ACOWAR (Rhysand's POV)

Chapter 18

(Rhysand's POV)

Ascending the dais felt strange—this same marble stand Feyre and I had sat atop only months ago. But now, we stood here as mates, as High Lady and High Lord of the Night Court. I tightened my grip on her hand, a claim, a pride. Feyre's gaze flicked to the single throne we approached, her expression perfectly bored, composed. With a smooth, guiding motion, I led her to that seat, right to the center of that throne, her head held high, her back straight.

Below, the others took their places: Azriel flanking Mor's side—as always—his shadows curling behind him, hovering over his shoulders. I wondered what they were whispering to him, his face set into a murderous calm as he surveyed those gathered. Across from them, Amren and Nesta stood together, the elder sister a pillar of steel, almost blending seamlessly with the masks we all wore. Except hers was natural, innate, needing no pretense in this visit to the Hewn City.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd as they watched Feyre settle into the black stone chair. And gasps broke out when I smirked, casually perching myself on the arm of her throne. "Bow." 

Faces stared back at us—a mixture of shock and disdain—but all fell to their knees at the sound of my voice. I stifled a growl as those eyes of contempt drifted over my mate.

"I will interpret the lack of two thrones to be due to the fact that this visit came up on you quickly," I announced, fixing my gaze on Keir, who waited beside Mor's mother, both sneering up at us. "And I will let you all escape without having your skin flayed from your bones as my mating gift to you. Our loyal subjects." 

No one dared to speak or move, their heads bowed low. But tendrils of power crept toward the dais, wary to venture past the first step. They slid along the marble, testing, like waves lapping at a shoreline. Feyre noticed them too, her khol-lined eyes sweeping over the shadows as if they were nothing. We let them creep closer, sniffing at her power like hounds, as she looked up at me and spoke. "Surely, my love, they would like to stand now." 

My mate, so beautiful and regal in her attire—with the tiara resting atop her braided hair—I couldn't help but smile down at her. At how perfectly she fit into that throne, into her power, into our court. "Rise," I commanded, my voice echoing through the massive chamber.

In the distraction of their rising, those curling tendrils dared to creep up the first step—and Feyre struck. Three gasps cut through the murmurs as her magic slammed into the others. Like a cat with a bird trapped under its paw, the dark smoke writhed, trying to escape.

"Do you want this back?" Feyre asked quietly, the tone almost mocking. A shiver ran down my spine at the lethal edge in her voice. No one spoke, but those tendrils kept trying to pry from her grasp. 

I sighed, maintaining my mask of boredom. "Don't you know it's not polite to touch a lady without her permission?" Even playing this game - knowing my mate was in control - a part of me writhed at the potential threat. At the three courtiers who had sent that power spearing for her. My eyes scanned the crowd, trying to find the source of it. 

Feyre sank those invisible talons of her magic deeper, the swirling shadows thrashing and buckling. "Play nice," she crooned—and released them.

Three distinct flurries of movement drew attention from the room. Someone had winnowed outright, fleeing. Another had fainted. And a third clung to whoever stood beside them, trembling. I marked every face, each one. It took considerable restraint not to issue the order to retrieve them—not to make an example of them right here, in front of everyone. But then I looked down at Feyre, who settled into the throne as if she had been born to it, her nearly-black lips curved into a lazy smile. All the tension drained from me. They weren't worth it anyway.