The Heir of Night

56

The walk from Theia's room to Rhysand's office felt like a trek through the mountains. Theia's hands shook as they turned down the corridor, Nyx running his thumb over her knuckles to calm her. She glanced up at him, and that one look of Nyx told her everything. The male who was confident, brave, a warrior in every way; he was chewing on his bottom lip, eyes set ahead of them with widened lids. He was nervous.

"In here," Feyre called when she heard their footsteps. Theia inhaled deeply and looked away from Nyx, squeezing his hand. When they entered the office, Rhysand was standing behind his desk, fingers shifting through parchment. Feyre was stood behind Nesta, who was sat in a chair lazily. Cassian was stood near the desk, arms crossed and eyes hard. Azriel seemed to copy his stance on the other side of the desk.

Theia couldn't fathom it. This was the most solemn and serious she had seen any of them. Nyx slowly let go of her hand, ghosting his fingers over her arm as he walked over to Azriel. His uncle gave him a tight lipped smile and a nudge with his elbow before settling back into his stoic position.

"What's going on?" Theia asked, glancing between Feyre and Rhysand.

"Waiting on Mor. She takes longer than anyone to get ready," Rhysand grunted in response. His eyes still scanned the papers, shuffling through as though in search of something. Some of the tension left Theia's shoulders, realizing there wasn't a situation that had everyone on edge.

"I thought something had happened. Why does everyone seem upset?" She asked, this time pointing her gaze to Feyre. The High Lady opened her mouth to respond, but Nesta beat her to it.

"Well, going to the Hewn City isn't exactly enjoyable," she answered, meeting Theia's eyes over the back of the chair. Theia hummed, leaning against the wall as they all continued to wait. After what felt like years, Rhysand finally found whatever page he had been searching for, and Mor strode into the room. Theia lifted a brow, taking in her outfit compared to everyone else's.

"Why do we have to wear black?" Theia asked, pointing her thumb to Mor. The female chuckled and grinned at Rhys.

"I'm the special one. Black doesn't go well with my skin tone," Mor responded cheekily. Rhysand rolled his eyes and shoved the paper in his pocket, waving a hand at the door.

"Go, then," he grumbled. Each person began shuffling from the room and down the corridor. Nyx caught up with Theia, his hand hooking beneath her wings.

"Go to the conversation room. We have something to discuss with Kier," Rhysand ordered before taking Feyre's hand and they winnowed away. Azriel was next, and then Mor with Cass and Nesta. Alone in the corridor, Theia turned to Nyx. She hadn't meant for her worries to show so plainly on her face, but Nyx saw them all too well. He brushed a knuckle over her cheek and offered a small smile.

"Just be careful. I'll try and keep an eye on you from the dais. Everything will be fine, just keep your guard up and don't converse with anyone who seems wrong. And for the love of the Mother, please don't argue with anyone."

Theia scrunched her face at the last instruction, earning a chuckle and a kiss to her nose. Nyx brushed her hair behind her ear, glancing around her face as though ensuring she was still safe in this moment. Her heart swelled at that.

"You're right, arguing is your nature. Just know that if you start something, you might have to finish it," Nyx added with another kiss to her nose. Theia rolled her eyes but nodded. Nyx shot her a stern look before stepping back and taking her hand. She hadn't winnowed in weeks, and as they stepped through time and darkness, her stomach twisted.

She took in the room, brows dropping in confusion. Perhaps she forgot this detail, but they were in a cave. The conversation room they were told to meet in was stone, though carved out well enough that it simply seemed like a windowless room of any home. A fire roared in a hearth, which had Theia wondering if whoever built this city had chiseled a chimney all the way up. The walls had carvings within them; figures in every state of violence or intimacy.