“And now I’m going to slit your pretty little throat.” // Cassian’s words were not his own. His hands were not his own as Nesta—as his mate—tried to pull away and he clamped his arms around her. Hard enough that her bones shifted against his hands. He was screaming. Silently, endlessly. Screaming at her to fight him, to run. Screaming at himself to stop it. But he couldn’t. No matter what he did, he could not stop it. “Cassian,” Nesta said, struggling. Kill me, he silently begged her. Kill me before I have to do this. “Cassian.” Nesta shoved against his chest. But his arms held firm. Squeezed her tighter. “He can’t obey you, Nesta Archeron,” rasped an old, withered voice from behind Nesta. “He’s mine now.” Cassian could not even widen his eyes in warning. His arms loosened on the queen’s silent command, allowing Nesta to turn in his embrace. Presenting her to Briallyn, who wore the Crown atop her thin, white hair.

They fell silent again as Gwyn shifted her feet, angling the blade. The wind waggled the ribbon again, as if taunting her. Cassian glanced over at Az, but his attention was fixed on the young priestess, admiration and quiet encouragement shining from his face. Gwyn whispered, “I am the rock against which the surf crashes.” Nesta straightened at the words, as if they were a prayer and a summons. Gwyn lifted the blade. “Nothing can break me.” Cassian’s throat tightened, and even from across the ring, he could see Nesta’s eyes gleaming with pride and pain. Emerie said, “Nothing can break us.” The world seemed to pause at the words. As if it had been following one path and now branched off in another direction. In a hundred years, a thousand, this moment would still be etched in his mind. That he would tell his children, his grandchildren, Right then and there. That was when it all changed. Azriel went wholly still, as if he, too, had felt the shift. As if he, too, were aware that far larger forces peered into that training ring as Gwyn moved. Smooth as the Sidra, swift as the wind off the Illyrian Mountains, her entire body working in singing harmony, Gwyn lunged toward the ribbon, twirled, and as she spun, her arm opened up, executing a perfect backhanded slice that cut the winter morning itself. Half the ribbon fluttered to the red stone. A flawless, precise slice. Not one frayed strand rippled in the wind as the severed ribbon hanging from the beam flapped. Nesta bent down, picked up the fallen half of the ribbon, and solemnly tied it around Gwyn’s brow. A makeshift version of what the priestesses wore atop their heads with their stones. But Cassian had never seen Gwyn display her Invoking Stone. Gwyn lifted trembling fingers to her brow, touching the ribbon with which Nesta had crowned her. Nesta’s voice was thick as she declared, “Valkyrie.”

• Recognizing one another's similiar traumas and being able to discuss them properly and respect one another's boundaries
• Exchanging flirting advice
• Exchange hair care advice
• Fashion Icons. Would shop together or help pick outfits for each other and all of us would suffer from how hot they are
• Sparring practices (This would be my version of Nesta gawking at Cassian and Az)
• The playful shade these two could throw at one another with their quick remarks would be 10/10
• These two debate for fun.
• These two keep score of how many debates they've won against one another.
• 100% giving book recs to one another
• 1000% showing off their libraries to one another
• Have little hopeless romantic sessions where they speak of their yearning
• So many social events. So much partying together. Everyone loves them at these things. Makes many friends.
• Gossips about the many friends they've made when it's just the two of them.
• Dorian transforms himself into Eris just to annoy Lucien whenever they disagree about something.
• These two 100% find themselves in a bit of trouble from having a bit too much fun but they are smart enough to get away with it each time.
• Rants about their daddy issues
• Rants about their problematic brothers
• Lucien teaches Dorian how to catch a fish with his bare hands. This increases Dorian's desirability to ungodly levels which no one thought was possible cuz its Dorian Havilliard.
• Lucien eventually gets to go see his mom and brings Dorian to meet her. She adores him. He adores her. Lucien gets a bit jealous and reminds Lady Autumn he is in fact her favorite son.
• Dorian brings Lucien to meet Manon. Lucien is a bit intimidated and wonders how on earth his friend became so bewitched by someone who eats men but he really wants to pet Abraxos so he tries his best to befriend them
• Finds Manon to be rather intriguing company. Debates whether he should suggest she meets Nesta.
• Lucien succeeds in petting Abraxos - is very happy about it.
• Dorian makes Lucien blush when he casually comments on how attractive he thinks Lucien is. Lucien appreciates the remarks but is flustered. (Seriously, Dorian's bisexual energy would vibrate at such high frequencies around Lucien - I just know it)

"And I am still terrified that if I let myself have you … it will be taken away. Someone will take it away, and if you’re dead …” She buried her face in her hands. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “I do not deserve you, and I never, ever will.” Utter silence filled the room. Such silence that she wondered if he’d left, and lowered her hands to see if he was there. Cassian stood before her. Tears streaming down his beautiful, perfect face. She didn’t balk from it, letting him see her like this: her most raw, most base self. He’d always seen all of her, anyway. He opened his mouth and tried to speak. Had to swallow and try again. Nesta saw all the words in his eyes, though. The same ones she knew lay in her own. So he stopped trying to speak, and closed the distance between them. Slid a hand into her hair, the other going around her waist and tugging her against him. He said nothing as he dipped his head, mouth brushing the tears sliding along one of her cheeks. Then the other. She closed her eyes, letting herself savor his lips on her over-hot skin, the way his breath caressed her cheek. Each gentle kiss echoed those words she’d seen in his eyes. Cassian pulled back, and remained that way long enough that she opened her eyes again to find his face inches from her own. “You’re not going to marry Eris,” he said roughly. “No,” she breathed. His eyes blazed. “There will be no one else. For either of us.” “Yes,” she whispered. “Ever,” he promised. Nesta laid a hand on his muscled chest, letting the thunderous beating of the heart beneath echo into her palm. Let it travel down her arm, into her own chest, her own heart. “Ever,” she swore. It was all he needed. All she needed. Cassian’s mouth met hers, and the world ceased to exist.

"War had left the cottage untouched. But the harsh winters since Nesta had last seen it had not been so kind."

She didn’t mean to, but she looked toward the dark fireplace. Toward the mantel. Her father’s wood figurines lay atop it, thickly coated with dust and cobwebs. Some had been knocked over, presumably by whatever creatures now lived here. That familiar roaring filled her ears, and Nesta’s steps thudded too loudly on the dusty floorboards as she approached the fireplace. A carving of a rearing bear—no bigger than her fist—sat in the center. Nesta’s fingers shook as she picked it up and blew off the dust. “He had some skill,” Cassian said quietly. “Not enough,” Nesta said, setting the bear back onto the stone mantel. She was going to vomit. No. She could master this. Master herself. And face what lay before her. She inhaled through her nose. Exhaled through her mouth. Counted the breaths.

“He made this one for Elain. Since it was winter and she missed the flowers.” “Did he ever make any for you?” “He knew better than to do that.” She inhaled a shuddering breath, held it, released it. Let her mind calm. “I think he would have, if I’d given him the smallest bit of encouragement, but … I never did. I was too angry.” “You’d had your life overturned. You were allowed to be angry.” “That’s not what you told me the first time we met.” She pivoted to find him arching a brow. “You told me I was a piece of shit for letting my younger sister go into the woods to hunt while I did nothing.” “I didn’t say it like that.” “The message was the same.” She squared her shoulders, turning to the small, broken cot in the shadows beyond the fireplace. “And you were right.” He didn’t reply as she strode to the cot. “My father slept here for years, letting us have the bedroom. That bed in there … I was born in that bed. My mother died in that bed. I hate that bed.” She ran a hand over the cracking wood of the cot’s frame. Splinters snagged at her fingertips. “But I hate this cot even more. He’d drag it in front of the fire every night and curl up there, huddling under the blankets. I always thought he looked so … so weak. Like a cowering animal. It enraged me.” “Does it enrage you now?” A casual, but careful question. “It …” Her throat worked. “I thought him sleeping here was a fitting punishment while we got the bed. It never occurred to me that he wanted us to have the bed, to keep warm and be as comfortable as we could. That we’d only been able to take a few items of furniture from our former home and he’d chosen that bed as one of them. For our comfort. So we didn’t have to sleep on cots, or on the floor.” She rubbed at her chest. “I wouldn’t even let him sleep in the bed when the debtors shattered his leg. I was so lost in my grief and rage and … and sorrow, that I wanted him to feel a fraction of what I did.” Her stomach churned. He squeezed her shoulder, but said nothing. “He had to have known that,” she said hoarsely. “He had to have known how awful I was, and yet … he never yelled. That enraged me, too. And then he named a ship after me. Sailed it into battle. I just … I don’t understand why.” “You were his daughter.” “And that’s an explanation?” She scanned his face, the sadness etched there. Sadness—for her. For the ache in her chest and the stinging in her eyes. “Love is complicated.”