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Nesta turned to the female slowly, gathering her fury. “There’s no need to reveal yourself for the complete asshole you are, Merrill. Everyone here is already aware.”

Two nearby priestesses—Lorelei and Ananke—spun toward them, gasping. But Nesta held Merrill’s lilac-blue stare.

Merrill tutted. “Such language, in a holy place.”

Nesta gave her a gesture that was sure to defile this place further. But before Merrill could respond, Nesta saw Gwyn striding away from them, already at the doors. As if she had not heard or cared about Merrill’s barb.

So Nesta let Merrill see the lingering silver fire in her eyes as she promised, softly but viciously, “If I find out you had anything to do with her staying down here, you’ll answer to me.”

“Anything to do with what?” Merrill spat. “With Gwyneth being a coward? She does that all on her own, no assistance from me required.”

Gwyn seemed to pause on the threshold, like she’d whirl back around and give Merrill a piece of her mind, but she just kept walking. Until she was gone.

Nesta calmed her simmering rage. Or tried to.

Merrill, damn her, was right in a way: This wasn’t the place for foul language. For confrontation. The priestesses had seen enough violence. Some of them might train to defend themselves each day, but seeing Nesta and Merrill go at it . . . She didn’t want to bring that darkness here. The Mother knew enough of it had once dwelled within this mountain, down below the library.

So Nesta pivoted on her heel and left, blocking out Merrill’s taunting laugh as it trailed behind her.

She clutched Clotho’s ribbon instead, the material almost metallic against her hand. And she could have sworn she felt a pulse of approval run through it. Like the High Priestess herself appreciated her restraint. Her balance.

Perhaps Nesta could thank the Autumn Equinox for that. She sure as hell couldn’t thank herself.

CHAPTER

11

Azriel

Hybern wanted a meeting with them—an alliance, if that strange creature was to be believed. It was likely a trap.

Azriel had decided, while staring at the sea-foam remains drifting on the Sidra’s surface, that he wouldn’t tell Rhys or Feyre until after Nyx’s Naming Day tomorrow. The day after, probably, so they had time to properly enjoy the occasion.

Hybern—the orchestrator of so much of their suffering and loss. It was almost laughable.

But Az tucked the thought away. Cassian had requested that he accompany him to Windhaven, and though Rhys might have yanked him off duty in the human lands, perhaps rightly so, Az could at least help his other brother, unpleasant as this task might be.

Windhaven had barely changed in the five hundred years that Azriel had known it.

There was absolutely nothing special about it—not its location, not its simple wooden buildings, not its miserable people. When he’d first arrived all those centuries ago, his mother shaking and weeping with relief and terror, it had been little more than a settlement whose main purpose was to train Illyrian whelps into bloodthirsty warriors and to offer a place to spend the night while out on their extensive patrols of Night Court territory.

Since then, tents had been replaced by buildings, but even now, it retained something of a backwater feel. It was always muddy, for one. Even in the depths of the bitter winter, somehow it always felt muddy.

And small. Though Windhaven had definitely expanded as its population settled permanently, built families, and grew, there was nothing resembling a good life here. The birchins were as close to community gathering places as it got. There were no restaurants. Not even a tavern.

The only approximation of real ale was the ceremonial mead they imbibed on various holidays, which was almost undrinkable.

Azriel was so in need of something to blunt the edge off the morning’s encounter that he was half-tempted to seek out one of the females who fed the various warriors to beg them for a cup. A bucket. But all the females were occupied making their Autumn Equinox feasts for tomorrow—if one could even call spreads of unseasoned stews and hard bread feasts.

No sign of Cassian, but he’d expected that. He’s arguing with Devlon, his shadows whispered. He doesn’t need you yet for backup, but he will soon.

In the meantime, Az walked along what served as the main street of the village—street here being closer to a muddy path—and toward the one shop that might have something somewhat edible. Or drinkable.

His shadows held fast to his feet and shoulders. He didn’t miss the fact that all the children of the village had suddenly been called inside by their mothers. That had always been the case here.

Monster. Demon. Even five centuries later, they still feared Az in a primal way that set his teeth on edge. He knew that was why Cassian had requested his presence here—to use that fear to their advantage in manipulating these backward assholes into doing what Rhys needed. If they didn’t recognize him on sight, then spying Truth-Teller at his side or the array of blue Siphons told them precisely who stalked through their midst.

The bell above Emerie’s door jangled merrily, perhaps the only joyful sound between here and Velaris. The female herself stood behind the counter, scribbling in a ledger. She glanced up with a frank, swift assessment, eyes darting once to his shadows at his shoulders. “I thought the Naming Day was tomorrow—on the Equinox.”