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And Lucien could fight. The male knew how to handle himself, even if—like his eldest brother, Eris—he appeared more coddled courtier than anything.

“Thank you,” Feyre said to Lucien. “I’m glad you appreciate it.” She gestured to Mor and said, “I recently had it hung there. Since some people think it’s dreary, and advised me to move it from where I originally had it in my art studio. Claimed it would depress the children there.”

“All that black is dreary,” Mor protested.

“We live in the Night Court,” Feyre reminded her. “The tapestry is of our sigil.”

And yet Feyre had indeed moved it from her studio a few weeks ago. It was a beautiful piece, and a powerful one, but she’d said it would be better appreciated here. Certainly better protected from errant paint splatters.

Lucien added with that smooth politeness, “I think that’s the point, though. The darkness in the tapestry is there to make that extraordinary silver thread shine.” At Feyre’s furrowed brow, Lucien tapped the skin beside his metal eye. “It became a river of light with this—even more spectacular.” He glanced to Elain, who was ignoring him. Or at least not deigning to turn his way, even with the floral arrangement between them nearly blocking her view of him. That was likely intentional, too, Az thought with no small amount of smugness. Especially as Lucien looked back to Feyre, defeated, and said, “If you ever speak to the artist, please tell them the tapestry meant a great deal to me today, after Bryaxis. It . . . helped steady me in some way I can’t quite explain.”

Azriel suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Lucien had always had the ability to spout pretentious nonsense at the drop of a hat.

Feyre nodded, though, and said, “I also found strength in it today.”

A heavy, fraught silence fell. Fear and dread and exhaustion—

Azriel blocked out his shadows, realizing they’d crept close enough again to listen, to report, though they still stayed well away from Elain.

Lucien dragged a hand through his hair, a smooth, pretty movement. Some part of Az relaxed to find her still ignoring Lucien wholly, but his stomach gave an unpleasant twist at her untouched beef and creamed potatoes, both of which Mor and Nesta had piled almost comically high for her.

Lucien said to Feyre a shade awkwardly, like he’d just realized he’d possibly overstayed his welcome, “If you’d like, I can take my leave—”

“Stay,” Feyre insisted.

Rhys leaned back in his chair, swigging from his wine before he said, “I don’t object to having one more warrior here tonight.”

“I thought we were going to attempt to make this a fun dinner,” Cassian muttered into his own drink, draining it.

Regarding Elain over the roses so artfully arranged to block their view of each other, Lucien said, again with that trained smoothness, “I’m at your disposal.”

Thankfully, Elain’s mouth tightened. She clearly knew the words were meant for her, but she didn’t look at him. And Az wasn’t a good enough male to not bask in satisfaction at the sight of how the light in Lucien’s remaining russet eye guttered.

Lucien reached into his jacket pocket, though, and set a small wooden figurine on the lacquered table. “I’m sure presents are the last thing you care about right now, but I wanted to give this to you,” he said to Feyre—and to Elain and Nesta. “Your father carved it on his journey with me.”

They all leaned closer to see the finely wrought carving of a small rabbit.

Lucien explained with that ever-graceful manner of speaking, “He did it to pass the time at our various camps, but the work was so good that I kept it when he was done. I thought it would be a nice gift for you to give your son. To have a piece of his grandfather.”

Az might have been inclined to ignore him had Feyre’s throat not bobbed. His High Lady bowed her head in thanks as she picked up the figurine. “Nyx’s favorite toy is a stuffed rabbit. It’s like my father knew.”

“He was a good man,” Lucien said, his eye lingering longingly on Elain. “I admired him.” Az ground his teeth.

Cassian shifted in his seat beside Az, and Az found his brother watching Nesta, who was rigid in her seat. She doesn’t know what to feel, what to say, the shadows supplied. Pain and anger and sorrow and guilt—

Cassian poured himself another cup of wine, his back and wings stiff. Like Nesta’s pain wasn’t his problem, like it didn’t matter one bit. Had they even spoken to each other since the attack?

Nesta stared at the wooden rabbit, though Az knew her attention was on her mate. They barely speak, barely touch, and it is killing her, destroying her—

Azriel blasted his shadows back, sending them scurrying again into the hall. He didn’t need to know what was going on between two mates. If they had been enemies or even potential allies, yes—but Cassian and Nesta deserved privacy.

“Thank you,” Feyre said to Lucien at last before tucking the rabbit into a pocket of her gown.

Lucien nodded and fell silent, eating his food with courtly elegance. Az couldn’t help studying the fork and knife in his own grip. In the candlelight, the scars on his hands were all the more gruesome, his fingers a ruin compared to the clean golden-brown of Lucien’s skin.

Az asked the Autumn Court lordling abruptly, “When you and Tamlin allied with Hybern, who was your contact?”

Everyone—except for Elain—whipped their heads to him. Lucien blushed slightly. Swallowed.