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He couldn’t be serious. But that sadness remained etched on his beautiful face. “It was the only thing stopping them before. We rebuild the wall, even stronger this time, and then no one crosses one way or the other.”

Despite the sun, the warm breeze, the gentle water, my very blood chilled.

“How?” I breathed. But I already knew. “With the Trove. And the Cauldron. With me—and Nesta.”

“It took the power of nearly every Fae leader in the Treaty to build that initial wall five centuries ago. We would need much more power behind it than yours and Nesta’s, but yes . . . that’s essentially how we’d do it.”

I had to sit down. Had to walk over to the high-tide line and sink into the sand, forcing myself to loose a too-tight breath. The sun singed my cheeks, my temples. Burned along my hair, the scalp beneath.

I said bleakly, “I thought we agreed that a world divided wasn’t one that could thrive.”

Rhys sat beside me, forearms braced on his knees, tattoos stark in the evening light. The muscles along his forearms shifted as he opened and closed his hands, as if grabbing for some answer he couldn’t reach. “It’s possible, Feyre darling, that a world with no wall is too dangerous to exist. We Fae are too long-lived, too bored in our immortality. We make rules, then bend them, then break them. What is honor when one lives for a thousand years, longer? Time eats all that away. It eats away at the value of honor and kindness and life. Even if you and I got every territory on the continent to sign the treaty, in ten years they might renege on it anyway.”

“So that’s the answer? Decide that humans and Fae can never coexist, and keep our two worlds forever separated?” My voice broke, eyes stinging. “What of Miryam and Drakon’s people? Fae and humans living together, thriving together for five hundred years.”

“Cretea is a small island,” Rhys said, “with only one ruler. The continent has many kingdoms, Fae and human, all with their own views and agendas. Peace rarely lasts.”

I blinked away the burning in my eyes—made myself consider.

Rhys stroked a knuckle down my too-warm cheek. Soothing coolness trailed in the wake of his touch. Like the first night-fresh breeze after a scorching day. I leaned into him, even as I gazed out at the water. “If we build a wall,” I mused, “if we cut their armies off before they can reach the human lands, then they might very well be so furious that they direct those armies right to us.” I turned to my mate, brows high in question—and worry.

“I know.” And there it was: the cost.

I pressed my lips together as they trembled. “So either we fight and die for a lost cause, letting the humans become enslaved again in the process, or rebuild the wall, stop the invasion before it can happen . . . and wait for our enemies to come wreak vengeance upon the Night Court.” I couldn’t bear to do either.

“Or we do nothing,” Rhys suggested. “We step back. Look the other way.”

I knew he hated that option as much as I did. My words shook as I asked plainly, “How can I tell our son to grow into someone who defends those who need it most when I won’t do the same? How can I ever look him in the eye knowing that I doomed thousands—millions—of human children, babies, to such a fate?” I wiped away the tear that had slipped down my face. “I can’t, Rhys. I can’t.”

He reached forward, catching the next tear that fell. “I know.” He kissed me softly on the mouth.

I slid my arms around him, needing his closeness, his warmth, his strength. And when he held me to him, I didn’t stop the tears from falling.

I was a fool for thinking a few alliances might solve this. But alone on this beach, at the edge of Prythian . . . here, I could fall apart. With my mate, I could fall apart and know I was still loved, still supported.

When the tears had stopped, when my breathing had evened out, I pulled back. Rhys’s eyes were shining with unshed tears.

“We need to have our contingency plan in place,” I said, words shaking slightly, but steadier than they’d been minutes ago. I swallowed hard, taking his hand in mine. “The moment the wall goes up, we must have our defenses ready. We’ll use the Trove again to put an impenetrable wall of our own up around us.” But I paused before continuing as another thought hit me, horrible and unavoidable.

Rhys nodded, sensing the direction of my thoughts. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Does that second wall include just the Night Court? Or all of Prythian?”

“Can we survive cut off from other courts?”

“We can and we have. Culturally and spiritually, though? I don’t know.”

“But our enemies might march on Prythian anyway. Sack the other courts as retribution. Try to draw us out by butchering everyone else.”

Another nod. He knew all of this.

“But if we block off Prythian from the world . . . will the other courts deem us their enemies? March on us?” I let go of his hand to rub my face. “How do we ever get them to understand why we did it? To accept it?”

Rhys shook his head, raven-black hair gleaming with reds and golds in the setting sun. “That’s a debate for another day. We’d need to think of a way to extract the Cauldron from Miryam and Drakon, in any case.”

“You think they won’t give it to us? It’s not technically theirs.” And if they tried to keep it as their own possession—

“It’s not ours, either,” Rhys reminded me. “I think they likely will yield it to us, but achieving that peacefully and with minimal questions will be difficult.” After how today had gone with Tarquin, I couldn’t assume anything would be easy. Even with friends.

My stomach twisted. And I dared say, finally, after all these months, “So many of these problems would disappear if you were High King, Rhys—”