease creeping into her chest. This was unlike Elain.
Something about it felt… odd.
—
She found Elain later that evening, the tension between them still lingering.
Elain sat at her vanity, brushing out her wet, curly hair in slow, absent strokes. She looked up as Nesta entered, surprise flickering across her face.
Nesta paused just inside the doorway, then stepped forward.
“I should not have spoken to you like that,” she said, her tone measured. “You were right to defend them. Feyre trusts them, and that should carry some weight.”
The admission did not come easily, but it felt necessary.
Elain’s expression softened immediately. “I should not have snapped either. That was unkind.”
Nesta inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Nesta exhaled quietly.
“We can invite them back,” she said.
The words felt strange, but right.
Elain smiled faintly, relief easing the tension from her shoulders. “Thank you.”
Nesta nodded once and turned toward the door. As she stepped into the hall, that same persistent pull returned. It was stronger now and more insistent. It curled through her thoughts, drawing her attention once more to the Fae who had no right to occupy her mind so completely.
Nesta slowed, her hand tightening slightly at her side.
Something about this felt inevitable. As though the path ahead of her had already been decided, and whether she wanted to or not, she was already walking it.
—
In the weeks that followed that first meeting, Nesta found that her thoughts were no longer entirely her own.
They returned, again and again, to Cassian.
There was no subtlety in the pull. It was as though something in her mind had been seized and redirected, every path leading back to him no matter where she began. She would attempt to focus on practical matters—Elain’s upcoming wedding, the dwindling household funds, the endless small responsibilities that had once defined her days—but each thought would unravel, slipping from her grasp and reforming into something else.
Into him.
His voice. His presence. The memory of his eyes on her.
It was relentless.
She tried to read, only to find herself staring at the same page for minutes at a time, unable to recall a single word. She tried to plan, to organize, to think as she once had—clearly, sharply—but her mind resisted, pulling her away from anything that was not him. Even her sense of propriety, once so carefully guarded, seemed to dull at the edges.
The world narrowed.
Cassian remained.
—
The evening he returned alone unsettled her more than any of the others.
There had been no buffer that night. No Rhysand to distract, no Mor to soften the edges of the room, no Azriel watching quietly from the shadows. Only Cassian, filling the space with his presence in a way that felt almost suffocating.
He had moved closer to her—too close. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him, could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing, could see the flicker of something intent in his gaze.
For a moment, she had frozen. She had frozen, and it wasn’t a reaction due to fear, but because her mind had fractured under the weight of it.
Every instinct, every thought, every carefully constructed barrier she had built seemed to falter all at once. The pull beneath her skin surged, sharp and overwhelming, drowning out reason, drowning out caution.
He had leaned in and for one terrible, breathless moment, she had almost let him.
The realization had struck like a slap.
Violence had been the only thing that broke it.
Her knee had lashed out instinctively before she could think, shoving him back, the force of it enough to create distance where her mind could not.
Even then, it had taken long seconds for her thoughts to settle into anything resembling coherence.
She had not understood it. She had not trusted it. She had not been able to forget it either.
—
Each time Cassian returned after that, always with the others, the feeling only grew stronger. What had begun as an unsettling pull became something closer to certainty, something that pressed against her awareness with increasing insistence.
And still—
She did not know why she had agreed to host them.
The decision made no sense. It was unnecessary at best and reckless at worst.
They did not need her. They did not need her home.
But she had offered it.
She had opened her doors and invited them in, despite the risk, despite the unease that coiled low in her gut every time they crossed the threshold.
She did not trust them, not fully.
Whatever their intentions, whatever their claims of alliance and protection, Nesta could not ignore the imbalance of power. To place her safety—and Elain’s—in their hands felt dangerously close to foolishness.
And still, her mind overrode her fear. It told her this was right. Necessary.
The least she could do for Feyre.
So she allowed it. Again and again, she allowed them to enter her house.
—
It was only when she stood before the mortal queens that something inside her finally settled into place.
She had pleaded with them. Begged, in a way she never would have imagined herself capable of, her composure cracking under the weight of desperation. Tears had come unbidden, her voice unsteady as she tried to convince them of a danger they could not yet see.
Cassian had stepped forward.
He had sworn, with a conviction that seemed to shake the very air around him, that he would protect the humans. That he would fight for them. That he would not let them fall.
There had been no hesitation or doubt.
In that moment, something within Nesta had quieted. The pull she felt toward him no longer seemed suspect.
It felt justified.
Right.
Her thoughts about him, the ones she had questioned, the ones she had resisted—they aligned, suddenly, with what she was seeing.
Cassian was good.
She believed it, and because she believed it, she allowed herself to believe everything else as well.
—
When she was thrown into the Cauldron, everything broke.
The world shattered into pain and darkness and something far worse: something vast and ancient that reached into her and remade her into something she did not recognize.
When she emerged, gasping, trembling, no longer entirely human, her first thought was not of herself. It was not of what had been done to her. Not even of Elain, crumpled and shaking nearby.
It was of him.
Cassian.
The realization came with a sharp sensation in her chest, like a sudden strike of static beneath her ribs. A connection, immediate and certain, pulsed through her. Her mind grasped it without hesitation.
Mate.
The word settled into place as though it had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged. There was no questioning it, no doubt.
Nesta did not think to argue.
—
The months that followed were the worst of her life (so far). They passed slowly, each day dragging into the next in a relentless, suffocating blur.
Elain was lost.
There was no other word for it.
Her mind had fractured under the weight of what had been done to her. She spoke in fragments, in half-formed thoughts that rarely made sense, her gaze distant and unfocused as though she were looking at something no one else could see.
Nesta spent her days at her side, always watching, always guarding.
She removed sharp objects from Elain’s reach, dulled blades that might harm her, bolted windows that might invite escape. Every moment was spent anticipating danger, preventing it before it could occur.
There was no rest in it and there was no reprieve.
When she was not tending to Elain, Nesta was fighting her own mind.
The memories of the Cauldron returned without warning, sharp and invasive, dragging her back into that suffocating darkness. She forced them down as best she could, burying them beneath sheer will, because she had no choice.
Elain needed her. So Nesta endured, even as it felt like something inside her was slowly splintering apart.
Through it all, Cassian remained. He was there in the house, in the halls, in the spaces she could not avoid. When he was not physically present, he was in her thoughts, constant and unrelenting. A part of her whispered that he was her mate, that he was hers in a way that could not be undone.
Another smaller, sharper part whispered that he was also irritating.
She would spend hours tending to Elain, coaxing her away from danger, holding her together as best she could, only to find Cassian intruding upon the fragile quiet she had managed to create.
He would speak of training, of fighting, of learning to defend herself.
As though that were the solution. As though strength alone could undo what had been done to her. As though they had not promised protection already. As though Cassian had not had five hundred years of training and still failed.
Nesta had no desire to fight. No desire to wield a sword, to learn the language of violence that seemed so natural to him. She did not want to kill. She certainly did not want to maim. She did not find freedom in it, the way Feyre seemed to.
She wanted peace. She would settle for silence, or even control.
Cassian offered none of those things. He pushed at her constantly. He insisted that she do as he instructed and advised. He refused to leave her alone.
Not in body or her own mind.
Her thoughts twisted under the weight of it, turning sharper, more desperate.
Listen to him. Learn to fight. Take these powers you stole and learn to use them to protect your family. Your new court. Impress him. Earn him.
The ideas did not feel entirely like her own. But they were always in her mind, persistent and insistent.
She hated them.
She hated them, because she did not want that. She did not want him, not in the way those thoughts demanded.
But she could not make them stop.
—
When Feyre returned from Spring, something shifted.
Not because of Feyre herself but because of Lucien.
He arrived with a quiet sort of insistence. He argued, calmly, but firmly, that Nesta and Elain should not remain confined. He argued that they needed space. Fresh air. Freedom from the suffocating stillness of the House of Wind.
Nesta disliked him immediately.
She could not have articulated a clear reason beyond the most obvious one: his claim to Elain, the bond that tied him to her sister whether Elain welcomed it or not.
That alone was enough.
Elain shrank from him. She became smaller in his presence, quieter, her already fragile composure faltering further.
Nesta saw it, and it hardened something in her. She was deeply suspicious of him and found herself doubting the things he said. Still, Lucien’s insistence had its effect.
After months of confinement, the doors opened. Nesta was free to walk the streets of Velaris. She was free to exist beyond the walls that had become both sanctuary and prison.
She did not adjust well.
Freedom, she found, was not as simple as stepping outside.
It required a sense of self she was no longer certain she possessed.
—
Nesta agreed to fight in the war, though the decision was reluctant. The world had shifted beyond anything she recognized, and there was no place left to stand that did not require her participation. If she could not return to what she had been, then she would endure what she had become.
Training followed. Relentless, exhausting, and demanding in ways that left her body aching and her mind frayed.
She hated it.
She pushed herself harder than anyone asked her to, harder than anyone expected. She used her magic until her body trembled, until her hands shook from the strain of gripping a power she did not want. She listened, observed, endured correction after correction, never allowing herself the dignity of stopping first.
Nothing came of it.
No sense of mastery or even a flicker of satisfaction. No feeling of progress that might justify the effort.
Only frustration and failure.
Beneath it all, a voice persisted, quiet but cutting, threading through every attempt she made.
You are unworthy of him.
The words still did not feel entirely like her own, but they settled into her thoughts with ease, shaping them, sharpening them.
Try harder.
So she did. Again and again, pushing past exhaustion, past resentment, past the deep, simmering resistance she felt toward everything she was being forced to become.
She tried harder.
—
The Dawn Court was nothing like Nesta had imagined.
Light lingered here in a way that Nesta had never seen. It clung to every surface, every column and archway, as though the very air had been steeped in sunlight and left to glow. The palace rose in pale stone and sweeping curves, its open terraces filled with warm wind and the distant sound of wings cutting through the sky. The faint smell of chamomile and honey permeated the air. Even standing within its grand meeting hall, Nesta could feel it; that sense of height, of openness, of something vast and untethered.
It should have made her feel small.
Instead, it made her feel aware. Aware of everything. Of the gathered High Lords, each radiating power in their own distinct way. Of Feyre at her side, steady and resolute. Of Cassian—
Her thoughts caught, as they so often did.
Cassian stood not far behind her, a looming, constant presence. She did not need to look to know where he was. She could feel him, as though something in her mind had been tethered to him, pulled taut across the distance between them.
Yours.
The certainty settled into her mind as easily as breath.
Nesta did not question it.
—
The High Lords arrived one by one, each entrance shifting the air in the room.
Tarquin of Summer, all sea-glass eyes and quiet gravity, accompanied by his court. Kallias of Winter, cold and composed, with his wife Viviane at his side; her presence warm where his was distant. Helion of Day, whose smile seemed as bright as the court he ruled, though there was something sharper beneath it, something watchful.
Then Beron.
The temperature in the room seemed to rise with his entrance, as if he were a walking hearth.
He entered with his sons flanking him, their red hair like embers against the pale stone. Power rolled off them in waves, harsher, more volatile than the others. Nesta’s gaze moved across them without interest at first, cataloguing, assessing—
And then it stopped.
Eris Vanserra.
She did not know how she knew it was him.
No one had spoken his name. No introduction had been made. Despite this, her eyes fixed on him as though something deeper than recognition had drawn her there.
He stood slightly apart from his brothers, where his presence seemed different. Where they seemed eager, alert in a way that bordered on restless, Eris was still. His eyes flicked over the room, composed and watchful.
His features were sharp, almost too precise to be called handsome in a conventional way, but there was no denying the effect. High cheekbones, a straight, elegant nose, and soft lips that seemed perpetually on the edge of saying something cutting or clever. His amber eyes were the most striking of all, sharp and unyielding, as though they missed nothing.
They flicked to her, just for a moment.
It was brief enough that she might have imagined it.
When their eyes met, something in her stilled.
Nesta noted it was not in the same way it did around Cassian, not that consuming, insistent pull that seemed to demand her attention.
This was different.
Something simmering underneath. It was as though something had brushed against the edges of her awareness and left a mark she could not quite see.
Curiosity stirred, unbidden and unwelcome.
It seemed to be mutual.
Eris’ head tilted, just so. His eyes, wicked and bright, bored into hers and unbidden, Nesta felt a light flush touch her cheekbones. This seemed to please Eris, for his lips twitched.
Irrelevant, her mind supplied immediately, the thought sliding neatly into place.
Her gaze shifted away forcefully.
Cassian.
She should be paying attention to Cassian.
He was what mattered.
—
The meeting began, tension threading through every word spoken.
Nesta listened, though her attention did not remain where it should. Tamlin’s accusations, his bitterness, the way he tried to twist Feyre’s story into something vile. It all registered, but distantly, like noise behind glass.
Her focus drifted, back to that same place.
She did not mean for it to, but she could not help noticing, Eris had not spoken.
He merely watched.
Even when others argued, when tempers flared and magic sparked dangerously in the air, he remained still, his attention sharp and deliberate. Nesta found herself noticing the way he listened, the way his gaze flicked between speakers as though measuring each word for weight and truth.
It was unexpected. She had assumed cruelty. Or carelessness. Something brutish, perhaps, from the way the others spoke of him, but there was nothing careless in him. Nothing thoughtless as far as she could see.
Her brow furrowed slightly.
Why do you care? her thoughts pressed, firmer now.
The question felt like a reprimand.
Like a hand redirecting her chin.
Cassian shifted behind her, just slightly, and her awareness snapped back with almost painful force. The bond—yes, the bond—thrummed faintly beneath her skin, grounding her, reminding her.
This is what matters. This is real.
Eris Vanserra was nothing.
—
The moment shattered when he finally spoke.
It came later, after tension had already reached its peak, after insults had been traded and power had begun to simmer dangerously close to violence.
Despite Nesta’s knowledge of the alliance with Eris, he played his part so convincingly that she almost believed him.
There was something in his voice, his insults—something edged and deliberate—that drew attention immediately.
Nesta’s gaze lifted before she could stop herself.
Eris was looking at Mor.
His expression was cool, almost bored, but his words were not. The insult landed sharply, but Nesta could tell that the words were empty, with no true malice behind them. She did not know why she was certain, only that it was obvious to her.
The room erupted.
Azriel moved faster than Nesta could track, shadows and steel and fury as he slammed Eris to the ground, a hand at his throat. Power flared, dark and lethal, and for a moment it seemed as though the meeting would dissolve entirely into violence.
Nesta barely registered it. Her heart, however, pounded underneath her quiet mind.
Watching the violence, Nesta did feel a stab of concern, fear and shame at the actions of her delegation. It was utterly shameful to be associated with this group who would attack an attendee of the meeting that they had demanded.
It was shockingly, disgustingly childish and foolish. To lack foresight such that they would attack at a meeting that had promised peace.
Eris had won the upper hand, regardless of what the others from the Night Court might think. Everyone in that room now knew what the Night Court was—unwilling to keep promises, believing themselves above all rules. Unreliable. Capricious.
Beyond that, Eris caught her attention more than ever. For even as Eris was pinned beneath Azriel, even as tension crackled and snapped through the air, he did not look afraid or angry.
He looked amused.
His gaze shifted and found hers again, and held. It was only for a heartbeat, perhaps less. It looked as if he were assessing her reaction to this buffoonery. There was also something in his look, something she could not name, something that did not match the situation, the danger, the chaos surrounding them.
It was almost as if the two of them were sharing an inside joke, one that no one else was in on.
Recognition?
The thought slipped in before she could stop it. Then vanished just as quickly.
Irrelevant, her mind insisted again, more forcefully this time.
A pressure returned, heavier now, closing around her thoughts, smoothing them into something easier. Simpler.
Cassian.
Her attention snapped back as though pulled. Cassian, who was tense, ready for a fight. Cassian, who would protect them.
Cassian, who was her mate.
The certainty settled back into place, stronger than before, leaving no room for anything else. When she looked again, Eris was no longer watching her.
Whatever that strange, fleeting moment had been, it was gone.
—
Later, when the meeting descended further into chaos, when tempers broke and power lashed out, Nesta spoke. She forced Beron to listen. She refused to be silent.
Even as she stood there, as she spoke of the Cauldron and the King and the destruction that was coming, a small, quiet part of her remained unsettled. It would have been understandable if it had been due to fear or the weight of what she had seen, but instead it was something far more subtle: the faintest impression of amber eyes.
Something deeper and stronger than a spark. Far more powerful than mere static.
After the wall had fallen and the meetings had concluded and she had returned to Velaris, she had the inexplicable sense that she had almost noticed something important, before it had been taken from her.
Whatever it might have been, a lingering sense of emptiness in her chest persisted after the High Lord’s Summit.
—
When the battle against Hybern came, Nesta did not expect to survive it.
In truth, a part of her did not want to.
This new life, this existence as something remade and unnatural, had never settled within her. It felt like a violation that could not be undone, a distortion of everything she had once been. The battlefield offered something close to resolution. If she were to die, it would at least bring an end to the constant strain of enduring something she had never chosen.
It seemed fitting, almost merciful.
Even in that bleak clarity, one thought remained unwavering.
Cassian.
She did not want him to die with her.
When the moment came, when destruction loomed and death seemed inevitable, she did not hesitate. She threw herself over him, placing her body between his and the blow that would have ended him. It was immediate and absolute.
If she could buy him even a few moments, it would be enough. If she could ensure that he lived, even at the cost of her own life, then it would be worth it.
Her thoughts made the decision as though they had been waiting for it.
Save him. Give up your life for him. His life is worth more than yours.
The words moved through her mind with chilling certainty. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the end, prepared to accept it without resistance.
The end did not come.
Elain moved.
In a moment that shattered expectation, her sister, who had been fragile, distant, barely present for months, stepped forward with a clarity that had been absent since the Cauldron. She drove the blade into the King of Hybern with deadly precision.
Nesta’s eyes snapped open.
She saw Elain’s face, clear and focused in a way that felt almost unreal, and something within her reacted before she could think. Instinct overtook everything else. She moved without hesitation, without thought, driven by something deeper than conscious decision.
Nesta killed the King of Hybern before he could take another member of her family.
The motion was swift and decisive, the blade cutting cleanly, and her mind had barely caught up with her instinct to protect. When it was done, she let his head fall, the finality of it echoing through the chaos around them.
Distant explosions shook the battlefield, but they barely registered.
Nesta turned immediately, reaching for Elain, trying to pull her back from the sight of their father lying motionless nearby. She attempted to shield her, to prevent her from breaking further.
Even as she did, her attention shifted to Cassian. He was still alive, still breathing, though barely.
Everything else fell away.
She held Elain with one arm, even as her gaze locked onto him, her focus narrowing entirely.
“Please,” she said, her voice unsteady, urgent. “Help me with him, Elain.”
Tears streamed down Elain’s face, but she nodded, forcing herself to move. Together, they knelt beside him, their hands trembling as they tried to stop the bleeding. They avoided his thigh where the wound was too severe, where bone was visible beneath torn flesh, focusing instead on what little they could do.
It felt futile, desperate maybe, but they did not stop.
Then, a scream cut through the battlefield.
Sharp. Piercing. Familiar.
Nesta’s head snapped up as recognition struck.
Feyre.
She met Elain’s gaze, and in that instant, they both understood.
“Go to her,” Nesta said, her voice firm despite the fear tightening in her chest.
Elain did not hesitate. She rose and ran, faster than Nesta had ever seen her move, disappearing into the chaos in search of their youngest sister.
Nesta turned back to Cassian.
Something inside her shifted. It was a subtle change for a second. A quiet absence, but then it deepened. She felt it fully, and with it, a wave of cold, disorienting horror.
There was nothing.
For months, Cassian had occupied her thoughts relentlessly. His presence had been constant, that strange, static prickling awareness flaring every time she saw him, every time he spoke, every time he so much as stood near her.
But now, as she looked at him, broken and dying before her—
There was nothing.
No pull.
No warmth.
No connection.
No love.
No desire.
Nothing at all.
It was as though something essential had been removed, leaving behind only an empty space where it should have been.
Her hands faltered for a moment, uncertainty rippling through her.
Cassian was still dying.
That fact remained.
Nesta forced herself to continue, to press down the confusion, to focus on what mattered in that moment. Her hands worked mechanically, her thoughts racing in a chaotic flood she could not contain.
Memories flickered through her mind in rapid succession, fragments of the past months flashing too quickly to fully grasp. Thoughts she had once accepted without question now seemed distant, unfamiliar, as though she were seeing them from the outside.
Minutes passed.
Then, voices rose in the distance: shouts, laughter, the shifting tide of battle.
Something had changed.
Nesta looked down at Cassian again.
Somehow, the sensation returned. The static. The pull. It flooded back into her awareness as though it had never left.
Relief washed over her so suddenly it left her breathless. She did not understand what had happened, but the absence had been so profound, so deeply unsettling, that its return felt like the restoration of something vital.
Despite herself, something remained beneath that relief.
A quiet unease.
A sense that, for a brief moment, something had been revealed that she could not quite grasp.
—
Later, she would learn the truth.
Those empty, disorienting minutes had aligned perfectly with the span of time in which Rhysand had been dead.
At first, the knowledge did not seem significant enough to dwell upon. There had been too much else to process, too much grief and upheaval in the aftermath of the war. But the memory did not fade entirely.
It haunted her, quiet and intermittent.
On rare occasions, when Rhysand traveled far from Velaris, the thought would surface again. It would rise without warning, sharp and unsettling, demanding attention.
When Rhysand had been dead, there had been no bond.
The realization would hover at the edge of her awareness, fragile and dangerous. But just as quickly, it would slip away.
As soon as Rhysand returned, the thought would dissolve, losing its urgency, its clarity, until Nesta didn’t remember it had been there in the first place.
Still, something off remained. A faint impression, difficult to articulate but impossible to erase entirely.
—
In the months following the war, Nesta struggled for many reasons.
Her father’s death weighed heavily on her, a grief she did not know how to process. The memory of the Cauldron lingered, invasive and suffocating. Cassian’s near death haunted her, the image of him broken and bleeding refusing to fade.
Beneath all of that, there was something else.
Those minutes.
They did not rise fully into her conscious thoughts, but they influenced her nonetheless. They shaped her instincts, her reactions, her sense of discomfort.
Nesta found herself pulling away from Cassian, though she could not clearly explain why. Being near him felt complicated in a way it had not before. She did not want to confide in him. She did not want to examine what she was feeling in his presence.
It seemed easier to avoid him. Perhaps it was better for both of them. So Nesta avoided him, and when avoidance was not enough, she turned to something else.
She began to drink.
At first, it was simply a way to dull the sharp edges of her grief, to quiet the relentless weight of memory and expectation. But over time, she realized it did something else as well.
It loosened the barriers in her mind.
It allowed thoughts she could not quite reach to drift closer to the surface, just enough for her to sense them without fully understanding. Questions lingered there, unformed and unanswered.
Though she did not yet know how to face them, some part of her was beginning to try.
—
The tavern was loud in the way Nesta had come to crave.
Music pulsed through the space, not refined or delicate, but vibrant and alive. The fiddle carried a sharp, lively melody while a drum kept time beneath it, steady enough to ground the room and wild enough to let it breathe. The sound filled her chest, settled into her bones, and for a few precious hours, it drowned out everything else.
Nesta leaned back in her chair, a deck of cards loose in her hands as she played a careless round with two males and a woman she had met only that evening. A half-empty glass sat near her elbow, forgotten more often than not as the music demanded her attention. She was not drunk enough to lose herself entirely, but the edges of her thoughts had softened, blunted just enough to make the world feel manageable.
Across from her, one of the males—a broad-shouldered Fae, with an easy smile and pretty eyes—watched her with open interest.
“You’ve been holding back,” he said, tapping the table lightly as she laid down another card. “I can tell.”
Nesta arched her brow, unimpressed but not entirely uninterested. “Or perhaps I simply do not need to try as hard as you.”
The woman beside him snorted softly, and the male only grinned wider.
“I’d like to see you try,” he replied, leaning forward slightly. “Off the table, I mean.”
Nesta huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she gathered the cards again. “You would not survive it.”
“Now I know that isn’t true.”
“Then you are a fool as well as overconfident.”
He laughed outright at that, clearly unoffended, and something in his ease made it simple to remain where she was. For now, she could stay in the moment. She could let the music carry her rather than the endless weight of everything waiting outside these walls.
For a time, it worked.
She let herself be pulled into the rhythm of the room, into the laughter and the small, meaningless stakes of the game. She let the music settle into her veins, let it remind her of something she had once loved without complication.
She almost felt like herself.
—
The door opened.
Nesta did not look at first, too accustomed to the steady flow of patrons coming and going. But something shifted in the room, subtle yet unmistakable. The energy tightened, conversation faltering in small pockets as attention turned.
She felt it before she saw him. That familiar, intrusive awareness slid beneath her skin, sharp enough to cut through the haze of music and drink.
Her head lifted.
Cassian stood just inside the doorway.
He was unmistakable, even among strangers. Taller than most, broader, carrying that same unrelenting presence that seemed to demand space wherever he went. His gaze swept the room once before it landed on her, and the shift was immediate.
His attention focused on her, utterly unyielding.
For a brief moment, something in her responded automatically. Her thoughts aligned with the sight of him, offering up the same familiar impressions. Strength. Power. A strange, persistent pull that she couldn’t remember ever being able to fully ignore.
But beneath it, something else stirred: a quiet, unwelcome pang of dread settled low in her stomach.
It did not make sense. She had no reason to dread being around him, not truly. Despite this, the feeling remained, threading through her awareness with an insistence she could not entirely dismiss.
Across the table, the male who had been flirting with her followed her gaze.
“Friend of yours?” he asked casually.
Nesta did not answer.
Cassian was already moving.
He crossed the room in long, deliberate strides, ignoring the way others shifted to give him space. The music continued, but it felt distant now, as though it belonged to another place entirely.
He stopped at her table.
“Nes,” he said, his voice low but edged with something sharp. “We’re leaving.”
The words were not a suggestion.
Nesta did not immediately rise. She set her cards down slowly, her gaze lifting to meet his.
“I was not aware I required your permission to remain seated,” she replied coolly.
Cassian’s jaw tightened. “You’ve had enough.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “Have I?”
The male across from her leaned back, clearly sensing the tension. “Is there a problem?” he asked, his tone light but cautious.
Cassian did not look at him. “No,” he said flatly. “There isn’t.”
Nesta felt irritation rise, sharp and immediate. “I am in the middle of a game,” she said. “You can wait.”
“I’m not waiting. I’m not letting you waste a minute of my time.”
The condescension in his voice scraped against her nerves, familiar and unwelcome.
As she looked at him, a thought surfaced: small, quiet, and strangely clear.
If he is my mate, why does he treat me with such disdain?
The question startled her.
It felt out of place. Misaligned with everything she had accepted as truth. She tried to hold onto it, to examine it, to follow it to its conclusion… but it slipped away almost immediately, dissolving before she could grasp it fully.
In its place came the familiar pressure, the certainty that overrode doubt before it could take root.
Cassian was her mate. That was enough. It had to be.
Nesta exhaled slowly, pushing herself to her feet despite the resistance coiling in her chest.
“To be continued,” she said lightly to the others at the table, though her tone carried no real humor.
The male who had been flirting with her watched her with something like curiosity. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said.
She did not respond. Cassian had already turned toward the door, clearly expecting her to follow.
She did.
—
The walk back to her apartment was quiet, but not peaceful.
Cassian did not speak, and neither did she. The silence between them felt strained, heavy with things neither of them chose to voice. The further they moved from the tavern, the more the warmth of it faded, replaced by the familiar weight that seemed to settle over her whenever she was forced back into this version of her life.
When they reached her building, Cassian’s expression darkened.
“Back to your palace?” he asked, his tone edged with disapproval.
Nesta moved past him without answering, pushing open the door and stepping inside.
The apartment was small and worn. Far from the polished comfort of the River House or the towering grandeur of the House of Wind. It smelled faintly of stale smoke and old wood, and the furnishings were sparse, chosen more for necessity than comfort.
But it was hers.
Cassian followed her in, his gaze sweeping the space with thinly veiled disdain.
“This is unacceptable,” he said flatly.
Nesta turned, leaning back against the wall as she folded her arms. “It’s acceptable to me.”
“You shouldn’t be here at all,” he continued. “You should be with your family. With us.”
The word felt heavy and unwelcome.
Nesta looked at him, and that same quiet unease stirred again, sharper this time. She could not explain it. Could not put it into words without sounding ungrateful or cruel.
But the River House, well, it did not feel like safety. It felt like something else entirely. Nesta could not help the disquiet she felt there, a churning feeling in her gut that never aligned with her thoughts.
She did not say that.
She knew he would take it as an insult, and would twist it into further proof of her defiance, her refusal to accept what she had been given.
Instead, she said, “I am exactly where I wish to be.”
Cassian’s expression hardened. “You’re avoiding us.”
“I am living my life.”
“You’re wasting it.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
Nesta held his gaze, something cold settling into her chest. A drunken thought slipped past then, quieter but no less sharp.
Perhaps my real mate would not treat my pain as something to be corrected.
It lingered only a moment longer than the last.
Long enough for her to feel the weight of it. But then it, too, slipped away, leaving behind only the familiar tension and the echo of something foreign she could not quite name.
Maybe something like fury.
—
Three days later, the decision was made for her.
It was framed as concern, as necessity, as something done for her own good. It was not presented as punishment, though it felt like one.
She needed to stop drinking for her own good.
She needed rehabilitation. Structure. Control.
She was taken to the House of Wind.
Not asked or invited.
Taken.
Threatened to be tied up and kidnapped, as Hybern’s soldiers had done those months ago.
She was confined, and Cassian was her warden.
Cassian is your mate. He is no warden, her mind snapped.
And as the doors closed behind her, sealing her within its towering walls, that quiet sense of dread returned in full force, settling deep within her chest, heavier than before.
As though something inside her understood, even if her mind did not, that she had just been moved further out of reach of something she was meant to find.