A Court of Truths and Revival

The Starless City Part II

AZRIEL

The ground beneath Azriel's feet rumbled as if it'd been angered. Moments later, he understood that it had. Beyond the shimmery ward they looked through with desperation, everything shifted upward slowly.

The magic was felt from where he and the others stood—had once stood. The weight of their bodies no longer secured them to the ground, but with wings, Azriel was less affected. He was, however, unable to flex his wings fast enough to stop himself from being slammed back down against the ground. Landing in a lunge, his knees quaked in tune with their world.

Where there had been arguments over how to proceed before, there was now shocked silence. There was only one thing that could have caused such a disruption in the natural order.

Finally, Rhys let out a snarl that had been building within him and whirled on Helion. "You said the wards around the Harp couldn't be unlocked by anyone other than Nesta."

The High Lord of Day was for once, at a loss for words. Amber eyes glanced between Rhys and Azriel, who'd silently drawn Truth-Teller. If he'd deceived them, no friendship between him and Rhys would stop Azriel from an interrogation.

Surprisingly, it was Nesta that came between the two High Lords. "What if it wanted to be freed?"

Amren let out a huff of agreement. "The girl's right, Rhysand. The Trove is tricky and plays at things we can't begin to understand. It might have sensed an opportunity for someone to use it and severed the wards."

Azriel closed his eyes in frustration after brushing the dirt from his leather. It should have been blood but there were kept on the outside of the battle, despite Helion's best efforts. He hated these ancient magical objects that kept cropping up. The Cauldron, the Mask, the Crown, and the Harp should have stayed forgotten. Their reemergence promised conflict and true to their name, dread.

"What's it going to take to get through this fucking ward, old friend," Rhys spat as he sidestepped Nesta to get in Helion's face.

Helion shook his head sadly with a glance to Feyre. She'd reverted to a shell of herself, appearing as she had when Azriel had first met her. To everyone's dismay, she was beyond comforting words and promises that everything would be alright. She'd nearly burned a hole through her mate when he'd tried to gently pull her from where she repeatedly shocked herself on the ward as she attempted to sever it.

"I'm sorry, Rhys. It goes beyond what I can cleave," Helion quietly admitted as if his reputation were somehow tarnished by his words. "It was erected with someone's life's blood. Old spell and out of fashion for a reason."

"Like the original wards?" Mor asked, speaking for the first time in more than an hour. "Then why are they shrinking?"

"How would someone even know how to replicate them?" Cassian asked, confusion furrowing his brow.

"How indeed?" Amren muttered as her silver eyes narrowed on their home. Whatever she suspected, she kept to herself.

With his normal confidence lacking, Helion slunk back to the boundary that had been pulling inward slowly. Its shrinking did not make it any less impenetrable. His large hand hovered over the ward and his eyes closed in concentration.

Azriel shifted on his feet, having gone inpatient well over an hour ago. He was an Illyrian—meant to flight and be in the midst of battle, not watching what little they could see unfold. Never had he felt so useless. His shadows had yet to return and though he wanted their information, he'd begun to fear the story they might tell.

"Blood origins," Helion confirmed, not for the first time, but the curious way in which he cocked his head had Azriel moving closer, practically taking up a position as his shadow. "I don't suppose you left behind vials of your blood, Rhys?"