𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚎(𝙰𝙲𝙾𝚃𝙰𝚁)

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖑𝖛𝖊

"The King of Hybern is old, Rhys—very old. Do not linger," Amren warned.

"We'll be in and out before you miss us," Rhysand said. "Guard Velaris well."

"That Cauldron," she said, "makes the Book seem harmless. If the spell fails, or if you cannot move it, then leave. Fly well."

They turned to Mor—whose arms were out, waiting for Feyre. Cassian and Rhys would winnow with Azriel and Astraea.

"Please be careful," Eve begged her mate, tears falling down her face.

"We will, my love," Azriel said as he held her face in his hands. "Keep Johanna safe, Evie." She nodded while he wiped the tears from her face. He kissed her goodbye, then pulled away.

"I'll be fine—we'll all be fine," Feyre promised.

"With my life, High Lord," Cassian bowed. "I'll protect her with my life."

"With all of our lives," Azriel assured.

It was satisfactory enough to Rhys—who at last looked at Mor. She nodded once, but said, "I know my orders."

And they were off. Toward the landmass they were now approaching. Hybern. No lights burned on it.

Around a bend in the coast, built into the cliffs and perched above the sea, was a lean, crumbling castle of white stone.

Not imperious marble, not elegant limestone, but off-white. Bone-colored. Perhaps a dozen spires clawed at the night sky. A few lights flickered in the windows and balconies.

They swept toward the cliffs' base to the sea door before a platform. Mor was waiting, sword out, the door open.

Azriel and Astraea reached her first, landing swiftly and silently, and Azriel immediately prowled into the castle to scout the hall ahead. Morrigan and Astraea waited for them—their eyes on Cassian as he and Feyre landed.

The passage ahead was dark and silent. Azriel appeared a heartbeat later. "Guards are down." There was blood on his knife—an ash knife. "Hurry."

Any time they reached a crossroads, Cassian and Azriel would branch out, carefully and quietly killing anyone they needed to. 

They found another stairwell, leading down, down, down— Feyre pointed. "There. It's down there."

Cassian took the stairs, Illyrian blade stained with dark blood. Neither Mor, Azriel, nor Astraea seemed to breathe until Cassian's low whistle bounced off the stairwell stones from below. Astraea placed a hand on Feyre's back, and they descended into the dark.

Cassian was standing in a round chamber beneath the castle—a ball of faelight floating above his shoulder.

And the Cauldron sat atop a small dais in the center of the room. The Cauldron was absence and presence. Darkness and whatever the darkness had come from. But not life. Not joy or light or hope.

It was perhaps the size of a bathtub, forged of dark iron, its three legs—those three legs the king had ransacked those temples to find—crafted like creeping branches covered in thorns.

"Hurry," Mor said to Feyre. "We've got a few minutes."

Azriel scanned the room, the stairs they'd strode down, the Cauldron, its legs. Feyre made to approach the dais, but he extended an arm into her path. "Listen."

So they did. Not words. But a throbbing. Like blood pulsed through the room. Like the Cauldron had a heartbeat.

Astraea tensed as Feyre laid a hand on the lip. Reeling back into herself, she readied to read that spell.