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At last she said into the stillness, “Everything is a mess.”

She didn’t know why she was talking to the House about her personal problems, but she whispered, “I can’t figure out a way to fix it.”

In answer, a pile of splinters landed in her lap, littering the white duvet in wood and cinders.

Nesta sighed deeply. “Is this your opinion on the current state of my relationship with my mate?” The House, of course, didn’t answer. Nesta peered down at the pile. “What is this, exactly? Or was this?”

The splinters stirred on a phantom wind and rose off the blankets, forming a shape in the air beyond the bed. “If you show me Cassian’s stupid face—” she started, but halted as she beheld what the House had crafted. A wooden pillar—a hewn tree trunk. One that looked very familiar, especially as it began to buckle and indent at one particular spot halfway up its length.

“Is that . . . the punching block we used for training last year?” Nesta asked. She’d attacked it until the entire thing collapsed into splinters—and embers steaming with silver flames. The House must have squirreled away the shards when cleaning up after her.

The House repeated itself, building the punching block, then showing it shattering under invisible blows, then disintegrating into the pile again.

Nesta closed her eyes after the second viewing. “Take it away. I get it.” But when she opened her eyes again, the House hadn’t removed the splinters. It had instead placed the massive pile back in her lap.

“Take it away,” she hissed. “I don’t want to see it.” The House obeyed this time.

It was perfect, really. The House couldn’t have chosen a better symbol of where she and Cassian stood. The training, the determination, the love that had grown between them—all shattering not due to some outside force, but because of her. Her choices. Her powers. Her stubbornness.

So yes, it was upon her to rebuild a seemingly impossible whole out of so many shards. But that would require her mate to show up.

Long into the night, she waited for Cassian, curled up in their bed with a Sellyn Drake novel and a cup of warm chocolate. The House got that request correct, at least. But her mate didn’t come. She stayed up as long as she could, eyes burning with fatigue. Yet in the end Nesta fell asleep alone, her hand on Cassian’s pillow, reaching for the empty side of the bed.

Feyre

I walked alone down the untamed stretch of beach to the north of Adriata. I’d winnowed here half an hour ago, needing space and air and tranquility.

I waded shin-deep in the surf, the light skirts of my green dress bunched in one hand, the sun beating on my left side as it began to make its downward turn. There was nothing but the sigh of the surf, the soft, damp sea breeze playing in my hair.

There was no path forward. We had talked and eaten and talked some more, all to no avail. I even got Tarquin alone for a good half hour when Rhys asked Cresseida to show him one of those self-sailing ships, but the conversation with Tarquin went nowhere. And when Rhys returned, face carefully neutral, I shook my head. Nothing had changed.

I didn’t even have it in me to be angry. Their reasons for avoiding the conflict were sound. Tarquin’s people had suffered enough losses. Not just against Hybern, but during the fifty years under Amarantha before that.

Worse was what Tarquin had revealed during our private conversation: Kallias, High Lord of the Winter Court, was in agreement with him. And from what Princess Cresseida had implied upon her return with Rhys, Thesan of the Dawn Court felt the same.

If Tarquin would not formally ally with us in this conflict, then there was no chance Winter or Dawn would, either.

A wave slammed into my legs and I paused, steadying myself as it pulled back, ripping away the sand from beneath my feet. The water was so clear here—so warm. Silvery fish darted in the shallows, long fins trailing like ribbons. I could see them as clearly as if I were gazing through a window.

“If you’re thinking of taking off that dress and swimming naked,” Rhys drawled from behind me, “the answer is yes. Please do.”

I snorted, glancing over a shoulder. My mate was barefoot, black trousers rolled to his knees and matching shirt rolled to his elbows, unbuttoned enough at the top to reveal the beginnings of his Illyrian tattoos.

Another wave crashed around me, spraying my dress.

Rhys offered me a half smile. “That’s an awfully sad expression for someone so beautiful.”

I turned back to the beach, and silently began walking once more. My mate fell into step beside me, and for a while we said nothing.

“I don’t know what to do,” I said hoarsely at last. “Three courts, four if you add the Autumn Court, which is likely—five if you include the Spring Court—that won’t help us. For all we know, Helion won’t agree, either. We’ll never get anywhere if we can’t show strength in Prythian, can’t present a unified front to the world. Even Miryam and Drakon wouldn’t join us.”

“The numbers aren’t on our side,” Rhys agreed.

I kicked at the surf as I looked over at him, hoping to find that familiar smirk, that grin that told me he had a plan and it would all be fine in the end. But Rhys’s face was grave—sad. I swallowed the building lump in my throat. “Are we being fools? I don’t mean about not listening to Amren’s advice to go to Fomoria first. Are we fools for involving ourselves in this conflict at all?”

“There is one solution,” Rhys said very, very quietly. Too quietly. His violet-blue eyes were so bright, so pained. “We rebuild the wall.”

I whirled on him. “What?”