Light of the Dawn

6. Free?

Amarantha turned slowly, her eyes glinting with malice as she fixed her gaze on Tamlin.
"No final words to her?" she asked sweetly, her voice heavy with mockery.
The High Lord of Spring did not respond. His green eyes remained fixed ahead, devoid of emotion. Isa couldn't help but wonder-Did he truly love Feyre? Was this really the price he was willing to pay for his people, for the rest of the Fae? But Tamlin said nothing. His silence was a damning answer.
Amarantha's grin widened at the lack of response. "Very well, then," she purred, her fingers tapping lightly against the armrest of her throne. She flicked her hand, and in an instant, the tension in the room was thick enough to choke.
With a sharp clap, she commanded, "Let the final trial begin."
The stone doors groaned open, and three hooded figures were dragged inside. They were bound at the wrists, their movements restrained and slow. As they were forced to their knees before Feyre, Isa felt her heart sink. She already knew what was coming.

The servants followed closely behind, each one carrying a velvet pillow, each pillow holding a gleaming dagger. The weapons shone under the dim light, as deadly as the fate that awaited these three fae.
Amarantha's voice cut through the tension, sweet and malicious. "Feyre," she said, drawing out the name like a knife, "your task is simple. You must kill them. Each and every one. If you truly wish to save Tamlin, to save them all, prove it with blood."
Isarella could see it then—the horrified expression that overtook Feyre's face. Her hands were trembling, her fingers curling around the hilt of the first dagger as her mind raced for any possible way out. But there was no escape.
Feyre's eyes flicked to the three kneeling fae, their faces hidden by their hoods. She hesitated, her breath shallow as she looked from one to the other. Amarantha's cruel laughter filled the room, feeding on Feyre's uncertainty.
Eventually, Feyre's resolve seemed to steel.
Her shoulders straightened as she stepped toward the first faerie. The dagger's cold metal gleamed in her grip.
"Not so fast," Amarantha's voice rang out, her amusement dripping in every word. She snapped her fingers, and a servant removed the hood from the first faerie.
Isa gasped, her stomach lurching. The faerie kneeling before Feyre was young, no older than a child by Fae standards, with wide, pleading eyes. "Please," he begged, his voice breaking, "I have a family. I beg you, don't-"
Feyre's hands shook violently, tears streaking down her dirt-smeared face. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of her heartbeat. "I don't want to do this..."
But Amarantha's voice was sharp, cutting through the air. "Do it, Feyre. Do it now, or it's all for nothing."
Feyre's breath hitched. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she brought the dagger down, the blade sinking deep into the boy's chest. His desperate, strangled gasp was the last sound he made before his body went limp, collapsing to the cold stone floor.
The room was silent save for the faint, choking sobs from Feyre.
The second faerie was brought forward.
Feyre staggered, her face pale and drawn, but she took the second dagger, gripping it like a lifeline. The servant removed the hood, revealing a woman, her silver hair and striking blue skin unmistakable. She was older, her eyes calm, accepting even.
"I understand," she whispered, her voice a soft murmur. "It's okay. You don't have to..."
But the same sorrowful apology escaped
Feyre's lips as she plunged the dagger into the faerie's chest. Blood spilled, and the woman's eyes went blank as she fell, lifeless.
Feyre's steps were unsteady as she gripped the final dagger, her hands slick with the blood of the others. The weight of it felt unbearable as she stepped toward the last faerie. Her face was twisted in grief, her body trembling with the effort of holding herself together. When the hood was pulled back, Feyre's entire world seemed to shatter in front of her.
It was Tamlin.
Feyre's eyes went wide in disbelief, her chest tightening as she saw the High Lord of Spring kneeling before her. His eyes-his real eyes-met hers with nothing but sorrow. No, not sorrow. Something far deeper. Regret.
Fear.
Amarantha's laugh rang out, echoing throughout the room like a bell tolling for the damned. She clapped her hands in delight, her cruel smile stretching from ear to ear.
"There we are," she said, her voice sickeningly sweet. "Isn't it beautiful, Feyre?
The moment you must choose. Will you kill him too? Will you sacrifice your love for the greater good?"
Feyre's breath caught, her hands trembling uncontrollably. Her body swayed, as though she might collapse under the weight of it all. Amarantha snapped her fingers, and the false Tamlin-sitting next to her throne, eyes cold and unfeeling-rose to his feet, his expression mocking as he sauntered toward the kneeling faerie before Feyre.
Feyre's eyes flicked between the two Tamlin's, her heart pounding as confusion and horror flooded her mind. Was this a trick? Was this even Tamlin at all? Was the faerie kneeling before her some cruel, twisted illusion?
Feyre stood frozen, the dagger held in her hand. Amarantha's gaze was fixed on her, a wicked smile stretching across her face.
"You must do it, Feyre," Amarantha mocked.
"If you want Tamlin back-if you want any of this to end-this is your last choice. Kill him."
Isarella could barely focus on the scene before her. Her mind spun in circles, trying to make sense of the chaos unraveling before her. Feyre's trembling hand hovered over Tamlin-no, the fake Tamlin-and Isa felt like she might faint if this continued. It should have been me. The thought ripped through her mind, an overwhelming wave of self-loathing. If it was me, it would be over. / wouldn't have to suffer eternity with Amarantha. I wouldn't have to watch this, watch Feyre bleed out her soul.
Feyre closed her eyes, her breath ragged, the dagger still clutched tightly in her grasp.
And then, in a move that shocked even Isa, Feyre plunged the dagger into the heart of the faerie before her.
But nothing happened.
The faerie before her—the real Tamlin-did not fall. His eyes flickered open, and in the flickering light, Isa saw the truth: this was no illusion.
Feyre had outsmarted Amarantha.