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Chapter Text

The summons to the River House arrived at dusk.

Nesta had not intended to go—Rhysand’s commands rarely held weight over her unless Feyre herself delivered them—but Cassian’s unreadable expression when he appeared at the House of Wind and simply said, “You’re wanted downstairs,” had been enough to stir unease in her chest.

So she descended.

The living room was heavy with silence when she entered, though the fire crackled low in the hearth. Feyre sat rigidly on the sofa, fingers tangled together as if to keep them from shaking. Rhys leaned against the mantel, face carved from stone. Azriel was shadow itself, half-submerged in the corner, but his hazel eyes gleamed like steel. And Mor watched from the far side of the room, her golden hair a flame in the dim.

It was Cassian who moved first. He stepped inside the circle of their gazes, close enough that Nesta could feel the tension vibrating off him, though he kept his wings tucked tightly at his back.

“Nesta,” Rhys began, his voice smooth and cold as black marble. “We need you to go to the Autumn Court.”

Her brows lifted, though her heart thudded once, sharp and loud. “I beg your pardon?”

Rhys’s violet eyes fixed on her. “We require information Beron will not part with easily. His court has been restless, his sons restless. Our scouts sense old alliances stirring—dangerous ones. He will expect Cassian or Azriel to bring violence, or Feyre to bring diplomacy. He will not expect you.”

A quiet scoff left Nesta’s throat. “So I’m to be bait.”

Feyre flinched, but did not deny it.

Before Rhys could answer, Cassian’s voice cracked through the room like thunder. “Absolutely not.”

The word lanced the air, thick with raw fury. He surged forward, broad shoulders squared, wings flaring before he snapped them tight again. His hazel eyes blazed as they landed on Rhys. “You cannot send her into that viper’s nest. You know what Beron is. What his sons are.”

Nesta should have rolled her eyes, should have met his protectiveness with a barbed retort. But his rage was not the usual roaring fire—it was tightly leashed, deadly, as if he stood one breath from breaking apart the entire room to keep her safe.

Rhys only arched a brow. “This isn’t your decision, Cassian.”

“The hell it isn’t.” Cassian’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He pivoted toward Nesta then, desperate. “You don’t know what they’ll do to you, Nes. You’ve heard the stories. I’ve seen it. Beron’s sons will tear apart anything they think they can break. I won’t allow you to walk into that court alone.”

Something in Nesta bristled at the words—I won’t allow you. As if she were a child to be shielded. As if her choices, her steel, meant nothing. Her voice was ice when she finally spoke. “Perhaps I do know, Cassian. Perhaps that’s why I’m the one who can stand against them.”

The words sliced through his fury, but only barely.

Azriel’s shadows shifted, restless, as his low voice entered the fray. “She may succeed where none of us could. Beron respects cruelty. He respects those who do not flinch.” His glance flicked to Nesta, not unkind, but hard. “That is why Rhys asked her.”

“Then I’ll go with her,” Cassian snapped, a plea disguised as command. “If she must step into Autumn, I’ll be at her side.”

Nesta’s throat tightened at the raw terror in his voice. But Rhys shook his head. “No. If Beron scents your temper in his halls, the mission will collapse before it begins. Nesta must go alone.”

The finality in those words silenced the room. Feyre whispered, “Nesta… it’s your choice. No one will force you.”

But Nesta saw the truth in their faces: it was not a choice. It never was. The Night Court needed her to be the blade, the mask, the unexpected piece on the board.

And Cassian—her Cassian—looked at her as though he were already mourning.

Her heart thudded again, and she lifted her chin, ice wrapping around the storm inside. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Cassian swore viciously, stepping toward her as if to seize her, to shake sense into her. But something in her eyes—perhaps the cold fire she let burn there—stopped him. He only stood, breathing hard, wings trembling with the effort of restraint.

Nesta forced herself not to falter. “When do I leave?”

Rhys’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, not quite grim. “Tomorrow.”

The word dropped like a stone into the firelit silence.

Cassian’s gaze met hers, pleading, furious, helpless. And Nesta, though her bones ached with dread, held that gaze until the fire snapped loud in the hearth—until she felt the weight of her choice settle in her chest like a brand.

Chapter Text

The firelight flickered low in the River House, shadows bending across the walls as Rhys delivered his decree: Nesta would go to the Autumn Court.

Cassian’s furious denial still rang in the air when another voice, soft but steady, cut through the silence.

“I’ll go with her.”

Every head turned. Gwyn stood in the doorway, coppery hair loose around her shoulders, teal eyes bright with conviction. She had slipped in unnoticed, but now she stood tall, chin lifted, as if daring them to challenge her.

Azriel moved instantly, shadows recoiling with the whip of his temper. His voice was sharp enough to cut steel. “Absolutely not.”

Gwyn did not flinch. “Why not? They don’t know me in Autumn. I could blend in far easier than Cassian or Azriel ever could. I can stay by Nesta’s side—make it harder for Beron to corner her alone.”

Azriel took a step forward, wings twitching, shadows snarling around his shoulders. “Do you have any idea what Beron’s sons would do to an unguarded female they think they can toy with? You think you’ll just blend in?” His hazel eyes burned, wild with protectiveness. “I won’t allow it.”

Gwyn’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but her voice was even. “I won’t let Nesta walk into that pit alone. Two are harder to corner than one. And if you think I haven’t trained for danger, you’ve forgotten everything about me.”

The air crackled with the force of Azriel’s fury—shadows clinging to him like smoke—but beneath it was fear, raw and unhidden. His gaze flicked to Nesta, then back to Gwyn, as if the thought of losing either made something inside him unravel.

Rhys’s voice slid into the space between them, cool and deliberate. “It may not be a terrible idea.”

Cassian barked a curse. “Are you insane?” He jabbed a hand toward Nesta. “You’re already gambling with her life—and now Gwyn’s too?”

Nesta’s icy calm finally fractured. She snapped, “Enough.”

All eyes fell on her, but Nesta looked only at Gwyn. The priestess’s eyes held no fear, only fierce determination. For the first time since the mission had been spoken aloud, Nesta felt a flicker of something she hadn’t expected: relief.

Gwyn nodded once, resolute. “You won’t be alone.”

The Mission (Private Scene)

he River House had long gone quiet. Feyre had retreated upstairs with Rhys, Mor disappeared into the night, and even Azriel’s shadows had withdrawn into silence after Gwyn’s declaration. Only Nesta remained in the sitting room, staring into the dying fire as the last embers glowed red and soft.

She knew he was there before he spoke.

“You’re really going to let her do this?” Cassian’s voice came from the doorway, low and raw with strain.

Nesta didn’t turn, though her lips curled faintly. “Do what? Walk beside me? It seems you should be grateful. You can stop gnashing your teeth over me going alone.”

He entered the room, boots whispering against the carpet, until he stood behind her chair. She could feel his heat, the restless energy rolling off him. “Don’t twist this into a joke. You know damn well what Beron’s sons are capable of. Now it’s you and Gwyn.”

At that, she turned, tilting her head just enough to catch his expression. He looked carved from shadow and flame—jaw tight, wings half-flared, hazel eyes stormy with fear he could not disguise.

“Why do you care so much?” Nesta asked softly. It wasn’t mocking, though the words could have been mistaken for it. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Nothing more. Friends don’t risk splitting their own hearts open over each other’s choices.”

Cassian’s throat bobbed. For a moment, he said nothing, as if the words clawed at his chest but refused to leave. Finally: “Because you don’t see yourself the way I do.” His voice was almost a growl, almost a plea. “You walk around as if you’re disposable, as if stepping into danger means nothing. But it means something to me. It always has.”

The fire popped, filling the silence between them. Nesta looked away first, back to the hearth, though her pulse thundered in her ears.

“I can handle myself,” she murmured. “And Gwyn is braver than you give her credit for.”

Cassian dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once like a caged predator before stopping in front of her chair. He leaned down, bracing his hands on the armrests, trapping her in his heat and shadow. “That’s not the point, Nes. You shouldn’t have to prove how strong you are by surviving monsters. You already are.”

The intensity in his eyes nearly unraveled her. Nearly. Nesta forced a smirk, though it felt brittle. “Careful, Cassian. If you keep saying things like that, someone might think you’re fond of me.”

He huffed a laugh—rough, humorless. “Fond of you? You drive me out of my godsdamned mind.” His gaze dropped to her mouth for the barest second before snapping back up. “But I’d rather go mad than see you hurt.”

Nesta’s heart stumbled, traitorous and wild. She leaned back in her chair, feigning indifference, though her fingers dug into the fabric of the armrest. “Then you’ll just have to wait and see if I come back in one piece.”

He straightened slowly, as if forcing himself to let go, to give her space. His voice was quieter when he said, “I’ll be waiting.”

And then he was gone, wings rustling as he stalked into the night, leaving Nesta alone with the dying fire—and the ache of everything neither of them had said.

Chapter Text

The halls of the River House were silent, but Azriel was waiting.

Gwyn paused at the top of the staircase, tugging her braid over one shoulder. She had sensed him before she saw him—the weight of shadows, the hum of tension that always clung to him.

“You followed me,” she said, voice calm, but her eyes sparked as she spotted him leaning against the wall.

Azriel stepped forward, shadows curling tighter around his broad shoulders. “What you did down there was reckless.”

“Reckless?” Gwyn’s copper brows arched. “Or brave?”

“Reckless,” he snapped, harsher than he intended. The word echoed too loud in the still corridor, and his jaw clenched as he lowered his voice. “You have no idea what you’re volunteering for, Gwyn. Beron’s sons… they don’t play games. They destroy. You’d be walking straight into their den.”

Gwyn crossed her arms, meeting his glare without flinching. “And you think Nesta should do it alone? At least if I’m there, she won’t be surrounded by wolves without another blade at her back.”

“She’s not a blade,” Azriel said fiercely, taking a step closer. Shadows hissed with his temper. “She’s a person. And so are you. Neither of you should be in that court.”

The words hung between them—too raw, too revealing.

Something softened in Gwyn’s gaze. “You’re afraid.”

Azriel stilled. No one ever named it, not like that.

Gwyn tilted her head, voice gentler now. “I know what it’s like to have others try to shield you, to keep you in safe cages because they think you’re fragile. But I’m not fragile, Azriel. I’m choosing this. For Nesta. For myself.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, wings shifting restlessly. “They will see you as prey,” he whispered, voice rough with something more than anger. “And the thought of that—” He cut himself off, shadows surging as if to hide him.

Gwyn took a step closer. Not afraid, not deterred. “Then trust that I’ll prove them wrong.”

Their eyes locked—his, stormy with fury and fear; hers, steady and bright as flame. For a long, taut moment, neither looked away.

Finally, Azriel exhaled, the fight leaving him in a long, shuddering breath. He raked a hand through his dark hair. “If you’re set on this, then I’ll do what I can to prepare you. But don’t mistake that for approval. I still think it’s a mistake.”

Gwyn’s lips quirked, the ghost of a smile. “Then we’ll just have to prove you wrong, shadowsinger.”

Azriel’s shadows stirred at her words, curling closer as if they recognized something he could not yet admit.

Chapter Text

The Autumn Court smelled of smoke and rot.

As soon as the winnow snapped shut, Nesta’s boots sank into the black-and-crimson carpets of Beron’s great hall, the weight of his gaze already pressing down like a blade to her throat. The vaulted chamber was all firelight and shadows, gold and blood-red banners dripping from the rafters. At the far end of the hall, Beron sat upon his throne of flame-kissed iron, crowned with embers.

Every son except Eris lounged in their places near him. Their eyes—sharp, cruel, greedy—swept over Nesta and then over the priestess at her side.

Nesta lifted her chin. The cold mask slid over her face, the same one that had carried her through war and despair. Gwyn, though quieter, matched her with an unflinching spine, her teal eyes steady and unyielding even as those gazes lingered too long.

“Ladies,” Beron drawled, voice like oil. “To what do we owe the… pleasure?”

The word pleasure dripped with venom.

Nesta’s lips curved into the faintest smirk. “Surely word reached you that the Night Court respects its neighbors enough to send courtesy envoys.”

The males around him laughed—low, mocking. One of the younger sons muttered something crude, and Nesta felt Gwyn shift slightly closer to her, shoulders brushing. The contact grounded her more than she expected.

Beron’s eyes narrowed. “Rhysand sends no warriors, no High Lady. Instead, he sends…” His gaze lingered on Nesta, then slid to Gwyn. “…unmated women. Curious.”

Nesta’s nails bit into her palms, but her smile did not falter. “Perhaps it’s because he trusts us to speak without cloaking every word in hidden threats.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Beron’s mouth curved in mock amusement. “We shall see.”

At the edges of the chamber, Eris finally appeared—emerging from the shadows near a pillar, his amber eyes cool and assessing. Unlike his brothers, his stare was not hungry but sharp, calculating. He inclined his head to Nesta ever so slightly.

She did not return it.

Gwyn’s voice, steady but clear, slipped into the silence. “We thank you for hosting us, High Lord. We only ask for safe passage during our stay.”

That earned another ripple of laughter, crueler this time. One son leaned forward. “Safe passage? My dear, safety is rarely granted—it’s taken.”

Nesta’s silver flame stirred, hot and restless in her blood, but she shoved it down, keeping her mask intact. She stepped forward, every inch the blade they’d sent her to be. “Then perhaps we’ve come to take it.”

The hall went quiet. Even Beron’s smile faltered for the briefest moment.

Behind her, she felt Gwyn’s quiet strength—a presence not of shadows, but of light, steady and unyielding. Together, they stood before the fire and the vipers.

And for the first time since agreeing to this mission, Nesta thought: Maybe we have a chance.

Beron’s laugh rolled through the great hall, deep and amused in a way that made Nesta’s skin crawl. He leaned forward on his throne, eyes gleaming like embers fixed on her.

“Sharp tongue, sharper eyes,” he mused. “No wonder Rhysand keeps you hidden away. A creature like you… could start wars with a glance.”

The way he said creature was a caress and an insult all at once. His sons chuckled, but Nesta kept her mask smooth, even as bile rose in her throat.

Beron’s gaze dragged down her body, blatant, hungry. When his eyes met hers again, there was heat in them, vile and eager. “You’ll dine with me tonight. Privately. I insist.”

The words thrummed through the hall like a threat.

Cassian’s voice was not here to thunder his outrage. Azriel’s shadows were not here to intervene. Nesta only had herself, her will, and the faint presence of Gwyn’s hand brushing her own in silent solidarity.

She almost refused. Almost.

But something in Beron’s expression—the arrogance, the certainty that she would bend—made the decision for her. Nesta tilted her chin, her smirk cold and cutting.

“Very well,” she said, voice smooth as steel. “I accept.”

The hall erupted—murmurs, laughter, the younger sons’ sly smiles. Gwyn’s sharp intake of breath at her side.

Beron leaned back, satisfied, as if he had already won something from her. “Excellent. My stewards will fetch you at dusk. Wear something worthy of Autumn’s fire.”

Nesta inclined her head in mocking politeness. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”

The High Lord of Autumn smiled, slow and wicked.

But behind the mask of icy calm, Nesta’s heart beat like war drums.

Gwyn whispered under her breath, only for Nesta to hear, “Are you mad?”

Nesta’s smirk never faltered. “Maybe. But if Beron wants me close… then I’ll get close enough to see what he’s hiding.”

Gwyn’s teal eyes flashed with worry. Yet she nodded, steady as ever. “Then I’ll be waiting right outside that door.”

And as Beron raised his goblet in mock salute, Nesta Archeron smiled back—already calculating how to survive a private dinner with a monster.

Chapter Text

The chamber the Autumn Court had given them was lavish, but it reeked faintly of smoke and cedar, as if even the walls were steeped in fire. A gilded mirror stood tall against one wall, its frame carved with snarling foxes and twisting flame.

Nesta stood before it, her breath steady as she tightened the last strap of her gown. The deep crimson silk clung like molten fire to every line of her body, slit high to her thigh, neckline plunging low. She had chosen it not for beauty, not for vanity—but because Beron wanted to see a weapon disguised as a woman. She would give him that weapon sharpened to the hilt.

Behind her, Gwyn smoothed the skirts of her own dress—emerald green, threaded with gold. It bared her shoulders, the fabric cut daringly close to the swell of her chest, her coppery hair left loose in waves down her back. Her reflection in the mirror showed no fear, only determination that made her teal eyes blaze brighter.

“You look like a queen,” Gwyn said softly, tugging the chain of her delicate golden necklace into place.

Nesta’s smirk was razor-sharp. “And you look like temptation itself.”

The knock of boots against stone came a heartbeat later. But it wasn’t from the hallway. It was inside the room.

Shadows peeled back from the corner—then Azriel stepped out, every line of his body tight, his hazel eyes widening as they landed on Gwyn. His shadows writhed as if they didn’t know whether to shield her or touch her.

At the same moment, another rush of air split the room—Cassian winnowed in, wings spreading wide before he snapped them close again. His gaze hit Nesta first—and he froze.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Azriel’s jaw worked, his hands flexing at his sides, shadows coiling tighter around him. He had faced kings, monsters, armies—but he had not prepared for Gwyn in emerald silk. His breath caught as his eyes dragged helplessly over her before snapping away, as if ashamed of the hunger there.

Cassian was no better. Nesta had never seen him stunned to silence—yet here he was, staring at her as if he’d been struck. His throat bobbed, wings twitching, the usual swagger stripped away. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough. “Mother above…”

Nesta arched a brow, feigning indifference even as her pulse leapt at his reaction. “Don’t look so shocked, Cassian. It’s just a dress.”

His laugh was broken, humorless. “That is not just a dress, Nes.” His eyes, dark and burning, lingered a fraction too long before he dragged them away.

Gwyn, cheeks flushed but chin held high, crossed her arms. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
Gwyn lifted her chin, defiant even as her cheeks burned pink. “We do. Beron asked Nesta to a private dinner, and she accepted.”

The words slipped out like a spark into dry tinder.

Cassian went still. Then the fury ignited.

“What?” His wings snapped wide, filling the room with shadow and threat. His voice was thunder, rattling the very walls. “He asked you to dine alone with him, and you said yes?”

Nesta didn’t flinch. Her smirk was icy, deliberate. “What would you have me do? Refuse, and let him smell weakness?”
Cassian prowled toward her, every inch of him a storm barely leashed. His hazel eyes burned so hot they nearly scorched. “He doesn’t want a dinner, Nes. He wants to devour you. You’re walking into a trap, and you’re dressed like—” His words cut off, his throat working, rage choking him.

“Like what?” Nesta taunted softly, stepping close enough that the slit of her gown parted with every movement. “Like someone who can beat him at his own game?”

His jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder it didn’t break. His hands flexed at his sides as if aching to grab her, drag her away, shield her. “You don’t understand. Beron doesn’t play games. He consumes. He corrupts. And if he lays a finger on you—” His voice broke, guttural, as if the thought alone was unbearable.

Behind them, Gwyn’s teal eyes widened with guilt. “I shouldn’t have—”

Azriel laid a hand on her shoulder, his own voice rough but steadier. “You needed to say it. He had to know.” Shadows licked around him, restless with his own fury.

Nesta stood her ground, chin high, her mask unyielding even as her pulse thundered. “I’ll survive him, Cassian. I always survive.”

Cassian’s chest heaved, every muscle taut, his wings trembling with the force of his rage and something else he dared not name. His voice came out hoarse. “and If he so much as breathes wrong on you—”

Nesta’s smirk wavered, just slightly. “Then you can kill him afterward.”

The fire between them crackled, dangerous and unspoken. Cassian’s eyes devoured her, torn between fury, desire, and helpless fear.

At last, Gwyn’s hand slid into Nesta’s, grounding them both. She spoke into the silence, firm but quiet. “We’re not doing this for him. We’re doing this for the Court. For the truth. And we’ll go through with it, whether you approve or not.”

Azriel’s shadows curled protectively around her as if even they wanted to shield her. Cassian only swore, harsh and broken, before raking his hands through his hair and turning away—because if he kept looking at Nesta in that dress, knowing where she was going, he might lose what little control he had left.

Nesta stepped forward, the slit of her gown whispering open to reveal endless leg. Cassian’s eyes dropped helplessly before he cursed under his breath. She tilted her head, smirking. “We don’t need your permission. We know what we’re doing.”

Cassian’s voice was raw. “You think this is a game? Dressing like that for Beron? You don’t know what kind of fire you’re playing with.”

Nesta’s eyes glittered. “Maybe I do. And maybe that’s why I’ll win.”

The room pulsed with silence—two males visibly undone, two females steeled for battle.

Gwyn slipped a hand into Nesta’s, squeezing once, grounding them both. “We’re ready.”

Azriel and Cassian exchanged a look—one part fury, one part helpless admiration—as the bells tolled outside, calling them toward Beron’s table.