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He’d never understood it. Not even as a warrior in training.

Certainly not after that training was done, when he’d seen firsthand how violent, how ruthless these people could be. The first shadowsinger in a generation had to be strictly instructed, they said. Rhys’s father had insisted on it. Devlon had seen it out.

It was a different sort of training from what he’d done most days with Rhys and Cassian. They’d received similar training in time—how to carve a person apart without killing them, how to inflict pain in such precise movements that enemies broke with little effort—but for him, the education had begun far, far earlier. Younger.

“Enemies” had been provided by Devlon on a weekly basis to learn on. Over and over. He and his shadows had pulled people apart—learning to read them, to block out their shrieks and pleas.

He’d been good at it. Too good at it. Sometimes even Devlon had needed to leave before it was done.

It didn’t matter that sometimes the screams of those people bound to tables or chairs or hanging from rafters had reminded Az of his own when his hands had been melted by his half brothers. He’d decided already: he’d do whatever was necessary to keep his mother and himself from returning to that fortress.

And he’d learn everything he could so that when he did return, he’d make them all pay for every second of suffering.

You did make them pay, Ramiel seemed to whisper from across the horizon. And you don’t regret it, do you?

He didn’t feel the biting breeze on his face. No, he didn’t regret it. He’d do it again if he could.

Monster. Demon.

Yes, he told the mountain. Yes, I am. You and your people made me this way. You gifted me the knife at my side the day I became a warrior—you wanted me to be this way.

Distant clouds drifted by, veiling Ramiel from view. As if the mountain couldn’t bear to behold him for another moment.

It could go commiserate with Rhys, then.

Az turned his back on the holy mountain, striding once more into the trees. He never knew why he bothered to make the walk to this vantage point. Why he’d done it so many times throughout the centuries. It had always ended the same: turning his back on Ramiel in disgust and loathing.

He couldn’t help but feel that the mountain had turned its back on him, too.

Mor or Feyre would probably have suggested that he kept coming here because of the inherent mystery of the mountain: Who had put the monolith atop it? What lay beneath it? No one had ever been inside.

But if Az was being honest, he had a feeling the mountain was empty. Hollow.

That was why he was drawn to it. Because Ramiel was just like him: hateful and empty and cold.

Feyre

“It’s remarkable how much more you’ve rebuilt since we last visited,” I observed to Tarquin as we stood on the grand veranda off his formal dining room. His pale castle rose behind us; the turquoise bay glistened ahead. Adriata hummed with life on its far shore. Connected by a causeway to the mainland, the High Lord of Summer’s castle sat on its own mountainous isle in the heart of the bay, its lower hills encrusted with the estates of the nobility.

Tarquin, resplendent in cobalt robes trimmed with gold, his moon-white hair shorn close to his brown-skinned head, smiled gently. “Another year and I believe we’ll have the city fully returned to its former splendor.”

Before Amarantha, then Hybern, had wrecked and plundered much of it.

In the harbor, ships of various sizes came and went, white sails dazzling against the crushing blue. “That large ship by the harbor exit—with the double sails,” Tarquin said, directing my eyes westward. “A young shipwright managed to build that. It’s a self-sailing ship. It only requires a crew of two. A ship that big, able to be crewed by magic itself. We thought the art lost thanks to Amarantha. She burned all of them early on—butchered the shipwrights who knew how to craft them, too. No doubt to keep any of us from sailing off.” A sad, bitter sigh. “But this young male traveled to the Day Court, worked with Helion’s librarians, and uncovered some of the earliest methods our ancestors used to create them. Amarantha burned a good portion of those books, but this male and the librarians found what precious little had survived in Helion’s libraries.”

The ship soared over the waves, swift and steady, between the two mountains flanking the harbor mouth. “He had scribes make copies of the plans and the spell work they could piece together,” Tarquin continued. “Then he brought it all back here, and has been working on it for more than a year now, filling in the gaps of knowledge with his own experimentation and guesswork. You’re seeing him and his crew heading out on their third trial run.” His smile became strained. “They have another two being built as we speak. I hope they get the chance to sail them.”

I understood him completely.

Behind us, Rhys stood inside the dining room, conversing in that charming way of his with Varian’s sister, Cresseida. There was no sign of the male himself. I ignored the tinge of relief at the thought of not having to face my friend’s lover, who’d certainly heard of our ugly argument already. An opulent lunch of fresh shellfish and the first catch of the day had already been prepared, along with sparkling pale wine from the northernmost reaches of the Summer Court.

This was a careful dance, one whose steps Rhys and I had discussed at length. Tarquin seemed well aware of that as he murmured, “Can we stop pretending that this is just a friendly visit?”

I couldn’t stop my half smile. “It is meant to be friendly, you know.”

The handsome High Lord chuckled. “I’m sure that’s your intention, but only the gravest of matters would take you away from home, and certainly take you away the day before your son’s Naming Day ceremony. How is Nyx?”

He was right. Another hour and my breasts would be achingly full with milk. I’d brought bottles for any hand-expressing I had to do, but if we didn’t get home until late, I wouldn’t get to kiss that sweet-smelling, soft little head before he went to sleep. I wouldn’t get to hold him against my body, let him drink himself into a contented stupor, and—