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Despite my disappointment, I nodded. “I understand.” Whatever she’d endured today, she wanted to process it with the person she felt closest to, safest with. The male who had gifted her the rubies she rarely took off. “You’ll be missed, though. And when you return”—I offered a grim smile—“let’s discuss strategy.”

Amren returned my smile with a sad, strained one of her own, let out a long breath, and walked toward the front door. She was just reaching for the handle when I blurted, “I’m grateful, you know.” Amren halted, peering back at me. I explained softly, “To have an honest friend like you. One who isn’t afraid to call me out when I’m wrong. To tell me the truth, even if I don’t want to hear it.” I put my hand on my chest, right over my heart, the tiny gems on my gown cool against my tattooed palm. “I’m grateful for you, Amren.”

Amren just dipped her chin, silver eyes desolate. And without another word, she was gone.

Azriel

Seated at the dining table in the river house, Azriel had to keep checking his hands to make sure they weren’t covered in blood, as he’d seen in the temple. That they weren’t melted down to scraps of skin and glossy white bone.

Bryaxis was back. Fear itself.

Something had happened since the Hybern War. Wherever Bryaxis had gone, whatever it had done while out in the wilds, it had been twisted into something worse. What had once been a terror at the bottom of the library was now something different.

But it was contained, at least, back at the library—if they could trust Clotho. Mind to mind, in extremely clipped words, Feyre had explained to all of them what had occurred there.

As night had fallen, Rhys had dispatched messages to the city leaders that new wards would be going up, the sort that allowed no one, save for the Inner Circle, in or out. Not even a bird. If Bryaxis had entered without them knowing, what else might get through? What if Bryaxis had only been the first in a wave of assailants?

Amren had been shockingly affected by the morning’s events—she’d apparently left in search of whatever solace Varian could provide. Az had never seen Amren’s face so ashen, her lips so ghostly pale when they all came back to themselves after the terror of Bryaxis. She’d kept whispering to herself, “You survived it; you got through it.” Over and over.

“This is going to be a depressing dinner,” Feyre now said from one end of the dining table, “if we all stay silent and push our food around.”

Azriel and the others had gathered in the dining room, if only because the food was already prepared and waiting. What else were they to do? Dwell on the nuances of their fears?

The thought of that dark essence lurking in the library again made Az feel faintly sick. Clotho’s explanation that Bryaxis had been summoned back by the song that called lost sisters home baffled him. He couldn’t imagine feeling any kinship for such a creature.

Bryaxis had snatched away what should have been an eternal memory of joy. The why of it was eating Az alive. He’d spent the hours since the attack scouring the city, circling above the House of Wind, willing his shadows to learn whatever else they could. They’d reported nothing. Absolutely nothing.

They’d been useless against Bryaxis. He didn’t know why he’d expected anything better from them in the aftermath of the attack, either.

“After the day we had,” Rhys said to his mate, setting aside his fork with a courtier’s grace, “you’re really in the mood to banter?”

“No,” Feyre said glumly, “but I’d be glad to get out of my own head a bit. So banter would be appreciated.”

She had changed into a simple silver velvet gown, long-sleeved against the nighttime autumn chill, her hair coiled atop her head in a pretty swirl. No jewelry beyond her star-sapphire mating ring. None of the morning’s stunning splendor.

Even Rhys had unbuttoned the top of his collar, letting his shirt and the tattooed chest beneath show. He’d changed, too, but his hair was disheveled, his skin salted with dried sweat. Az couldn’t help but think that his brother looked like he hadn’t really sat down until now.

The only person missing was Nyx, who was already asleep, according to Rhys. Az knew that both parents had their daemati skills focused with razor-sharp precision on the nursery beside their bedroom, alert for so much as a mewl.

It was hard to imagine any sort of darkness, even Bryaxis, getting into this lovely house, though. The twinkling faelights of the dining room gave off a warm, soft glow, shading the purple silk wallcloth a seductive amethyst. The fabric had been embroidered with gold and silver beading fashioned into stars, moons, and celestial swirls, and the moldings above and below it had all been intricately carved into an array of night-blooming flowers.

Az had avoided Elain when he arrived, though his shadows told him plenty. Or rather, their silence, their refusal to even set foot in the room, spoke volumes about her presence. She was here, which meant his shadows weren’t—they were clustered just outside the dining room. Good.

It had nearly killed him not to go to her earlier, but he couldn’t, not with Lucien there. All this day needed was a fight between allies to top it off.

“Banter, banter, banter, let me see . . .” Cassian drawled, tapping his fork on the table, and Az braced himself. When Cassian had that particular half grin and spark in his eye, the next words were sure to be pure mischief. If there was anyone who could feign normalcy after the attack, it was Cassian.

Cassian turned to Lucien and said, “You’re pretty unruffled for a male who beheld his worst nightmares today. Want to share what you saw?”

“That wasn’t the sort of banter I meant, asshole,” Feyre hissed as Lucien’s mouth flattened.

Az couldn’t help his smirk. He couldn’t antagonize Lucien—it would have made things far too obvious—but he was perfectly content to let Cassian bait the male.

Elain sat between Nesta and Mor, about as far away from Lucien as she could get. And since Azriel had placed himself as far as he could get from Lucien as well, he found himself seated directly opposite her. Not that Elain acknowledged him. Her eyes were fixed on her plate, those thick, dark lashes bobbing every now and then as she thanked Nesta or Mor in hushed tones for putting food before her.

What had she seen today? What nightmares had set her screaming so loudly? Had anyone asked her? She still wore her gown from earlier—did anyone notice the dirt stains on it? The scratches on her ivory hands? She’d been in the garden, then.

“Thank you for letting me . . . recover in your study,” Lucien said politely to Feyre, not taking Cassian’s bait. “The tapestry behind your desk is remarkable.” His face had been sliced open, though the cuts were already healing. It seemed like he’d been clawing at his skin. At the metallic golden eye. He was handsome, Azriel would give him that. His enchanted eye and the scar around it somehow only added to the effect. He dressed himself with as much care as Rhys—he was still in his cobalt-blue jacket with faint gold embroidery along the lapels, his long red hair a silken curtain draping down past his shoulders.