A Court of Kingdoms and Ash: An ACOTAR and TOG Crossover

Secrets and Lies

Feyre stared at the woman before her, a small smirk growing on her lips. Every instinct sang that she was a liar—that even the very people in this room didn't know what Feyre had realized.

Like called to like. And Feyre... she, too, wore a skin that was not her own.

The male that appeared to be the woman's blood relation stepped forward, looking as if he was fighting the urge to bare his teeth.

"So this is our infamous assassin," the woman said as she slowly stood, looking wholly uninterested in Feyre.

"It seems that Ansel has come to that conclusion, but I wouldn't trust her judgement," Feyre said cooly.

Ansel elbowed her gently, even playfully, pouting as she complained that Feyre was being rude. But the woman was nonplussed, still so strangely apathetic.

"Don't bother, Ansel. I know an assassin when I see one, and this girl doesn't have it in her."

Feyre bristled. She could feel the tension heighten in the room as Ansel stopped talking, and she saw a tan, toned human man on her left place a hand on his weapon. Perhaps he disagreed.

"Just tell us what you're doing—"

Feyre interrupted the brash blonde male before he could continue speaking.

She was done being meek. Now she had secrets to barter with—Feyre no longer had to wait.

"I am Feyre Archeron, Cursebreaker, Defender of the Rainbow, Cauldron-Blessed. And I am the High Lady of the Night Court," she said, voice thunderous. Everyone was silent. She waited for the reactions—surely these people ought to have heard of her after the war, despite the sea between them. Surely they ought to have heard of the Courts, of their High Lords. When none besides bewilderment came, the dread in her gut roiled as if it were a living thing. Feyre leashed it.

"I am Feyre Archeron," she said again, voice softer now, perhaps more dangerous, honed by her fear. "And I am going to speak with you alone."

Her eyes locked onto the pretty liar before her, just in time to see a sliver of confusion break through the apathy on her face.

"Fine," she finally said, feet swinging down off the desk. "Leave us."

The blonde male began to protest immediately. "Aelin," he said, voice shifting into something cold as he spoke the queen's name. "This isn't a good idea."

Aelin would have none of it. "Leave us," she said again, voice icy, commanding. It was the voice Feyre had used as High Lady in Hewn City, the voice that even monsters obeyed.

The male bowed stiffly and turned, following the rest of the room's occupants out.

Once the door closed and the sound of footsteps faded, Feyre stepped forward, sitting in one of the armchairs before the worn desk. Selin stood and crossed to the door, locking it, then walking leisurely back to the desk.

Feyre said nothing, waiting to see what the queen's first move might be, eyes straying to the maps spread on the desk before her.

Horror struck her as she realized that she recognized nothing in those maps. The continents, the seas—all were different, foreign. She resisted to urge to turn the papers over, to their likely blank backside. Feyre could no longer deny the truth she'd suspected long ago. She was far from home—in a realm other than her own.

"I'm assuming you can't find your Night Court anywhere on those maps," the liar said, scarred hands reaching forward to pivot one of the maps to face Feyre. "Because you aren't an assassin or soldier at all, are you. You're a queen from a different world."

However the woman had known... Feyre met those striking, lying eyes, her face cold. She was struggling to keep the panic at bay—knowing that she was trapped, far from her family, in the middle of some war while her own was being raged at home. "Yes, I am."

But if the woman was clever enough to piece that truth together, she would understand that Feyre would never reveal her weaknesses without having an edge.

"Who are you?" Feyre finally asked.

The woman revealed nothing, face expertly blank, as if she'd spent years learning how to master it.

"Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, Queen of Terrasen," she finally said.

"Bullshit," Feyre replied smoothly.

Still, there was no reaction from the woman, no shift in her features. Only the same, cool calculation.

"I don't understand," the liar finally said, hands folded over the desk. "Why would you ever think otherwise?"

There was challenge in her eyes, curiosity. And the slightest bit of urgency, as if she were frightened—frightened about Feyre's knowledge, about how she'd come to attain it, and about what could happen if there were others who knew.

That was all the confirmation Feyre needed. This woman wasn't fae—and for whatever reason, she needed to make sure nobody knew. Feyre had learned a dangerous secret.

"I can go tell your allies, if you like," she said, after a long pause. "I'm sure they'd be interested to learn that you aren't who you say you are."

But the liar remained unfazed. "I don't know what you're talking—"

Feyre lunged.