After spending her entire life in Cretea, Zivia finds herself in the company of the Night Court, sent as an emissary to help after the war. As she navigates her way outside her once secluded life, she develops unlikely bonds with the people around h...
Feyre let out a groan as she turned in their bed and a ray of warm sunlight brushed her still closed lids. She made a move to flip over to the other side and go back to a deep slumber when the door opened and that familiar scent of salt and citrus wafted into the room.
“Got enough rest, Feyre darling?” her mate inquired as he strode for the bed and perched on its edge.
She propped herself on her elbows and planted a quick kiss on his cheeks. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Your activities yesterday apparently drained you that you fell asleep in the middle of our lovemaking last night that I had to finish it off myself.”
Her mate earned a scowl and a smack at that. Indeed, she had worn herself out doing all the piled up work that were temporarily set aside during the Solstice celebration. Not to mention her duties in that studio she and Ressina built for the children of the city who were still trying to cope up with the horrors of that day.
“Besides, you look so cozy in those sheets that it felt so wrong to wake you up.” Rhys added as he too gave her a kiss between her brows. “Come on, we have a day ahead of us.”
Rolling her eyes as she let her mate pull her out of the bed, she beckoned to the slightly formal attire he’s wearing. “What’s up?”
He dropped her hand to pull out something from his pocket and handed it to her. It was a small piece of paper – crisp and old but before she could read whatever was written on the note, Rhys declared, “Miryam and Drakon have sent an emissary to help us with the ongoing Treaty negotiations. Mor went to fetch her. We’re to meet at the House of Wind in an hour.”
The flight from the river-estate to the House of Wind wasn’t exactly a pleasant one. The cold bit at Feyre’s wings and she tried her best to remain steady in the air as the last of the winter winds rendered her trembling and numb despite the layers she wore. Rhysand on the other hand doesn’t seem to be much bothered.
Azriel and Cassian were already waiting as they landed on the balcony, both in their Illyrian leathers.
“They haven’t arrived yet?” Rhys asked in greeting.
“Leave it to Mor to be the one who’s always undiplomatically late to any meetings, ever.” sneered Cassian back. As if in answer, Mor sauntered over through the doors at the other end of the dining room. “We're not late. We were just exploring the house.” She continued, throwing a pointed look at him until she now stood across Rhysand.
Their attention, however, went not to her but to the winged female trailing a step behind her. She stopped at the sight of the group, her round eyes widening a bit as she took them in, and they, her. She was wearing a white tunic overlaid by a cream-colored vest that fell just above her knees and held in place by a gilded belt wrapped around her waist. Intricate beadwork adorned the cuffs of sleeves that brushed along her wrists and the vest brocaded with what appeared to be a combination swirls of feathers and sunburst shapes. Strands of her unkempt fringe fell over her face as she gave a small nod acknowledging their presence before offering a smile.
Beautiful.
Not the devastating type like Rhysand's nor exquisite like Mor's, but something unique and entirely her own. It wasn't just her smile that seemed to brighten her entire face but it's as if all the light in the room gathered around her, making her look more radiant and glowing in an unnatural way, even by faerie standards. And her wings . . .
Feyre have seen their kind back in Adriata and during the battle with Hybern. She recalled Rhys telling her that their species were distant cousins to the Peregryns of the Dawn Court and though they bore the same white-feathered wings, she noticed that the former's were more streamlined and elegant compared the fluffier and rounder shape of the latter.
Mor beckoned the Seraphim to her side and as she walked toward them, she noticed an ivory hilted knife tucked in her left thigh, sheathed in a similarly colored ornate scabbard.
"This is Zivia." Declared Mor before waving a hand in their general direction. "Zivia, meet Rhysand and Feyre" She didn't even bother mentioning the males standing to her right, not that they particularly cared anyway.
"Welcome to the Night Court" greeted Rhys.
"Pleasure to meet you again, High Lord" a rolling and rich accent. Again, that tender smile as she took the High Lord's extended arm before turning to Feyre. "High Lady"
There was something familiar and warm in the way she gripped her hand and smiled that made her instantly warm up to her. Rhysand took it upon himself to introduce his Illyrian brothers before they were completely forgotten.
"This is Cassian, General Commander of my armies." He said as Cassian dipped his head and puffed out his chest in a very warrior-like posture. Zivia, to her credit, only smirked as she sized up the commander. "And this is Azriel, my spymaster." The shadowsinger's gloominess seemed to have dwindled at the Seraphim's presence as she turned to him and her attention dropped to his scarred hands. And lingered - a heartbeat too long that Azriel clasped his hands behind his back. She just gave him a rather curious smile in return. But something about what Zivia said earlier had Feyre thinking as she turned to her mate.
"You've met before?"
Rhysand just raised his brows at her before turning back to the emissary in a questioning look. She just stared back, as if waiting for him to remember and declare it himself. She let out a soft chuckle at their utter confusion and drawled,
"Hello, Uncle Rhys."
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