Of Light And Dark | acotar

Chapter 3

They packed nothing. They'd been ready, boots tied and traveling cloaks hanging on the peg by the door. The males eyed them warily as Feyre and Nesta preceded them out, feet crunching on the thick snowfall. At least the wind had slowed and it was no longer actively snowing. It was still freezing, though, and Feyre hugged her cloak tight about her body.

"Come now. Don't dawdle," Nesta spat at them over her shoulder as her fingers rose to her throat, fastening the clasp of her thickest cloak.

Tamlin huffed, lips pursed. He stomped from the house and circled around them to take the lead. Lucien only chuckled and fell into pace beside Feyre and Nesta, Andras bringing up the rear.

"She's a bold one," Lucien said conspiratorially to Feyre as though Nesta weren't just on her other side. "Chiding a High Lord like that."

Nesta didn't even look at him as she said, "Between Amarantha's grip and the bargain magic, your High Lord is all but important."

He snapped his attention ahead of them, but Tamlin hadn't stopped or turned. Even though Feyre knew he had to be within hearing distance. "Bargain magic only goes so far." A murmured warning.

"Maybe we should travel in silence," Feyre butted in as Nesta made to reply. Her sister rolled her eyes but didn't argue, and their troupe fell into quietude. Over the hours, they drifted into a single file line, Tamlin at its head and Andras trailing at the back.

The journey was brutal, the wind having picked up again, biting at her fingertips, her nose. Slicing through to her bones. Tamlin, not having expected to be bringing home stray humans, hadn't brought horses along, so they were all on foot through the thick snowfall. Feyre's feet were fully numb after half an hour, the hem of her cloak heavy and dragging.

She glowered at Tamlin's back and Lucien's behind him. Either male could winnow them to the wall and then the manor with hardly a thought. But Tamlin — petulant, stubborn Tamlin — wanted to send a message. To demonstrate who was in control, who had the power.

A High Lord's temper tantrum. At least this was tamer than his usual, though no less miserable.

Between the howling in her ears and the chattering of her teeth, Feyre let her eyes glaze over, following the body in front of her in a daze. Focusing only on breathing deep and shuffling one foot before the other. Ignoring the heaviness of her feet and further dampening clothes. Ignoring the festering anxiety in the pit of her stomach that expanded minute by minute.

Some time later, as dawn's fingers reached through the bare trees, a warmth at her side pulled Feyre from her trance. Lucien had fallen back bedside her and openly regarded her in the gray morning light. He didn't speak for a moment, but Feyre saw something dancing behind his one good eye, shadowed and obscured by the fox mask even as it was. She waited.

"You're not afraid of him," he finally said, voice low. A statement, but also a question.

Feyre considered it. She once had been. In recent years, though mention of Tamlin had filled her with dread, it wasn't the kind built on true fear. On pity, on resentment, on still-simmering anger maybe. But not fear.

"No, I'm not."

"Why not?"

Looking to the back of the blond head leading their group, Feyre sighed. "I already know the worst Tamlin has to offer, and I know I can survive it."

Feyre couldn't be positive, but she thought Tamlin's footsteps sped just that bit faster.

••••••••••••

As much as both women wanted to push forward without stopping, by mid morning, their human bodies demanded rest, much to Tamlin's chagrin. Feyre distinctly heard the words, So we're dawdling now, are we? leave his lips. Nesta either didn't hear or was too worn to respond.