Night Triumphant

CHAPTER ONE: THE TANGLED THREADS OF FATE

Amarantha was dead.

Rhys could still hardly believe it. He expected her to appear like a specter down the hall, those blood-red locks of hair spilling over her shoulders and that cruel smile on her lips. He knew no matter how much he tried, he would not be able to banish the image of her from his mind.

And so, the victory tasted like ashes—a bitter tang that lingered even after the ordeal was over. Fifty years under Amarantha's thumb had left scars deeper than any battle wound, and Rhysand just longed to be back in Velaris, away from the stale air and the stench of decay in the mountain.

The sound of low voices snapped him back to the present as his fellow High Lords gathered. Two were noticeably missing from the group, however.

The first was Tamlin—the High Lord of Spring was busy attending to Feyre, who had recently returned to them as one of the High Fae. He supposed her act of heroism and resurrection did indeed warrant them a free pass.

Ah, Feyre Archeron.

The thought of her made his lips twitch. She had been an interesting human. She would make an even more interesting Fae. Perhaps, in another life where she wasn't in love with his sworn enemy, they could've been friends. But still, he owed her...something. Gratitude, perhaps.

The second High Lord who had yet to make an appearance was the one who had called the meeting in the first place. Helion, the High Lord of Day, had a radiant presence that was hard to miss. The bright light that usually trailed after him was currently no where to be seen.

"If Helion does not join us soon, I will take my leave."

Of course, it was Beron complaining. Rhys rolled his eyes at the High Lord of Autumn, a practiced smile settling on his lips. Before he could say something that surely would've ignited the fire lord's temper, the rumble of other voices receded.

Rhys turned to the doorway, seeing Helion take purposeful strides toward their makeshift circle.

The usual smirk on his face was absent, replaced by an odd solemnity. And he wasn't alone. There was something—no, someone—in his arms.

It was a girl.

And as Helion came closer, a horrible stench, thick with the reek of neglect, washed over them. Disgust warred with a flicker of curiosity. She was a wisp of a thing, starved and trembling, her clothes little more than filthy rags.  Matted hair obscured her face, its color indistinguishable beneath layers of grime, yet a strange luminescence seemed to cling to the strands.

Then, she lifted her chin, revealing eyes the color of storm clouds – wide, defiant, and blazing with a fury that even Amarantha hadn't managed to extinguish. And though her body might be broken, her spirit burned bright.

"My fellow High Lords," Helion greeted, "allow me to introduce a curiosity I stumbled upon in my wanderings."

"Where did you find this... creature?" Tarquin's voice held a note of empathy.

"Oh, not found. Rescued. She was kept in one of Amarantha's dungeons. I nearly didn't see her after I dispatched the guards that were blocking her cell," the High Lord of Day explained as he lowered the girl. She swayed slightly, her legs shaking like a newborn fawn's, but she held her ground. "If it were not for the smell of blood, she may have remained there. Forgotten forever."

Beron spoke, his voice like cracking flint. "And is this why you summoned us? To gawk at a stray?"

Rhysand's focus narrowed. Unease stirred within him as those grey eyes flicked between each High Lord that spoke. They were talking about her as if she wasn't a person but a matter to be decided upon or a nuisance to get out of the way.