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Wings and Embers (Nessian)

Overview: The bonus Nessian ACOMAF chapter.
Words:4588

*I do not own any of this chapter- all rights go to Sarah J Maas*

It wasn't that he was looking for a fight, Cassian told himself as he circled above the sprawling estate for the fifth time, despite the unseasonable, early spring chill so brutal it could steal the breath from even the most battle-scarred Illyrian warrior. Rhys had asked him to deliver his latest letter to the human queens, since Az was otherwise occupied trying to infiltrate whatever nasty defenses they held around their palace, and Mor didn't want to set foot in the mortal realm unless necessary. Amren, naturally, was out of the question—simply because she was Amren and it'd be like sending a plains-cat into a pen of lambs. So that left him.

Well, Feyre, too, but she and Rhys were . . . busy.

And, fine—maybe he 'd agreed to come a bit too quickly, but . . . Cassian surveyed the estate, the muddy, thawing grounds, the distant villagers age, and looming, budding forest. He'd left their first encounter here not entirely sure where he'd stood, or who had the upper hand. And, Mother damn him, in the past few weeks, he'd found himself turning over every word and look he'd exchanged with her, over and over.

None of it had been pleasant, every syllable from her mouth barbed and vicious, and . . . Cassian huffed a breath, hot tendrils ripping away in the wind. He couldn't tell what was worse:that he 'd thought so much about it, or that he 'd run here so damn fast. And was now . . . dawdling.
The thought sent him into a swift, near-reckless dive for the green-roofed estate, his magic's cloaking rendering him little more than a fell wind and a hollow boom of wings. The horses in the nearby stables thrashed and nickered at his approach, but their keepers scanned their immediate surroundings, found nothing of alarm, and resumed their work.

Cassian tried not to think about how easy it was—how that lack of awareness, that lack of instinct, would likely cost them their lives should the wall be shattered. Should someone like him turn this estate into a personal hunting ground.
He'd seen it happen in the last war—not that many humans had been wealthy enough to own property. But he'd witnessed what had been left of entire slave camps when one of the Fae decided to have some fun. The thought was enough for him to clench his teeth and hone his focus on the front door before him.

They'd sent word yesterday about precisely when to expect him. So when he knocked on the front door, it was a matter of a heartbeat before it was yanked open.
The sharp movement told him which sister had been waiting.
Yet with his magic cloaking him, Nesta Archeron and her unnervingly perfect face saw nothing but thinning patches of snow on the muddy lawn and the sloping drive cutting through it, the cobblestones gleaming with streams of melting ice. She casually opened the door for him to pass, and called to the insufferably nosy housekeeper that no one was at the door and the sound had only been the wind.
Right. Because emptying the house of all the servants so often would raise more suspicions than was safe. Especially with the other sister engaged to a Fae-hunting prick.

The housekeeper scuttled into the immaculate foyer to confirm for herself that no one was there, but Nesta merely informed her that she was going upstairs and not to disturb her for an hour. The woman opened her mouth to object, but Nesta, with rather impressive flatness, repeated her order and began her ascent up the grand, carpeted staircase.
The housekeeper's eyes thinned to slits as the young mistress strode away—and Cassian kept his steps quiet as death as he eased around the aging woman, then up the stairs as well.

He was focusing hard enough on keeping silent, on keeping his wings tucked in tight so they didn't rustle anything, that he barely took in the heavy, pale purple gown, simpler than others he'd seen Nesta in, tight enough in the bodice to show off her slim waist, the fitted sleeves displaying her slender arms. A thinner build than Feyre and Elain— discounting the generous breasts that he glimpsed as Nesta reached the top of the stairs and turned left.
Not that he looked at them. Much.