Seven hours-- over seven hours Feyre had spent in the library, scouring through every section, every range, every shelf, every book, and nearly every page. Seven hours, and she had come away with nothing. If the scope of Tamlin's library was as she expected, no one in the realm knew anything about the black stone. She'd found shelves and shelves of books about magical objects: amulets, jewels, swords, staffs, books, beauty accessories, cooking utensils; even one questionable account of a cursed lamp, but all those were ordinary objects bestowed upon with magic; whereas, the stone seemed to emanate it.

About four hours into her search, Feyre began wondering if the Book of Breathings had information on the stone, and afterwards, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't keep her thoughts from returning there. She had spent the last hour of her time in the library trying to prevent her mind from wandering and stifling the small twinge in her chest everytime she thought of where the book was now... and where she was not.

Feyre found herself looking out one of the large glass windows once more, and with an irritated sigh, slammed her book shut and set in on the table while falling into the nearest chair. She hung her head forward and rubbed her eyes, trying to make the letters disappear.

A low grumble from her stomach interrupted the quiet room, reminding Feyre that she had skipped lunch. Tamlin had left almost immediately following breakfast-- to where, she didn't know-- and the entire atmosphere, Feyre noticed, felt lighter. With the High Lord gone, the servants were more keen on socializing and making conversation in the halls, as if they no longer feared the repercussions of being caught slacking off. They were also more likely to make eye-contact with her; whereas, normally, they avoided it--something that bothered Feyre much more than she thought it should.

With the entire manor in a lighter mood, the regular protocols of daily life became relaxed, and Feyre didn't bother to dress up or attend the midday meal-- something that she slightly regretted as she made her way out of the library and towards to kitchens.

Walking through the halls, even Feyre felt as if a small burden had been lifted off her shoulders.

With Tamlin gone, she didn't have to focus so much on acting her part, as no one watched her as closely as he did. The only other person who had any idea what had happened at the confrontation with Hybern was Lucien, but Feyre believed that he was in enough of a precarious situation with Elain to leave her alone for the time being. She didn't think that Lucien had hinted at anything to Tamlin yet, and part of her feared that it wouldn't last, but the other part thought that it might be fun to see how far she could push him until he did.

Feyre continued down the hall lost in thought; running her fingers over the stone that she kept in the pocket she had sewn into her gown the night before.

Despite the amount of time she had spent and the number of fighting techniques she had learned in her new body, she still wasn't entirely used to walking in shoes with heels, and she took extra time and care walking down the grande staircase.

Walking across the huge tiled entrance and towards the dining room which had a direct connection to the kitchens, Feyre was jolted to a stop mid-stride by a sudden wave of energy-- energy that a second later, she deemed magical. She turned to examine the room, the back of her neck prickling. She removed her hand from the door to the dining room, of which she was about to enter, and made her way to the nearest window.

The window looked out upon one of the gardens, and Feyre spent a moment examining the path, but couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. She turned back towards the center of the room and made for the giant doors of the main entrance--what she would have called the front door in any normal-sized home, when she heard Lucien call her name. She looked over her shoulder to see him approaching her from across the room. The wave of magic had clearly interrupted his daily activities as well.

"Did you feel it, too? She asked.

He nodded. "It was definitely some sort of magical presence..." he replied as Feyre opened the massive front door and began walking outside.

She made her way down the main steps and onto the path that lead to the manor, Lucien following her from behind. The ceremoniously-sounding groan of the larger-than-needed doors gave way to the graceful silence of nature and ethereal beauty of gardens stuck in an eternity of spring.

"...perhaps,--" he continued, but Feyre cut him off with a raise of her hand.

She stood still in the middle of the path and proceeded to close her eyes, opening her mind to her surroundings. She had practiced this with Rhysand and Azriel at the Night Court-- using her Night Court powers to recognize patterns in thoughts and categorize brains. She bypassed Lucien's and reached out. This was a little different than what she practiced, because she didn't already know what she was looking for, rather, now she was looking for what she didn't recognize.

A little into her range, she sensed a vague fuzziness that she could only assume was a mind, though obviously different than the average servant. She opened her eyes and started towards the edge of the woods silently motioning for Lucien to follow, which he did without question. She didn't know how much he knew or suspected about her powers, but she wasn't about to elaborate if he asked.

The two of them crossed the silent yard, the only sound the slight crunch of their weight on the gravel path. The entire manor was fenced by tall green hedges, with occasional openings for the path to weave in and out before reaching the actual building. And nearly every green surface was brimming with varieties of flowers, both familiar and unfamiliar to Feyre's eyes. She couldn't help but picture how excited Elain would be at the prospect of all these plants. Feyre could picture Elain spending hours sitting in the gardens, meticulously attending to every single bud; possibly even taking the ambition to record all the plant-types. Maybe Feyre could paint all of the flowers in a book for Elain to organize her information. She smiled at the thought.

The pathway and hedges gave way to a clearing of grass before disappearing into the forest. She continued to lead them across the grass and into the edge of the treeline, while keeping her mind open for other thought patterns. As she neared the first giant tree, where she thought the feeling was coming from, she realized that it was too quiet-- the normal chatter of animal life was missing. Only a second later, she realized that there was another brain in the area-- the same brain belonging to the person who emerged from the treeline in the blink of an eye and jumped Feyre when she turned to warn Lucien.

Less than a moment later, Feyre was in the iron grasp of a fae male, who gripped both her arms in a single hand, with her back pressed against his chest, and a knife to her throat. The startled shout that now threatened to burst from Feyre's chest didn't even have time to form in her throat before she felt the unforgiving chill of a metal blade against her neck.

Lucien began to place a foot forward, his arm reaching for the dagger held at his waist, and a sentence forming on his lips, but the attacker immediately strengthened his grip, forcing Feyre's spine even straighter, as if good posture could save her from the blade.

"Don't," the male said, nodding pointedly towards the dagger.

Lucien's arm fell to his side, but his fingers remained slightly curled, ready to reach for it at any moment.

The attacker moved forward, pushing Feyre in front of him, and she took the moment to test his strength by pushing against his hands. His hold remained solid, and if Feyre still had any doubt that he was some sort of high fae, the second male who emerged from the treeline eradicated them all.

The male approaching their party-of-three was of giant muscular build and fitted with more leather and gleaming weapons than she thought possible for any mortal man. As he came closer, she noticed that his weapons were not his only asset reflecting the sunlight. Protruding from his face; forcing her to question her concept of the high fae, were two vicious-looking canine teeth, and from his head, a set of pointed ears matching that of Feyre and Lucien.

Lucien's attention kept flitting between the two intruders, and Feyre knew that the one holding her must look just as animalistic as the one who now stood less than ten feet away. Together, the four of them created a triangle of sorts; the whole encounter feeling completely intrusive in the light spring afternoon.

The male to her right was the first to speak. He didn't hold a sword, but the power of his voice spoke volumes as to what he could do with one.

"We mean you no immediate harm. We've come as delegates to her majesty, Queen Maeve of Doranelle."

Lucien's eyes narrowed briefly. "I do not know of any Doranelle or Queen Maeve," he replied. Afterwards, remembering that Feyre came from outside of Prythian, he turned his gaze to hers, but returned to face the male when she released her furrowed brow and shook her head slightly, signifying that she had not recognized the name either.

"This is the Spring Court of Prythian, ruled by the High Lord Tamlin. What is your Queen's business?"

Without missing a beat, the same male replied,"Perhaps we could meet your High Lord and relay our message personally,"--not quite an order, but not a question either.

None of the males moved, the tension of their conversation vibrating in the air. It was too many male-dominant figures in a too-small space. The pressure made Feyre want to shift her weight between feet.

Lucien appeared to contemplate his offer, though Feyre knew he had an immediate answer. She took the moment to brush up against the mind of the male who was holding her. Running her mind around the edge of his brain, she decided that he wasn't a powerful daemati, and before her conscience could convince her otherwise, she dove in.

Though some of his thoughts were hard to decipher, she understood that he was very old, extremely powerful, and held a strong emotional loyalty to his queen. If she didn't know better, she might say that what he had for her was love-- his bond was so strong.

Though she hadn't been in the world of Prythian long, it was like nothing she'd ever encountered.

Lucien was the first to break the silence. "Very well. We will lead you to the High Lord's throne room, where you can wait for his presence."

And with that, though Feyre thought it was incredibly stupid to turn your back on an enemy so soon, Lucien started towards the manor; not even acknowledging that she was being held at knife point. However, when she opened her mouth to object, the knife was removed, and she was practically shoved aside as the two males pushed forward.

Feyre was severely offended, and if her shock hadn't been great enough to slow her thoughts, she might have lashed out with her powers right then and there.

Her objection still hanging on her open lips, Feyre quickly shut her mouth and began making her way up the path as well.

It took the entire walk up to the manor to calm her anger and compose her face, but even then, the sound of her heels on the flooring was much louder than before.

The three of them followed Lucien through the entrance, and Feyre watched the two delegates intently from behind. Though bulky in their armored muscle, the two figures moved with an ethereal grace and just emanated power. How anyone could possibly control these fearsome creatures, she didn't know.

Most servants they passed took one look at the group and immediately ducked their heads-- some even changing direction as if they had just remembered they were supposed to be elsewhere. Normally this would have bothered Feyre, but today, she welcomed the isolation.

The throne room was not far from the main entrance, as that was where the High Lord met most of his guests. It was also the room where the tithe was collected. The memory still made Feyre shudder. Although, looking back at the two fae warriors, she couldn't deny that part of her wished Tamlin would return soon.

Lucien hadn't told them that Tamlin was currently absent-- in fact, he had made it sound like the High Lord would be with them shortly. Feyre had no idea what time he would be returning, just that he was to miss lunch and the evening meal, which was still hours away.

Feyre switched her gaze and bore her eyes into the back of Lucien's head, willing him to turn around and give her answers. But his back remained rigid and his head continued facing forward. For a flicker of a moment, she considered just looking inside his head, but the thought brought her to a sudden halt, and she silently reprimanded herself. Something almost like shame clouded her thoughts-- slight guilt for almost using her powers to manipulate another when it wasn't completely necessary.

It was something that she worried about more and more frequently-- losing herself inside her powers. Letting the feeling of control consume her until she used anyone and everyone for her own gain; treating everyone around her as pawns to her own interests, just like Amarantha or King Hybern. She knew that with enough practice, she could-- she wished it scared her more than it did.

They reached the throne room, and Lucien opened the giant set of doors, stepping aside to let his three companions pass. Feyre went to follow the two males into the room, but before she could enter, Lucien grabbed her arm, stalling her feet. She looked up at him, and he gave her a pointed stare before briefly nodding his head and letting her go. She paused for a moment before looking away and entering the room.

A few paces into the room, she looked over her shoulder to see that Lucien was still standing in the doorway with his hands folded behind his back.

"You can wait here while I inquire after the High Lord," he announced. "Feyre will keep you company."

And before Feyre could even process what he had said, Lucien was gone-- his red hair disappearing behind the large doors that now groaned shut.

So that's what the look was for.

Pursing her lips, Feyre turned to her two new companions. Both had stationed themselves in the middle of the room, standing at ease, and each looking elsewhere.

Feyre's anger swelled up again. They couldn't even bother to take two seconds to determine if she was a threat or not. The male who had grabbed her-- his only real physical difference from his companion his dark, raven hair-- was examining the windows, his stance at a complete rest.

Recalling how she had been pushed aside, she entered his mind once more. He was counting the number of windows and trying to decipher the strength of their material, as well as determining approximately which point of impact would create the best effect if needed...

Slipping into the warriors' minds was almost too easy, and after hearing how arrogantly insufferable they were, her conscience didn't even flinch.

She switched to the other male-- the one with more dark brown, chocolate hair. He was also examining the windows-- then the ceiling, then the lighting fixtures, then the walls, and the flooring, and the throne chairs, and the tapestries, and the type of wood the doors were made of-- his thoughts raced around the room, choreographing multiple plans of escape or attack come the need.

Feyre was irritated to learn that he was only accounting three to four seconds to dispose of the young woman standing by the door.

Her dismay gave way to anger, and she clenched her fists against the building heat threatening to explode out of her palms. She took in a deep breath and tried to release it slowly, but then he changed his estimation to two seconds, and Feyre couldn't stand it any longer.

She knew that she should just brush it off-- that the tactful move would be to let them think her weak and fragile. But Feyre spent every day allowing herself to be condescended to, and she was tired of taking it.

Releasing her pent-up breath into the air as a violent sigh, Feyre cocked her hip and cleared her throat. When the two fae males finally deemed her presence acknowledge-worthy and turned their reluctant gaze, she simply lifted her arm, flicked her wrist in a sort of circle, and winnowed away.

Just a second later, she reappeared at the head of the room, lounging in the throne. She crossed her legs gingerly as the warriors realized where she had gone.

"You know... normally it's the host who gets chided for ignoring the guests." She smiled innocently, and her magic thrummed in response.

Still, neither of them changed their stance, and feeling annoyed even further, Feyre allowed some shadows to curl out from behind her chair, while opening her mind to their thoughts. The chocolate-haired one was thinking that her shadows resembled his queen's powers, and the raven-haired one was trying to recall everything he knew about teleporters and whether or not he had ever met one.

She smiled again. "Nope-- not teleportation. Here, we call it 'winnowing.'"

This got the attention of raven-hair. Sensing his comrade's change in stance, chocolate-hair's body tensed as well. Both were now alert and poised for confrontation.

"That's better," Feyre exclaimed while uncrossing her legs and standing up on the dais.

The doors began to creak, and before the wood was even an inch apart, Feyre had winnowed away from the throne, her shadows dissipating in her wake. She appeared beside brown-hair, not quite within sword-range.

Both males flinched back, reaching for weapons, but Feyre held their arms still with barely perceptible shadows. They appeared ready to retaliate further, but were interrupted by Tamlin and his grand, double-door entrance.

Despite the haste he must had taken to get there so fast, especially if Lucien had told him that Feyre was alone with the two strangers, Tamlin looked quite composed and put together-- not a blond hair or fold of clothing out of place. He too, radiated power-- the slight glow to his already tanned skin caused by not only the late-afternoon sun and a wall of windows, but whatever animal he kept caged inside.

Tamlin began sauntering in, his eyes widening-- flicking first, from Feyre, who stood with her hands folded in front of her dress and a small upturn to her lips; then, to the two rather-impressive fae males, who were clearly agitated and standing alert.

The first thing he said was, "Feyre, you are dismissed." Normally, she would have found this infuriating, but the confrontation and use of her magic had had such a joyous effect on her that she was able to ignore it. She practically skipped out of the throne room, her heeled shoes no longer proving troublesome. When she reached the doors, she turned back to look at the two males, who were watching her intently. Tamlin's back was turned to her, so she smiled and gave them a wink before placing her hand on the door jam and gliding out of the room.

On the way to the kitchens, she passed Lucien, who had apparently pulled some strings to get Tamlin here so fast. She gave him a wink too.

...

Feyre came down from her feminine-power-high about an hour later, when she realized how easily the delegates could describe everything they had witnessed to Tamlin. She was laying on her bed, flipping through the index of another history book and enjoying her full stomach when the realization came to her. She set the text in her lap and groaned loudly, falling backwards onto her pillows and covering her face with her hands.

What would Tamlin do if he found out? Maybe nothing at first-- just inform her that he'd been told her powers are much more developed than she had led them to believe-- accuse her of lying to them, and question her further. Would she be able to dodge all of his questions if they got too specific? How well would she be able to lie? And of course, everyone would be on guard and paying closer attention to her. She wouldn't be able to go anywhere or do anything without several pairs of eyes-- and that was already hard enough as it was.

Then what? Surely, if he was paranoid enough, Tamlin would have her rooms searched. How well would her glamours hold? Would her secret compartment stay hidden? What if they found all her paintings, or the stone? Where would she be then? Perhaps, the two males would assume that the High Lord already knew about the powers of the woman staying in his court, and would consider it irrelevant and unnecessary to bring up.

She'd just have to play it safe-- be more careful.

Removing her hands from her face, Feyre held the stone between her thumb and index finger, lifting it up to the light. The stone had an almost imperceptible glow to it-- it reflected some light, though not enough to be called shiny; however, looking at it up close, the dark blackness of it's rock seemed all-consuming and impenetrable.

No. Now was not the time to play it safe, Feyre thought.

She had been undercover at the Spring Court for months, and still she hadn't learned anything of interest. Now, with two strange fae males acting as delegates for a queen of an unknown land, there was finally something happening here, in the Spring Court. Normally, Tamlin disappeared for secret "meetings," and there was no way for Feyre to learn what he was planning. This was her first opportunity to actually become involved.

No, Feyre was done playing it safe.

She took a deep breath and steeled herself with resolve for what was to come. She lifted the stone once more and released the breath. She still knew nothing about the rock that had mysteriously appeared in those guest chambers. What it was... where it came from... what it did... if there were others like it...

The stone seemed to pulse along with her unanswered questions. This was way bigger than just her.

Feyre sighed and sat up. Setting the stone down on a nearby pillow, and pushing the unfinished history book across the bed, she reached for the pen and paper.