Of Light And Dark | acotar

Chapter 5

It was about as close to winnowing as chopping off one's hand was to clipping a hangnail. The black noise dissipated gradually, and Feyre found herself hunched on the ground, gasping and trembling and doing her best not to vomit onto the gleaming marble biting into her knees and palms. She heard Nesta nearby in much the same condition.

Their ragged breaths echoed off the glossy smooth walls and floors and pillars, all just planes of white in her periphery as she drew her focus inward. On not being sick. On staying whole. The jasmine-scented breeze helped, cooling her face and calming her stomach. An eternity later, the shaking stopped. Her battering pulse slowed, and her vision cleared. As Feyre finally lifted her face to take in their surroundings, she nearly cried.

The Moonstone Palace. They'd made it.

Nesta grunted as she flopped over to lean against one of the enormous columns, hints of gray swirling through the white like dissipating mist. She was nearly as pale as the marble she rested her head against, her breathing still strained. "You sure he didn't give you that monstrosity out of spite?"

"It did its job, didn't it?" Feyre snapped as she struggled to her feet. Blood rushed to her head and rang in her ears for a second, and she swayed before steadying. Nesta refused her helping hand and stood on her own, equally wobbly. Feyre rolled her eyes but  only added, "We're here."

Nesta's eyes flitted over the space. Feyre's did the same, taking in the open rooms, the light colors, the orbs of light bobbing here and there, the mountain views through the windowless expanses in the walls. It was beautiful, and Feyre's heart unclenched slightly at being so close to home.

Winnowing directly into Velaris, they'd known, would be impossible; Rhys's wards repelled all manner of outsiders, including humans. But the Moonstone Palace, that piece of sanctuary atop the Court of Nightmares...its barriers were more specifically attuned to Prythian natives. Feyre doubted any High Lord of old would've considered humans capable of making it that far. And even if they did, well, what need was there to protect a lion from a fly?

Rhys, though...he'd shielded his Court of Dreams against any conceivable intruders, anyone who could happen across his beloved city and betray its secrets, no matter how miniscule the possibility.

Feyre's soul ached to think of him. To be so close to the place and the people he'd sacrificed himself to protect. It was home, sure. But without him, it would never be complete.

She swallowed down the heat creeping up the back of her throat. No time for that now.

"So," her sister said then, stepping closer. "What now?"

"Now, you tell me who you are and what the hell you're doing here."

They whipped toward the voice behind them. Mor stalked out, steps wide and measured and sure. Two blades raised to the level of her eyes, those cold and merciless. Biceps taut. Body still. Ready to pounce.

Feyre's heart hammered against her ribs, and her eyes rounded as she took an involuntary step toward her friend. The female only raised her daggers higher, and Feyre froze.

"Well, that answers that question," Nesta muttered from behind. A hint of dejection stained her sister's words and seeped into Feyre's soul as well. How she'd hoped...

Mor's face only hardened before them, blonde hair tied back and stance unmoving, bedecked in a fighting outfit not terribly unlike her own Illyrian leathers. So unlike the female Feyre knew who sipped fruity drinks at Rita's and danced until the dark hours were spent. Who — from the very first moments they'd met, back before Feyre had any notion just what they would become to each other — had been a confidante. Strength, stability. So full of life and fire when Feyre had been almost irretrievably numb.