A Court of Three Stars

43: The General of Adhira

Palace of Light, Aelius, Solarea

Cassian

Nesta's hand was shaking.

I hadn't been able to decipher if it was because of exhaustion or rage.

More than likely, rage.

Which was about ten times more terrifying.

I knew that my mate had never particularly cared for Mor. How much of that had to do with me and how much of it had to do with their opposite personalities, I had never particularly bothered to figure out. It had seemed irrelevant, a tolerable friction—until the fucking disaster that was Rhys's birthday, until the absolute hell that came after.

Mor's betrayal, the lies, the cowardice—it had turned Nesta's mild distaste into something molten. Something that burned the way she had on the top of Ramiel.

Something that felt like death herself had just set a target.

And in the aftermath of everything that had happened in Velaris, the evacuation of our entire court to Solarea- I knew that Nesta was struggling with Leur's decision to let Mor walk away. She'd more than likely never say it, at least not directly to my sister. Maybe not even to me.

But I could see it. I could feel it, words on the tip of her tongue that she refused to let loose. Questions with answers too terrifying to dare ask.

I didn't know if that was for the better or worse.

Leur and Nesta weren't capable of arguing, not really. Not like the rest of us. But swallowing rage—forcing it down, letting it fester—was a slow death.

Poison, from the inside out.

A creeping blackness, thick as smoke, clogging your throat until you choke on it. Until it hollows you out, until all that remains is something sharp-edged and hungry, a beast with a taste for blood.

I knew what it could do. I knew what it had done to me.

I knew what it was doing right now.

In my head, all I saw were legs wrapped in bandages and the blood Daphne had coughed up while Leur tried to heal her.

We'd all been gathered into the Grand Hall-a meeting room filled with the same opulence and glittering perfection as the rest of this palace. It was the formal gathering place for the councils of Solarea, or at minimum the Royal Council.

Somehow, it still surprised me that I was officially listed as a part of it.

My eyes traced over the table, taking stock of the way everyone's defeat was eating away at them. Rhys looked like absolute shit, his hand so tight on Feyre's shoulder I'd be surprised if he didn't leave a bruise. Elain had taken Nyx elsewhere in the palace, away from whatever horrors would be spoken of in this room. Which left Feyre nothing to do but to stare at the tattooed skin of her hands and wait for them to stop shaking.

Like her sister- I couldn't tell if it was from exhaustion or rage.

At least the Princes of Hel looked... normal. If you ignored Bryaxis, whose very presence still made me feel like throwing up. Aidas looked the same as ever- like a cocky bastard who was desperately asking to be punched in the face.

The Solarean Generals looked fine. Soldiers who had seen war, who had seen plenty of courts turn on themselves, who knew what it meant to sit in rooms like this and plan the next move.

Bryce and her mate looked like they'd been through the wringer. Not that I knew either of them particularly well, but even I could tell that exhaustion had carved deep lines into their faces.