𝙰 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚁𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜: 𝚂𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚌 𝙴𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔢(𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 46)

     Everything was black, and warm--and thick. Inky, but bordered with gold. I was swimming, kicking for the surface, where Tamlin was waiting, where life was waiting. Up and up, frantic for air.

     The golden light grew, and the darkness became like sparkling wine, easier to swim through, the bubbles fizzing around me, and--

      I gasped, air flooding my throat.

      I was lying on the cold floor. No pain—no blood, no broken bones. I blinked. A chandelier dangled above me--I'd never noticed how intricate the crystals were, how the hushed gasp of the crowd echoed off them.

      A crowd--meaning I was still in that throne room, meaning—I—I truly wasn't dead. Meaning I had—I had killed those—I had—The room spun.

      I groaned as I braced my hands against the floor, readying myself to stand, but--the sight of my skin stopped me cold. It gleamed with a strange light, and my fingers seemed longer where I'd laid them flat on the marble. I pushed to my feet. I felt--felt strong, and fast and sleek. And--

      And I'd become High Fae.

      I went rigid as I sensed Tamlin standing behind me, smelled that rain and spring meadow scent of him, richer than I'd ever noticed. I couldn't turn around to look at him--I couldn't  couldn't move.

      A High Fae—immortal. What had they done?

      I could hear Tamlin holding his breath--hear as he loosed it. Hear the breathing, the whispering and weeping and quiet celebrating of everyone in that hall, still watching us--watching me--some chanting praise for the glorious power of their High Lords.

"It was the only way we could save you," Tamlin said softly.

      But then I looked to the wall, and my hand rose to my throat. I forgot about the stunned crowd entirely.

      There, beneath Clare's decayed body, was Amaros, his mouth gaping as the sword protruded from his brow. His throat gone--and blood now soaked the front of his clothes.

      Amaros was dead. They were free. I was free. Tamlin was--

      Amaros was dead. And I had killed those two High Fae; I has--I shook my head slowly.

"Are you--"

      My voice sounded too loud in my ears as I pushed back against that wall of black that threatened to swallow me. Amaros was dead.

"See for yourself," he said.

       I kept my eyes on the ground as I turned. There, on the red marble, lay a golden mask, staring at me with its hollow eyeholes.

"Feyre," Tamlin said, and he cupped my chin between his fingers, gently lifting my face. I saw that familiar chin first, then the mouth, and then--

       He was exactly how I dreamed he would be.

       He smiled at me, his entire face alight with that quiet joy I had come to love so dearly, and he brushed my hair aside. I savored the feel of his fingers on my skin and raised my own to touch his face, to trace the contours of those high cheekbones and that lovely, straight nose--the clear, broad brow, the slightly arching eyebrows that framed his green eyes.

      What I had done to get to this moment, to be standing here—I shoved against the thought again. In a minute, in an hour, in a day, I would think about that, force myself to face it.

      I put a hand on Tamlin's heart, and a steady beat echoed into my bones.

      I sat on the edge of a bed, and while I'd thought being an immortal meant a higher pain threshold and faster healing, I winced a good deal as Tamlin inspected my few remaining wounds, then healed them.