Dance of Fate

Chapter Seventy Three

"Where's Amren?" Mor asked Feyre as we all stood in the town house foyer, prepared to winnow to the Illyrian camp. All except said female.

"Still poring over the Book." Feyre replied, just as my brother appeared.

Rhys angled his head. "Looking for what? The wall is gone."

"For anything," she said. "For another way to nullify the Cauldron that doesn't involve the insides of my head leaking out through my nose."

"There must be another way— Amren thinks there must be another way. It doesn't hurt to look. And have her hunt for any other spell that might stop the king." Rhys said.

There was another way, I thought to myself. Rhys must have seen the look on my face, because he gave me a look as if to say don't even.

I said nothing, because I knew it was pointless, anyway. Besides, I had promised I wouldn't do it.

But that had been before the wall had been torn down.

I averted my gaze, only to meet Azriel's gaze instead. My traitorous heart raced and fluttered. His jaw clenched, as if he too knew what I'd been thinking. But then he just looked away.

Everyone prepared themselves to winnow. I turned towards Nesta, who I would be winnowing-

But I hesitated. All of us did. I allowed myself one last time to drink it in, the furniture and the wood and the sunlight. To listen to the sounds of Velaris, the laughing of children in the streets, the song of the gulls.

I had so many memories here. They seemed to echo around me as I took it all in for perhaps the last time. The weight of them threatened to drown me, to leave me rooted to the spot, unable to ever leave. 

My home, that I'd had so little time in. But every second had been worth it. Every second I had spent fighting, surviving, was to see it again.

I wondered if I ever would.

Rhys at last broke the heavy silence by clearing his throat. He lifted his chin at Mor, who disappeared with Elain. I took that as my cue, taking Nesta's slender hand in mine.

I met the females silver gaze, lifting a brow in question. She nodded tensely, signaling she was ready. And so, with one final look at the place I would always long for, I winnowed us to Illyria.

...

The Illyrian war camp was as terrible as always. I received the same sneering looks as usual, though most averted their gaze at once I caught them.

Cruel, spineless assholes.

I kept a scowl on my face as a group of males approached Rhysand, Cassian and Azriel flanking him. I stood behind the two males, between Feyre and Mor, Nesta at her sisters side. Elain stayed as hidden as possible behind our bodies.

A male- Lord Devlon , I recalled, was speaking, "It's true, then. The wall came down."

"A temporary failure," Rhys crooned.

Rhys began giving unwavering, cold instructions about the impending push southward. The voice of the High Lord—the voice of a warrior who had fought in the War and had no intention of losing this one. Cassian frequently added his own orders and clarifications.

I tried and failed not to look at Azriel. He said nothing, but gave everyone around him a death glare. He despised this place about just as much as he despised Hybern. He'd always been in a terrible mood whenever he was forced to go to Illyria. I'd always hated the place for the memories he held here, memories I knew he relived against his will every time he set foot in the mountains.