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But she’d told no one about the winnowing. It wasn’t anyone’s business.

Her nose tickled, and Nesta wiped away the itch with the back of a hand. The smell of copper filled the air—a nosebleed.

She wasn’t expected back at the house until dinner. Cassian certainly wouldn’t be seeking her out after that conversation in the hall. She’d gained the upper hand, and yet it had killed something in her to walk away and not have him call after her again. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, not after all these weeks, but there was a hollowness in her chest that she couldn’t ease.

So she’d opted for space instead. Open air.

Besides, she needed to do something after Amren had spoken so gently. Which was perhaps one of the more terrifying things she’d ever heard from the female’s mouth. Even worse than Amren’s ugly fight with Feyre moments before. Amren’s tone at the end had made Nesta wonder whether the petite female knew something they didn’t. Like finding the Made object, winning allies either in Prythian or across the sea, might be an impossible task after all.

So Nesta had come here. Alone.

She’d started trying to winnow two weeks ago. It hadn’t been easy, had sapped her so fast it stunned her, but she’d kept at it, in those quiet afternoon hours when everyone else was occupied and had happily forgotten she existed.

Nesta stared down at the stormy sea, blinking away the sting of salty spray.

If Koschei’s recent stirring had caused other Made or wicked magical items to awaken, possibly ones affiliated with Death itself . . . the Prison should be the first place they looked. It had held the Harp, after all, with no detection for millennia. What else was in there?

Nesta knew she could have asked any of the Night Court to transport her to the Prison, but then they’d have questions, and she couldn’t bear the thought of asking for their help if there was a chance she’d emerge empty-handed. She had to try, though. She owed that much to Feyre.

Feyre alone had defended her choice to hand over the Mask to Bryce. Even Cassian hadn’t done so. But Feyre didn’t look at her with disappointment or rage or fear. Only understanding.

I would have done the same, her sister had said.

And that had gotten the others to back down. Not enough to be nice to her these past weeks, but at least Rhys hadn’t killed her. And he wouldn’t, not after Ember and Randall’s brief stay and the motherly talking-to Ember had given Rhys on the subject.

Ember’s pretty, mortal face flashed before her, and Nesta’s chest tightened. She’d never see the human woman again. But her words—you’ll find your way—lingered. Every day, they lingered. Along with what her daughter, Bryce, had said: I think that eight-pointed star was tattooed on you for a reason. Her last words to Nesta before vanishing back into her own world.

Nesta wiped her bloody nose again, staring at the back of her hand as it came away red and wet. That eight-pointed star tattoo was long gone. Though she could have sworn she sometimes felt something tingling down her spine.

. . . for a reason.

For a reason.

A reason.

Nesta closed her eyes, lowering her bloody hand. She pictured the Prison: the mossy, rocky island, the behemoth mountain rising in its center like the spine of some great beast breaking from the ocean depths.

Would the wards on the bone gates even allow her in?

There was only one way to find out. Nesta dove deep into her power, into a core of silver fire that churned like a maelstrom. It was nothing like it had been before, but it was still potent. It still made her balk to behold.

She willed it to her, let it build. Shards of rock shuddered away from her booted feet. The silver flame heated in her body, her mind. Heated, and burned.

The Prison. To its doorstep. To what we need.

Her body ached. No more, it seemed to beg. No more. The nosebleed had been its first signal of alarm. But her body would recover. She hoped.

Her hair began to drift upward. She drew a few more silvery embers to fuel the jump across the endless miles of stormy sea. If she misjudged the distance, if her power drained to the dregs . . . there was nowhere to stop. Not even a shard of rock to cling to.

More—a bit more—

To the base of the Prison, she ordered her magic. That was the closest anyone could get by magical means. The mountain’s wards wouldn’t allow winnowing past that point.

The next splatter of sea spray from the gargantuan waves below dissolved into mist before it could hit her.

Winnowing hadn’t been that hard to figure out. The difficult part had been calculating and summoning the precise amount of power to take her exactly where she willed. With this unknown leap, she was totally in the dark about the exact distance save for the map she’d studied that morning while waiting for Feyre, Rhys, and Mor to return from Storr.

A reason.