The Court of Nightmares and Dreams

I wake to the taste of bile. Not my own. It coats the back of my throat, phantom-sharp and acidic, as if I have swallowed it in my sleep. For one disorienting heartbeat I think I am still Under the Mountain — still kneeling on cold marble, still waiting for the next humiliation to begin. But there are no chains on my wrists. No torches burning too bright. No perfume thick as rot in the air.

Only darkness. Quiet. Silk sheets twisted around my legs.

And the bond. It comes through like a distant echo — thin, metallic, wrong. Not pain exactly. Not physical. Something deeper. Something pulled taut and vibrating.

I don’t move. I lie there in the dim hush of my townhouse, the city of Velaris breathing soft and unaware beyond the windows. Dawn has not yet touched the Sidra. The stars are fading slowly, reluctant to surrender the sky.

The House across the river slumbers. The artists in their garrets sleep tangled in dreams. The bakers have not yet risen. The city is peaceful in a way that still feels like stolen treasure.

And she is not sleeping.

Again. The image flickers across the tether between us — fractured, distorted, like viewing the world through cracked glass. Stone floors slick with blood. A broken neck. The wet snap of bone. A scream that does not belong to her and yet lives in her throat as if it carved out space and settled there. Then— The sharp, visceral heave. Her body folding in on itself. Porcelain. Shaking hands. She is ill.

I shut my eyes. It would be so easy. So, easy to follow that thread fully. To slip down the corridor of the bond and anchor her mind before it fractures. To press cool night against the burning memory. To whisper that she survived. That it’s over. That she is not there anymore.

My power stirs, eager and dark and protective. I don’t move. Choice, I remind myself. Even now. Especially now. I will not be another male who enters her mind without permission. I will not take comfort from her weakness. I will not become a different shade of the same cage.

She wakes most nights like this. I know because the bond thrums wrong when it happens — a tremor in the marrow. A ripple through my magic that pulls me from sleep before I even understand why. It’s never enough to drag me fully into her mind. Just enough to tell me she’s breaking somewhere in the dark.

She tries to muffle it. Tries to breathe through it. Tries to swallow the memory down like poison. She does not succeed.

But Tamlin is there. He must be. He would not let her suffer alone. He would not let her kneel on cold tiles, shaking and emptying herself into a basin while pretending she is fine. He loves her. He nearly destroyed the world for her. He must be helping her. Must be holding her hair back. Must be whispering reassurances. Must—

Would he? The question is quiet. Treacherous.

I sit up slowly, bracing my forearms on my knees. My wings do not flare. I keep them tucked tight, controlled, even though the instinct is to stretch them wide and fly. The room feels too large. Too silent. Freedom has edges. I am still learning them. No chains on my wrists. No invisible collar choking my power. No voice commanding me to smile. Fifty years of submission does not unravel in a handful of months.

I roll my shoulders. They ache anyway. The pain is not physical. Not truly. It is memory embedded in muscle. My body remembering how to brace for touch I did not want. My spine remembering how to bow. Some nights I wake certain I can feel her hands in my hair again. Some nights I wake hard and ashamed and furious that my body still responds to things I despised. Some nights I wake and do not know where I am for several seconds.

Tonight, I wake to her vomiting.

Across the city, Velaris glows faintly in the pre-dawn hush. My city. Untouched. Safe. Safe because I endured. Safe because I smiled and knelt and spread my legs and let her think she owned me. Safe because I made myself into a weapon and a shield and something unrecognizable. That is what I tell myself when the silence grows teeth.

When the quiet stretches too long and my mind begins to wander back to marble floors and red wine that wasn’t wine.

You did what you had to do. You survived. You protected them. The words have become ritual. They do not always feel like truth.

Another pulse down the bond. Not the violent spike of memory this time. Something worse. Exhaustion. Bone-deep. Hollowing. She is done fighting the nightmare. She is slumped somewhere now. Probably wiping her mouth. Probably telling him she is fine. Fine. The most dangerous word in any language.

I drag a hand down my face. This is adjustment, I tell myself. We are all adjusting. She died. She was remade. She killed. She watched me kneel. She watched me play monster. She is learning how to exist in a world that no longer requires her to fight for every breath. That kind of shift rattles the bones.

The bond hums again. Faint. Fragile. Resigned. That is what slices deepest. Not fear. Not pain. Resignation. The slow settling of someone who has decided this is simply how things are now.

I rise and cross to the balcony. The air is cold enough to bite. I welcome it. It feels real. It grounds me in the present — in stone and wind and river instead of memory. The Sidra gleams like spilled ink beneath the dying stars.

She deserves peace. She deserves normal. She deserves a chance to breathe without my shadow stretching across her life like a stain. If I intervene now — if I insert myself into her fragile new existence — I become exactly what they think I am. Manipulator. Villain. The dark High Lord who cannot let go.

The mating bond coils beneath my skin. Alive. Restless. It does not care about politics. It does not care about dignity. It does not care that she is wearing another male’s ring. It wants. It wants her fed. It wants her laughing. It wants her not trembling over porcelain in the middle of the night. It wants her not pretending she is fine.

I grip the stone railing until it cracks slightly beneath my fingers. “You are not helpless,” I murmur to the wind. Whether I speak to her or to myself, I am not entirely certain. “You are not mine to rescue.” The lie tastes bitter.

Tamlin will handle it. He must. He loves her. He will see the signs. He will recognize the fractures. He will not mistake silence for healing. He will not wrap her in silk and call it safety. He will not—

I exhale slowly. Even if every instinct I possess is screaming to go to her. Even if—

The bond flickers again. And this time, beneath the exhaustion, I feel it. Loneliness. Raw and quiet and buried so deep she might not even name it. My wings shift behind me. Just slightly. The sky begins to pale.

But if she is truly breaking—

Spring will learn exactly how merciful I have been.

Trying to Live Again

I am trying. Gods, I am trying to be who I was. High Lord of the Night Court. Dreamer. Protector. Male of impossible arrogance and unshakeable calm.

Instead, I wake to phantom hands. Instead, I measure every room for exits. Instead, I still hear her voice— On your knees. The words live beneath thought now. Beneath breath. They are not memory. They are instinct.

I shove them down and fly. The wind claws at me on the ascent to the House of Wind, sharp and clean. I welcome it. It reminds me I am no longer underground. No longer perfumed and paraded.

The mountain looms, ancient and unbending. The wards shimmer faintly as I land on the balcony — not in warning, but in acknowledgment. No one winnows into the House of Wind. Not even me. I fold my wings and step inside.

The scent hits first: spiced tea, ink, old stone warmed by sunlight. Voices carry down the corridor. Cassian, loud and irreverent. Mor, bright and cutting. Azriel, quiet. And Amren. Her voice is softer than the rest. Precise. Dry. Deadly. I pause outside the dining room just long enough to listen. Cassian is arguing about Illyrian discipline. Mor is calling him an idiot. Azriel interjects something measured. Amren says nothing for several seconds. Then: “You are all exhausting.”

I almost smile. Then I step inside. “Good morning,” I say lazily. “Has anyone managed to solve the world’s problems without me?”

Cassian grins. “We tried. Decided it wasn’t worth the paperwork.”

Mor’s eyes sweep over me, sharp and assessing. Azriel’s shadows still.

Amren does not look up immediately. She is seated at the far end of the table, pale fingers wrapped around a cup of blood—the way one would normally drink tea, silver eyes half-lidded.

I take my place at the head. Because that is what High Lords do. The reports are stacked neatly. Amren has already sorted them. She does not waste time.

“Hybern is shifting troops,” Azriel says quietly. “Subtle. But deliberate.”

“I assumed as much,” I reply, scanning the parchment.

Cassian launches into training numbers. Mor adds trade complications. I respond cleanly, decisively. I am sharp. Efficient. Controlled. I make a cutting remark about Illyrian pride that earns laughter from Cassian. I smirk. I lean back casually in my chair. It looks right. It sounds right. But something is off. I see it in their eyes. Cassian watches a little too closely. Mor’s smiles do not reach her eyes. Azriel’s shadows hover nearer than usual. And Amren— Amren is staring directly at me now. Silver eyes ancient and merciless.

“You are thin,” she says.

The room stills slightly. I arch a brow. “Flattery before noon? I’m touched.”

She does not blink. “You are not feeding properly.”

Cassian shifts in his seat. Mor goes very still.

I feel it then — the faint tremor beneath my ribs. The bond. Feyre has not eaten much either. I shove the connection aside before it sharpens. “I am perfectly capable of feeding myself,” I say coolly.

Amren tilts her head. “Physically,” she agrees. “Yes.” The implication hangs in the air.

I meet her stare evenly. “You think I am weak.”

“I think,” she says softly, “that you are pretending.”

There it is again. That word. Pretending. I lean back further in my chair, crossing one ankle over my knee. “Pretending is how we survived.”

Amren’s silver eyes flash faintly. “You survived by becoming something terrible.”

Silence. Cassian shifts, uncomfortable. Mor watches us both carefully. Azriel remains utterly still.

“And?” I ask lightly.

“And,” Amren continues, voice smooth as glass, “you do not know how to be anything else yet.”

The words land with surgical precision. For a heartbeat, something inside me recoils. Because she is not wrong. Under the Mountain, I was a weapon. A mask. A performance sharpened to lethal edges. Here— In Velaris— I am expected to be a dream again. Expected to be hope. Expected to be whole.

I smile slowly. “Give me time,” I say.

Amren studies me another moment. Then she looks back down at her teacup full of blood. “Time is not what we have,” she murmurs.

War. Hybern. The Cauldron.

The bond flickers faintly again — exhaustion and something softer beneath it. Loneliness. It coils around my spine like cold fingers. I force my expression into bored indifference.

Cassian clears his throat loudly. “Training rotations—”

“Approved,” I say without looking at him.

Mor leans forward slightly. “You’re not sleeping.”

“I sleep.”

“You vanish,” she corrects.

I glance toward the tall windows, toward the mountain sky beyond. Some nights I remain at the townhouse because the House of Wind feels too full. Too many doors. Too many corridors. Too much silence. Some nights I fly until exhaustion drags me down midair. Some nights I stand on the balcony and stare toward Spring without meaning to.

“I am adjusting,” I say evenly.

Amren’s lips curve faintly. “To freedom?” she asks.

The word scrapes something raw in my chest. “Yes.”

Cassian leans forward, elbows braced on the table. “You don’t have to prove anything to us.”

I look at him. Illyrian brute. Loyal to the marrow. “I know.” But knowing and believing are not the same.

They all wait for me to settle back into myself. Not openly. Not with pity. They would never insult me like that. But I see it. In the way Cassian’s laughter crescendos just a little too loud, as if trying to tempt mine out in response. In the way Mor tells stories she knows I once would have embellished into something scandalous. In the way Azriel lingers half a heartbeat longer when I grow quiet — as if gauging whether silence is strategic or something else entirely. In the way Amren watches. Always watches.

They are waiting for me to return. To laugh louder. To scheme. To drape myself over the back of a chair with lazy arrogance and announce some outrageous plan involving bribery, blackmail, and excellent wine. To flirt with half the city and make scandalous promises I have no intention of keeping. To become the male who could walk into any room and tilt the balance of it with a single smile.

I do it. I perform it.

Cassian makes a crude comment about an Illyrian lieutenant’s ego, and I lean back in my chair, smirking.

“Shocking,” I say. “An Illyrian male compensating for something.”

Mor snorts into her wine. Cassian flips me a vulgar gesture. Azriel’s shadows curl faintly in amusement. It sounds right. The cadence is correct. The rhythm of us — old and familiar — clicks into place for half a breath. But it lands wrong.

Like stepping into boots that no longer quite fit. I feel it in the microsecond after the laughter fades. That almost-imperceptible pause. That flicker in their eyes. Not disappointment. Never that. Concern. Measured. Careful. Trying not to be obvious.

He’s not back. The realization passes between them like a current. He’s close. He’s trying. But he’s not back. And I am not sure he ever will be.

Under the Mountain required a version of me that could survive degradation without fracturing. I built him carefully. Layer by layer. Cruelty sharpened to precision. Seduction weaponized. Emotion locked behind glass.

He served his purpose. He protected Velaris. He protected them. He protected her. But dismantling him— That is slower work. Harder. Because some of the edges were not costume. Some of the hardness took root.

Cassian launches into another exaggerated retelling of some sparring disaster. I interrupt at precisely the right moment, injecting mock outrage. Mor laughs. Azriel’s mouth twitches. Amren does not smile, but her eyes narrow faintly — measuring whether the laughter reaches mine.

It does. Briefly. Then it flickers out like a candle in wind. I lean forward, elbows braced on the table, and outline a trade maneuver for Adriata with crisp efficiency. My mind still functions beautifully. Strategy is clean. Numbers are predictable. War is simple in ways recovery is not.

They relax a fraction when I speak of Hybern. Of troop movements. Of supply chains and sea routes. This they understand. This is the Rhys they trust without hesitation. The male who calculates ten moves ahead. The male who smiles while rearranging the board. I can still be him.

But when the conversation lulls— When the room grows quiet— When no one is speaking— I feel it. That low, instinctive brace in my spine. Waiting for the next command. Waiting for the next humiliation disguised as invitation.

The House of Wind is warded. Safe. Ancient. Loyal to my blood. No one here would drag me to my knees. And yet my body does not fully believe it.

Mor stands to refill her glass. The scrape of her chair against stone is sharper than expected. My magic flickers. Just slightly. No one comments. But Azriel’s shadows ripple. Cassian’s jaw tightens. Amren’s silver eyes lift.

I smooth my expression instantly. “Relax,” I say lightly. “You’d think you’ve never seen me before.”

Cassian snorts. “I’ve seen you hungover before. This is different.”

I arch a brow. “How devastating.”

He grins, but it fades quickly. They are careful with me now. That is perhaps the cruelest part.Careful. As if I might shatter .As if I am made of something delicate. I would rather they hit me. Better a bruise than this gentle observation. Better anger than restraint. Because restraint feels like pity. And I will not be pitied. I rise from the table under the guise of reviewing the maps along the wall. Distance. Space to breathe.

The House hums around me. Wind brushes the tall windows. The mountain stands unmoving beneath us. I press my palms flat against the cool stone of the map table and stare at the inked lines marking borders and territories.

I am High Lord. I endured fifty years of degradation and still held this court intact. I can endure this too. The slow crawl back into myself. The discomfort of unlearning survival.

Behind me, their voices resume in lower tones. Normal. Almost. I catch my reflection faintly in the glass. Composed. Powerful. Crownless but unmistakable. And yet—

There is something haunted in the eyes. Something that was not there before. I straighten. Smooth the invisible cracks. Turn back to them with an easy smile. “Shall we get back to work,” I say lazily, “or do you intend to stare at me all morning?”

Cassian rolls his eyes. Mor smiles. Azriel inclines his head. Amren watches.

They all wait for me to settle back into myself. To reclaim the effortless arrogance. To drape darkness around my shoulders like a cloak and make it look like art instead of armor. I will get there. I have to. Because Velaris deserves a High Lord who believes in tomorrow. Because Hybern will not hesitate.

Because she—

The bond pulses faintly. Exhausted. Trying. I look away from the south instinctively. I am not her savior.

I am trying. Gods, I am trying. But some mornings it feels less like returning— And more like clawing my way out of a grave I willingly lay down in. And I do not know which version of me will finally stand when the dirt stops falling.

At Night When the Mask Comes Down

The meeting ends. They disperse. Cassian to the training ring. Mor to the city. Azriel to shadows. Amren to her books and blood and secrets.

I do not remain at the House of Wind. The mountain is too loud with expectation. I fly back to the townhouse instead.

The city greets me warmly — Velaris glittering under winter light, the Sidra bright and cold. Winter Solstice approaches here as well. Lanterns already hang between rooftops. Shopkeepers set out deep blue ribbons and silver-threaded garlands. It is beautiful. It is alive.

It does not feel like mine today.

I land on the balcony of the townhouse and step inside without bothering to light the hearth. The bond has been restless all morning. Now it sharpens.

Spring is celebrating. Winter Solstice in the Spring Court is an indulgent thing. I know the tradition well enough — three days of revelry, heat conjured to banish chill, music that does not stop until sunrise, wine flowing like a river in flood. Warmth. Light. Excess.

I move to the sitting room and sit without turning on any lamps. The bond opens slightly — not because I force it. Because she forgets to guard it. Sound bleeds through first. Music. Laughter. Too much laughter. Voices layered atop each other until they become noise rather than sound.

I can almost feel the press of bodies. The heat of so many fae packed too closely together. Perfume and wine and silk brushing against skin.

Her stomach twists. The nausea rises slow and sickening. I go still. It is not sharp fear. It is not terror. It is something subtler. Discomfort blooming into panic. She does not like this. The crowd. The closeness. The endless celebration.

She smiles. I feel it — the deliberate lifting of her lips. The careful modulation of her voice. She is performing, as I do. A High Lord’s bride. Graceful. Radiant. Grateful.

The music swells. Someone touches her arm unexpectedly. Her body flinches. Small. Barely noticeable to anyone watching her. But through the bond it is a lightning strike.

My hands curl slowly against the arms of the chair. It is Under the Mountain, I tell myself. Of course she hates the crowds. Of course she recoils at too many bodies in one place. I dragged her to those parties. Painted and exposed. Forced her into rooms thick with eyes and expectation. Music. Heat. Watching. Of course this is triggering something.

Guilt coils low and ugly. This is my fault. Spring conjures warmth so intense that even through the bond I feel the press of it. Heavy air. Thick. Too much. Her stomach turns again. Wine touches her tongue. She swallows it too quickly. Someone laughs loudly near her ear. Her breath shortens. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough.

I lean forward slightly in the darkness of the townhouse. She wants air. She wants space. She wants quiet.

Instead— The music grows louder. Hands clasp hers. Someone spins her in a dance. The room tilts. Her pulse stutters. And beneath it— Exhaustion. Bone-deep and constant.

She has not recovered from the nightmares. She has not eaten properly. She is trying to survive joy. That realization unsettles me more than fear ever could. Survive joy.

I close my eyes and let the bond open a fraction more. I could go to her. I could.

One winnow to the border. A short flight beyond that. I could appear with some cutting remark and drag her away under the guise of enforcing the bargain early. But she has not called for me. She has not even consciously reached. She is simply enduring. The bond trembles faintly. Not longing. Not desire. Relief when she slips briefly onto a balcony for air. Cooler night wind brushes her skin.

Her lungs expand properly for the first time in hours. I exhale with her. Across Prythian. Separate skies. Same breath. The quiet between us stretches. She leans against stone. The music muffled behind glass. Her heartbeat steadies. And for a moment— Just a moment— She is not pretending. The relief is so sharp it almost hurts.

Then footsteps approach. A male voice. Soft. Concerned. Tamlin. The bond shifts subtly. She pulls herself back together before he reaches her. Smiles again. Says she is fine.

Fine. The most dangerous word in existence. I remain seated in darkness. I do not reach through the bond. I do not listen further when they re-enter the party. I lean back in the chair and stare at the ceiling.

This is adjustment. This is trauma. This is the aftermath of war. It has nothing to do with him. Nothing to do with Spring. Nothing to do with a golden cage.

It is Under the Mountain. It is my fault. I brought her to those parties. Painted her skin. Sat her at my feet. Forced her to endure the heat and the noise and the eyes. Of course celebration makes her ill. Of course crowds make her recoil. Of course music makes her skin crawl.

I drag a hand down my face. If Tamlin sees what she needs— If he notices how often she seeks balconies— If he realizes the heat is too much— He will adjust. He will tone down the revelry. He will protect her from it. He loves her. He must see it.

The bond pulses faintly again. Tired. Alone in a room full of people. My chest tightens. I tell myself it is distance. I tell myself it is residual trauma. I tell myself it is not something deeper.

I sit there long after the music fades from my awareness. Long after the party in Spring swells into its second night. The townhouse remains dark. Velaris outside glows gently, quietly, respectfully.

We celebrate differently here. Soft light. Music that does not overwhelm. Space enough to breathe. I did not protect this city for spectacle. I built it for survival. For artists. For dreamers. For those who need air.

My jaw tightens. If she were here— No.

I stand abruptly. Enough. This is not my place. She chose Spring. She chose him. I will not twist discomfort into justification. I will not become the villain in someone else’s love story.

But as I move toward the balcony and unfurl my wings into the cold Velaris night— The bond flickers once more. A small, quiet thought not meant for me. I wish it would stop. Not the party. Not the music. The pretending.

My wings falter mid-beat. I steady myself instantly. It is the aftermath. It is adjustment. It is not— It is not my moment.

I fly anyway. Not south. Never south. Just into the night.

Trying to outrun the feeling that the female who survived beside me beneath a mountain of stone is now drowning in sunlight.