A Court of Sacrifices and Salvation

CHAPTER I

Again, this is a MATURE story and this first chapter is heavy with anxiety and panic attacks. If you are affected by these topics, I recommend you reconsider reading. Enjoy and please let me know your thoughts!

*************

The echoing tap of my black leather boots against the marble floor is the sole sound in the House of Wind. With my mind whirling, I lose count of the numerous times I walk back and forth. The rhythmic tapping is all that is keeping me tethered to reality; all that is keeping my anxiety from consuming me whole. Even then, I feel myself slipping up. My once impenetrable demeanor is nowhere to be found, as the minuscule cracks that began forty-eight years ago, have since eroded the mighty walls into nothing.

"You're beginning to wear a path into the floor with all that pacing," Mor states in a half joke as she appears in my doorway. These days, few of us can summon up the carefree energy to joke around how we used to. Or rather, maybe it's just me. I vaguely recall Cassian's barking laugh through dinner last night. Yet, I can't recall what we ate... maybe I'm remembering his laughter from a more distant memory?

The confusion instantly halts my legs in place, although the rest of my body's momentum throws me forward. The hard marble floor I'm bound to collide with disappears from beneath me. I squeeze my eyes and brace for the collision, but nothing happens. My glacial blue eyes shoot open when I hear orchestral music and mind-numbing chatter.

I'm standing in a cavernous throne room from the looks of it, as to my immediate right, there is a dais. Upon it sit two menacing thrones carved of black stone. Waves of blood red hair pour over the arm of the seat nearest me; matching the scarlet marble of the floor. The owner darkly chuckles to herself as she surveys the high fae and faeries alike who are dancing, mingling, and sipping from goblets full of faerie wine. Without a doubt, I know I am standing next to the self-proclaimed bitch queen, Amarantha.

Centuries of training should have my body automatically leaping into action, by assessing my surroundings with a ready hand on my thigh-holstered dagger. However, not even a second after I register that I cannot control my body, internal panic sets in. Even simply moving my eyes is impossible. Against my will, I take a few steps forward and my eyes swivel fully onto Amarantha.

I'm smug to find she's not as wickedly gorgeous as I always have imagined her to be. Yet, I'm curious as to why she appears so pleased with me. The array of emotions I feel are suddenly minuscule in comparison to the pure hatred and intense agitation I'm drowning in, especially as Amarantha's unnerving smirk grows wider and her black eyes glaze over with lust.

"Rhysand," her lips the same deep red as her hair purr, "Tonight's festivities aren't entertaining me much."

His name rolling off her tongue brings me immense confusion and irritation from my own arsenal of emotions, though the hatred still weighs heavy on me. Desperate to see the man in question, I try to turn around again, yet to no avail.

I'm now tilting my head slightly and grinning up at her as though I would when in The Court of Nightmares. "And does my Queen have any insight on how she would like to be pleased?" Rhysand's voice questioned. I internally froze. I just said those words... my voice, Rhysand's voice, came from my own mouth.

A pointed talon lightly scrapes the underside of my chin. My eyes shift from Amarantha's soulless eyes to her blood red lips. Again, I'm overcome by feeling hatred toward this Bitch Queen. This time however, I'm also feeling determined and hopeful. They are just a dim candle to the overpowering darkness that is the loathing I feel, yet they are what push me to continue on.

"I think you can come up with a few ideas on the way to my chamber," Amarantha's lust-filled voice whispers into my ear – Rhysand's ear.

I don't understand how, but I am in Rhysand's mind. It shouldn't be possible. When the High Lords all drank the laced wine at Amarantha's gathering for peace, Rhysand sent a warning before he severed contact with us. Why am I seeing this? Why now?

"Stell. Aristella! Hey come back to Prythian," Mor's chocolate orbs are suddenly all I see. Back in my own body, which autonomously reacts, I fail to leap away from the perceived danger as Mor's strong arms holding me close. The undiluted panic I felt while in Rhysand's mind returns tenfold as the raw emotion he was feeling and in turn, I was experiencing, have vanished.

"Hey, it's alright Stell, just take a few deep breaths with me," Mor's calm voice shatters the stark quiet and partially grounds me. Except, it's not silent. The sounds of me sobbing and hyperventilating now echo through the House of Wind. Mor's lightly calloused but gentle hands rest on the tanned skin of my face. My frantic icy eyes again focus on her deep brown orbs. The same saturation and warmth of the earth in Illyrian camps after the winter's snow begins to melt.

I try my best to inhale and exhale in synchronization with Mor's intentionally slow breaths. Gradually my tears stop flowing and I am no longer gasping for air. "I- I apologize for my outburst," my voice cracks from the aftermath of hysterically crying, "but I appreciate you being there to comfort me, Mor."

Morrigan pulls me close in an embrace and smooths my alabaster hair with a gentle touch. "You never need to apologize for what you are feeling, Stella. We're all here for you and in our own ways we understand the pain." she pulls away again, giving me some breathing space. "Do you want to talk about where you zoned out to or whatever was that catalyst just before your panic attack, babe?"

I exhale all the air in my lungs slowly at the weight of her question. If I was being honest, I was still in shock at what just occurred and would need to decompress before I even tried to mentally tackle the scene I was unexpectedly thrown into. I can't bring my eyes to reach Mor's as I admit, "I need some time to process and compose myself."

Time. If only I actually had time to waste on crumbling under pressure. Time was the last thing any of us have at the moment, especially our High Lord. The last of forty-nine long years is closing in faster than anticipated and there has been no word delivered from the Spring Court on their status of breaking the curse.

I internally scoff. Of course Tamlin hasn't made any progress. Unlike his predecessors, he has never been thrown into the middle of something that makes him contemplate his own pitiful existence. Even if he was, he'd probably follow in his family's footsteps and choose what was easy or most beneficial to him, rather than what was right. Yet, Tamlin continues to sit on the sidelines and waste the precious chance he was given at freeing those held hostage under the mountain by Amarantha's reign. He is no High Lord I would ever respect and bow to – he's no Rhysand.

My icy blue eyes harden and clench my jaw at the thought of the pathetic High Lord of Spring. I Cast my gaze over to the window, a new resolve building in me. The midday sun is just beginning its descent. "Give me until tonight. prepare everyone by letting them know I have important news to discuss over dinner, but don't mention anything else just yet." I meet Morrigan's eyes once more and disregard the concern still lurking behind her stare. "I'm planning on finding a way to save Rhys whether Tamlin can get his head out of his ass or not."

*************

Can I just say I fucking love Mor? I had mad respect for her the moment she saved Feyre from her panic attack in the Spring Court and I was so stoked to be able to write her in such a nurturing way.

Edited 12/3/23