Feyre ripped the pink weed from the ground and stalked back toward the cave, the plant clenched in her fist. The weight of betrayal pressed against her ribs, but she shoved it aside. There was no room for emotion—not now. Not with what she had just confirmed.

Inside the cave, Rhys was half-awake, the layers Feyre had thrown over him now scattered across the blanket. His face was pale, his body still weakened, but he managed a strained smile as she entered. Before he could speak, she tossed the weed at him, soil scattering across his bare chest.

"Chew on that," Feyre ordered.

He blinked at her blearily.

Mate. The word thundered through Feyre, but she ignored it. Rhys obeyed, frowning at the plant before plucking off a few leaves and chewing. He grimaced as he swallowed. Feyre tore off her jacket, shoved up her sleeve, and strode toward him, her entire body taut with anger and something rawer—something she wasn't ready to name.

He had known. And he had kept it from her.

Had the others known? Had they guessed?

He had promised—promised not to lie, not to keep things from her. And this—this most important thing in her immortal existence...

Feyre drew a dagger across her forearm, the cut long and deep, and dropped to her knees before him. She didn't feel the pain.

"Drink this. Now."

Rhys's brows rose, but before he could object, she gripped the back of his head, pressed her bleeding arm against his mouth, and forced him to drink.

He hesitated as her blood touched his lips, then his mouth opened wider, his tongue brushing her skin as he sucked in one mouthful. Then another. Then a third.

She yanked back her arm, the wound already beginning to close, and shoved her sleeve down.

"You don't get to ask questions," she said. Her voice was cold, even as something inside her twisted at the sight of him—her blood shining on his lips, exhaustion shadowing his beautiful face. "You only get to answer them. And nothing more."

Wariness flooded his violet eyes, but he nodded, biting off another piece of the weed and chewing.

Nala, Feyre's younger sister, shifted near the cave entrance, her wings twitching. She had kept to the shadows, watching, her presence mostly unnoticed. But now, her discomfort was evident in the way her wings flexed, her fingers curling slightly at her sides as the tension in the air thickened. Unlike Feyre, Nala had long accepted what Rhys was to her sister. Had known before Feyre herself had even begun to suspect. And she was happy for them—truly happy.

But she couldn't say that. Couldn't reveal the relief and quiet joy she felt. Feyre would only turn her anger onto her instead of Rhys, and Nala knew her sister well enough to know that she needed someone to direct her fury at.

"How long have you known that I'm your mate?" Feyre demanded, voice sharp as steel.

Rhys stilled. The entire world stilled.

He swallowed. "Feyre—"

"How long?" she snapped.

Rhys exhaled heavily. "You... you ensnared the Suriel?"

"I said no questions."

Nala flinched slightly, her wings shifting against her back. She hated this—hated being caught between them, watching as the people she cared for tore at each other with words. But she stayed silent, schooling her expression into something neutral.

"I suspected for a while," Rhys admitted. "I knew for certain when Amarantha was killing you. And when we stood on the balcony Under the Mountain—right after we were freed—I felt it snap into place between us. I think when you were Made, it heightened the smell of the bond. I looked at you then, and the strength of it hit me like a blow."

Feyre's heart pounded. She remembered the way he had gone wide-eyed, had stumbled back as if shocked—terrified. And then vanished.

That had been over half a year ago.

"When were you going to tell me?" she asked, voice shaking with fury.

Rhys closed his eyes. "Feyre—"

"When?"

"I don't know. I wanted to tell you yesterday. Or whenever you noticed that it wasn't just a bargain between us. I hoped you might realize when I took you to bed, and—"

"Do the others know?"

"Amren and Mor do. Azriel and Cassian suspect."

Feyre's face burned. They knew. They—

Nala clenched her jaw, her wings fluttering in discomfort. She had known as well, had felt it, even if no one had spoken it aloud. But this—watching Feyre unravel, watching Rhys struggle—made her uneasy.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Feyre whispered.

"You were in love with him," Rhys said quietly. "You were going to marry him. And then you were enduring everything, and it didn't feel right to tell you."

"I deserved to know."

"The other night, you told me you wanted a distraction, you wanted fun. Not a mating bond. And not to someone like me—a mess."

Feyre swallowed, her own words coming back to haunt her. "You promised no secrets. No games. You promised."

Rhys sat up straighter, his strength returning with every breath. "You think I didn't want to tell you?" he rasped. "You think it didn't drive me out of my mind so completely that those bastards shot me out of the sky because I was too busy wondering if I should just tell you? Or wait? Or maybe take whatever pieces you offered me and be happy with it?"

"I don't want to hear this," Feyre cut in, shaking her head. "I don't want to hear you explain how you assumed you knew best."

"I didn't—"

"I don't want to hear how you decided I was to be kept in the dark while your friends knew, while you all decided what was right for me—"

"Feyre—"

"Take me back to the Illyrian camp. Now."

Rhys was panting, his chest rising and falling heavily. "Please."

But she stormed to him, grabbed his hand. "Take me back now."

Pain and sorrow flickered across his face. Feyre saw it and didn't care. Not as something in her chest twisted and broke. Not as her heart—her heart—ached, so viciously that she realized it had somehow been repaired in these past few months. Repaired by him.

And now it hurt.

Feyre looked to her younger sister who gave her small smile and a kiss on the cheek before turning to the High Lord of the Night Court and helped him to his feet. She will simply need time and space, do not give up on her. She spoke into his mind and he gave her a simply smile before turning back to the older sister. 

Rhys saw that hurt and more on Feyre face, and she saw nothing but agony in his as he rallied his strength and, grunting in pain, winnowed them into the Illyrian camp. 

Nala remained behind, her wings shifting as she exhaled a slow, steadying breath. Then, with a breath, she turned away, spreading her wings. She had her own path to take.

Without hesitation, she launched into the sky, heading for the prison. The Bone Carver was waiting.

***

She reached the prison with ease, slipping past the silent, watching sentries. Darkness curled around the stone walls, a place of old power and forgotten monsters.

The Bone Carver awaited her, his expression unreadable. But when he stepped from the shadows, Nala stilled. Because he had taken on her form, from the long golden hair, to the burning amber eyes to the black feather wings on her back.

"Niece," he greeted her with a smile. "The only true daughter of The Mother."

Her breath caught. "I need answers."

"I know why you have come," the Bone Carver mused, tilting his (her) head. "You seek the truth of your power. You seek to know how to stop the war."

Nala's wings twitched. "Yes."

"Then listen well, child of the gods," he murmured, stepping closer, the air around them thrumming with ancient energy. "For the path ahead will demand more of you than you can imagine..."

The air between them crackled, thick with unseen forces. Nala clenched her fists, steadying herself as the Bone Carver—her mirror image—studied her with dark amusement.

"You carry divinity in your blood, dear niece," he continued, voice soft yet weighted with something vast and ancient. "Power enough to unmake the world, should you choose."

Nala's throat tightened. "I don't want to unmake anything—I want to end this war before it destroys everything."

A flicker of something—satisfaction, perhaps—crossed his face. "Then you must understand what you are."

He extended a hand, palm up, and the shadows around them trembled. A memory, or perhaps a vision, wove itself into the air between them.

A woman stood at the heart of a battlefield, her black wings spread wide, her hands raised to the heavens. Her very presence bent reality, and from her fingertips, raw energy cascaded like a falling star. Armies crumbled before her. The sky split. The world wept.

Nala's stomach twisted. "Who is she?"

The Bone Carver smiled, sharp and knowing. "That, dear one, is you—what you could become."

The vision shattered, dissolving into wisps of darkness. The chamber pulsed as if alive, as if the prison itself breathed in anticipation.

Nala took a step back, shaking her head. "No. That isn't me. That won't be me."

"You fear it," the Bone Carver observed, tilting his head. "Good. Fear keeps you from losing yourself. But fear alone will not be enough to shape your destiny."

His form shifted again, flickering like a candle in the wind, until he stood before her as himself—a gaunt figure, wrapped in ancient, tattered robes, eyes dark and endless.

"Then tell me," Nala forced out, her voice steadier than she felt. "How do I stop this war without becoming that?"

The Bone Carver studied her, then sighed as if disappointed and delighted all at once.

"You will have to forge a new path, one no god, no mortal, no legend has ever walked before." His lips curved. "And that, child, is the most dangerous thing of all."

Nala exhaled slowly. "Tell me what I must do."

His gaze burned into hers, ancient and knowing.

"First," he said, "you must be willing to break every law of the heavens and this plane. You must be ready to unify the fays once more and bring forgotten worlds back into play."

***

Azriel's wings flared slightly, the shadows at his back twisting as he struggled to contain the surge of emotion roiling inside him. His pacing was deliberate, almost angry, as if he could walk the problem away. Amren, meanwhile, sat still as a predator at rest, her silver eyes gleaming with something unreadable as she turned the wine in her goblet, silent but watchful.

"He wants you to do what?" Azriel demanded again, his voice rough as his pacing became more agitated. His fingers clenched and unclenched, as though resisting the urge to reach for her, to tether her to him and keep her from the fate being laid at her feet.

Nala exhaled slowly, staring into the depths of her goblet before she set it aside. "He wants me to lose control. Fully, completely. To let go of every restraint I have ever had over my power, to shed my mortality like a snake shedding its skin. He said it is the only way to prepare for what's coming, the only way to ensure I don't destroy the people I love when the time inevitably comes."

Azriel stopped moving. The air between them went still, thick with unspoken fear. "You mean...this isn't something you can choose to avoid?"

Nala swallowed hard. "No. He said that my divine power will eventually consume me if I don't release it the way he described. And if I don't do it in a controlled environment, it will happen when I least expect it, when I can't control it. It could kill everyone." Her voice broke slightly, her hands curling into the fabric of her tunic. "It could kill you two."

Azriel took a sharp breath as if struck.

Amren, ever composed, finally spoke, her voice a low murmur laced with something softer than usual. "The Bone Carver doesn't lie about things like this." She took a measured sip of her wine, her silver eyes never leaving Nala's face. "But that doesn't mean you should trust him either. He has his own reasons for wanting you to transform."

Nala nodded, her throat tightening. "I know. But what choice do I have? If I don't do this, if I don't learn to control it, I could bring ruin to the entire world. He says I need to do it Under the Mountain, that it's the only place strong enough to contain me when it happens."

Azriel inhaled deeply, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "And what about us? What about our bond?" His voice was quieter now, rough with restrained anguish. "If you let go of your mortality, if you become something else entirely—will you still be you? Will we still be... this?" He gestured between them all, his shadows curling as if reaching for her, longing to hold her but uncertain if they should.

Nala's heart clenched. "I don't know. The Carver didn't say. But if I don't do this, there might not be an 'us' left to save."

Azriel moved then, swift and silent, kneeling before her, grasping her hands in his scarred ones. "You are my mate, Nala. My heart. My soul. That doesn't change, not even for the gods themselves. We will find a way through this, together."

Nala's breath hitched, emotion thick in her throat as she squeezed his hands tightly as if anchoring herself to this moment, to him, before the storm that would inevitably come.

A small, cool hand landed atop theirs. Nala and Azriel both turned to find Amren kneeling beside them, something raw and unguarded in her normally sharp gaze. "You are both mine as well," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "This bond—it ties the three of us together. If you change, it changes us all. If we lose you, we lose ourselves."

A tear slipped down Nala's cheek, her heart aching with the weight of what lay ahead. "I don't want to lose either of you."

"Then we won't let that happen," Amren said fiercely, gripping their hands. "We fight for this. For us. No matter what."

Azriel nodded, his jaw tight with emotion. "Together. Always."

Nala nodded, but in the depths of her heart, doubt twisted like a knife. Would she? Could she? And if she became something more, something divine and unrecognizable—would they still look at her like this, with love instead of fear?

That night, there were no more words, only the press of bodies and the desperate need to feel, to memorize. They loved each other in the darkness, worshipping each other with hands and mouths, with whispered promises and silent prayers. Nala traced the scars on Azriel's hands as he held her, Amren's cool lips finding her pulse, reminding her that she was still here, still theirs. And when exhaustion claimed them, they lay entwined, breath mingling, shadows curling around them like a protective cocoon.

Morning came too soon. The weight of duty settled on them like a crushing force. Nala was the first to rise, pressing lingering kisses to Azriel's temple, to Amren's cheek. She memorized the feel of them before she dressed, before she gathered herself for what awaited.

Amren would return to Hawn City, ruling in Nala's stead. Azriel would fly to the Illyrian camps to inform Rhysand and Feyre of what had transpired. And Nala... Nala would walk into the Prison, into the Bone Carver's domain, and into whatever fate awaited her.

She turned at the doorway, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. "No matter what happens, I love you both. Always."

Azriel's throat worked as he swallowed hard. "And we love you, Nala. Always."

Amren simply nodded, but her eyes shone with unspoken emotion. "Come back to us."

Nala took one last breath, one last look, and then she was gone.