Crescent City: A Court of Thrones and Glass

Chapter Thirty-One: Bryce

     Bryce felt the blood drain from her face. She looked to Hunt, his stony face unflinching and tense. Bryce leaned against his chest as hands curled into fists. Her long nails bit into her palms. She was almost shaking with emotion, though she couldn't pinpoint the feeling. Someone left a severed hand on the doorstep. A fucking hand. Bryce was no stranger to gore, but it was Azriel's hand. Although she could hazard a guess at who had done it,  Bryce was shocked that the Shadowsinger had gotten caught. 

     Mor was sobbing on the floor; Feyre holding her close. Tears ran rivers down the High Lady's face. Bryce watched as Aelin stepped away from the pair, and towards her mate, giving them some much needed space. Suddenly, darkness flared, temporarily blinding Bryce. She flinched, but as quickly as it had come, it receded. She searched for the source, and found it swirling around Rhys. The High Lord was motionless, standing with a stillness only immortals could achieve. He looked absolutely livid. His eyes were so dark with fury, and his rage filled the room. Feyre looked to her mate, her blue-grey eyes blinded by tears. 

      "What are we going to do, Rhys?" She asked. Immediately,  the High Lord softened, his anger dissipating, and he kneeled to embrace his wife and cousin. 

      "Vengeance. That foolish Valg imposter will pay for this." The voice sounded from behind, startling Bryce. She turned. Amren stood in the archway of the connecting hallway. Cast in shadow, her grey eyes glinting in the light, the tiny Fae looked like a demon herself. Pain flashed over her usually emotionless face. They fell silent, the quiet only punctuated by sobs. 

      "He's not dead," Hunt said softly. Mor's golden head whipped around to face the angel, hope sparking in her eyes.

      "How do you know?" She asked thickly. Hunt paused, struggling to gently answer the question.

      "If they had killed him, you would have received his head, not a hand," Rowan answered bluntly. The brisk, evening air blew into the foyer through the open door, calming everyone. Feyre scrubbed her face and rubbed her puffy eyes. Mor managed to pull herself together, steeling her resolve. She stood, the red fabric of her dress pooling at her feet. Rhys looked between her, Feyre, and Amren.

        "Let's get our brother back," he ordered, voice breaking as he helped his mate to her feet. Mor nodded.

         "We need to let Cassian know," she said, blinking hard. "I will tell him to meet us with the Illyrians at...."

       "The Winter Court border," Rhys replied, "Helion and Thesan have allowed us to pass through their respective courts unimpeded." He faced Bryce, Hunt, Aelin, Rowan, Manon and Dorian, pleading.

     "Are you with us?" The Erileans answered with a terse nod, fire burning in Aelin's eyes. Bryce also nodded, swinging an arm around Hunt's waist.

     "We've made it this far," she said.

     "We will not abandon you now," Hunt finished, tensing at the onslaught of memories from the Fall. Bryce leaned into him, offering comfort. Last time he marched into battle leading a resistance, he was dragged out a slave, thorns tattooed on his brow. He just escaped that life, now they might follow the Night Court to their deaths. Gratefully, Feyre offered a weak smile, grasping her mate's hand.

     "We leave in one hour," Rhys said, "let Nuala or Cerridwen know if you need anything. The armoury is unlocked downstairs. Take what you want." With that, the High Lord and Lady walked away to prepare for battle. How Feyre planned to fight nearly nine months pregnant, Bryce had no idea. She was shocked Rhys was even okay with her coming. Now that she thought about it, they were probably having that particular conversation right now. 

       Silently, Mor stooped to pick up the box with the hand. Gingerly, she carried towards the living room, were flames roared in the giant fireplace. Bryce followed respectfully and watched as she placed the whole thing in fire, whispering a prayer to the Mother. Under her breath, Bryce echoed the sentiment, wishing Azriel was okay, and that their plan would work. Before Mor could catch her watching, Bryce turned, grabbed Hunt, and went to gather their things. 

        There wasn't much to grab. Just her guns, a couple daggers, Hunt's longsword, and her favourite battle outfit. She threw it on, picking at a thread in the arm. The black fabric had been ripped during the fight with the Illyrians, but she didn't have time to mend it now. Hunt rifled through his weapons, checking the clips of each gun. He was practically a walking armoury with everything he carried on him.

      "I don't have enough ammo for the entire battle," he said, methodically sheathing his blades. Bryce sighed and checked her handguns.

      "Neither do I," she grumbled. Bryce opened the closet door, searching through the clothes that Rhys and Feyre had lent them. She grabbed two warm winter coats and tossed one to Hunt.

     "We'll use our blades as often as possible, shoot sparingly and only when absolutely necessary," he said, swiftly catching the jacket and throwing over a shoulder. Bryce nodded, a sense of foreboding pooling in her gut. 

      "Are you ready?" She asked, taking his hand. Hunt looked down at her and flashed her a grin to ease any nerves. 

     "Always." Together, the walked back to the main foyer, where everyone was waiting for them. From the looks of them, the Erileans had raided the armoury. Aelin was wearing her assassin's suit with small bits of metal armour fashioned over top. Rowan looked like he was carrying his weight in blades, while Manon looked deadly as ever. Even Dorian wore armour and carried a sword and daggers. Rhys and Feyre looked ready for war in their fighting leathers. Mor, grief still plain in her eyes, was ready. It was the first time Bryce had seen her not in a dress. The sight was slightly jarring. Without a word, they all joined hands, and winnowed away to war.

                                                                                        *      *.     *

     Bryce hated the war camp almost as much as she hated sleeping in tents. When they had arrive to the Winter Court border, they Illyrians were already there, setting up camp. Immediately, Cassian met Rhys, Mor and Feyre, and they left as fast as they could to talk privately. Bryce couldn't blame them. She couldn't imagine losing someone so close to her. Scratch that, she knew exactly how they felt. At least Azriel hadn't died yet. Before long, everyone had retired to their tents, wishing for the day to be over. Curled in Hunt's arms, Bryce thought about the bloodshed to come, trying with all her might to shove it out of her mind and sleep. She couldn't, and the sickly feeling remained.