In the whispered legends of Prythian, Devina was once a name that inspired ancient tales of a queen whom possessed great might and magic, but she had become a myth lost to the mists of time- until now.
Awakened from an ageless slumber, her ancient...
Devina laid in a large, soft, plush bed that seemed fit for royalty. The bed was an island of luxury, swathed in layers of gossamer fabrics that cascaded to the floor. Satins and velvets, soft to the touch, cradled her as she slept, and the pillows, plump and inviting, cushioned her head gently.
The room itself was aglow with a warm light that spoke of calm and comfort, emanating from delicate sconces on the walls. Each piece of furniture was a work of art, from the ornate carvings on the armoire to the rich tapestry that graced the wall, depicting some storied moment in Day Court's history.
Feyre had chosen to stay by Devina's side during her recovery, feeling indebted to her for the courage she had shown. Feyre watched over her now-rested figure, noting the soft white gown she wore. Helion's healers had dressed Devina in it after mending her wounds—a garment much different from her combat attire which was torn and soiled from battle. Devina's face bore an innocent calm, a stark contrast to the war-hardened warrior who had stood firmly against an onslaught of soldiers. Her cheeks, now rosy and warm, served as a testament to Helion's skilled healers who had tended to her needs as a token of gratitude for her protection of their Court.
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Meanwhile, Helion had summoned Rhys and Cassian to discuss their next moves in the wake of Hybern's violent attack. The urgency of their meeting was most important as they discussed the alliance's future and assembled strategies amidst the unraveling chaos.
As Feyre's gaze lingered on Devina's sleeping form, a sense of familiarity tugged at the edges of her conscience. There was something about Devina, an essence or a nuance in her features, that whispered echoes of a past Feyre felt she should recognize.
Feyre took a step away from the bed and moved across the elegant chamber to a basin of water, where she intended to soak a cloth to lay over Devina's forehead — a small comfort in case she stirred. But as she wrung out the cool, damp fabric, a faint protest reached her ears.
"No," came the whispered plea from the bed. She spun on her heel, attention snapping back to Devina, whose once serene features were now twisted into a grimace of distress. The word escaped her lips again, more insistent this time, "No."
Feyre approached cautiously, concern deepening as Devina's words came more frequently and her body began to show signs of agitation. Her eyebrows knitted together, and Feyre knew without a doubt: Devina was caught in the throes of a nightmare. There was a subtle but noticeable change in the room's atmosphere. It was as if the very air vibrated with a low hum of energy.
Feyre watched in awe as a soft glow began to emanate from beneath Devina's closed eyelids — a physical manifestation of her power.
"No, no, no, please no," Devina's murmured refusals grew into a crescendo of fear. Her initial slight movements began escalating into full-blown thrashing. The bed covers shifted chaotically with her motions, and Feyre knew she had to intervene. Dropping the cloth, she reached out to steady Devina, her hands firm on her shoulders.
