A Court of Three Stars

37: Embers

House of Song, Velaris, Prythian

Azriel

"Where is she?"

The words tore from my mouth the moment I materialized on the veranda of the House of Song. Smoke and ash clung to my skin, the air still heavy with the stench of fire.

Ruhn released my hand and bolted into the house without hesitation.

Rhys stood there with Feyre, both of them bloodied and battered, their faces drawn with exhaustion. In Feyre's arms, Nyx gurgled softly, oblivious to the hell unfolding in the city below. Unscarred. Unscathed.

The sight of him—clean, innocent, untouched—sharpened the rage thrumming through my veins.

The wards were gone. No barriers, no protections. Nothing.

"Where is she?" I demanded again, my voice raw and frayed, smoke and fury lacing every word.

"Dad!" Ruhn's voice echoed from somewhere inside, distant but clear. "She's in the archives!"

I was already moving when Rhys's hand shot out, his grip iron as it closed around my arm.

"Azriel, wait." His voice was firm, cutting through the storm raging in my mind.

I rounded on him, shadows flaring wildly around me. "She's in there, Rhys. I need to—"

"I know," he cut me off, his tone sharp but edged with something softer—something weighted. His gaze flicked toward the city below, where fires still burned, where screams still carried on the wind. "But this isn't just about her."

"What the hell are you talking about?" I snarled, wrenching my arm from his grip.

Rhys squared his shoulders, his voice low and deadly calm. "We need to evacuate the city."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stared at him, disbelieving. "You can't be serious."

His jaw tightened, his violet eyes hard as steel. "Look around you, Azriel. The wards are gone. The city is exposed. We could try to clear them, but we have no plan."

Feyre shifted beside him, her grip tightening on Nyx. Her gaze met mine, steady despite the weariness etched into her features. She didn't say a word, but the silent plea in her eyes was enough.

"This is our home," I said, my voice shaking with restrained fury. "You want to run ?"

"You know there's a difference between running and making the smart choice," Rhys snapped. "Regrouping. Making calculated moves. Too many people are at risk for us to fight a battle here."

My eyes swept over the chaos below: smoke curling through the air, Darkbringers moving like shadows through the streets, blood pooling along the banks of the Sidra. Civilians locked inside their homes and shops, black wards shimmering faintly as they kept the Darkbringers out—for now.

But they couldn't stay there. Even locked away, they were at risk. Too big a risk.

"There's a failsafe built into the wards," Rhys explained. "It's ancient magic, something no one's ever used before. But if the wards fall, I can use it to get the civilians out. I just need a target."

I let out a breath, glancing back at him. "What do you need from me?"

"I want to bring them to Aelius," he said. "Or somewhere else in Solarea. Somewhere safe. Somewhere far from this."

Ruhn's footsteps pounded toward us, his face pale, his voice trembling. "She's in the archives. Nesta said she locked herself in—with Mor."

"Why?" The word left me as a growl, sharp and raw.